(no subject)
JESUS FINALLY.
This took fucking forever to write, and began and ended with spontaneous trips by me alone on the expressway, because apparently expressways inspire me. Or something.
So, this fic is both serious and funny, (a little bit) angst and romance, but I think the best description is that it's as real as I could make it, and that's what counts. It's the boys, doing what they do best, through a lot of time on the road. Everything here takes place in (or around) the Impala, so: no hotel rooms, bars, diners, laundromats, haunted houses, or bed and breakfasts. There are, however, gas stations, because jesus, it's hard to write an entire fic ONLY IN CARS. Porn and laundry were forbidden as plot devices. I needed donuts.
Twelve pieces (vignettes, if you will), one relationship progression, and one car.
A gaschmillion thanks to smangosbubbles and fahye who saved me when I couldn't figure out what the hell I was doing and allowed me to cockblock with a minivan. I love you both.
This contains spoilers for seasons one and two, especially In My Time of Dying, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things, and the season finale. (And by the way? If you haven't see Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things, I recommend checking out this clip, which is from the end of that episode. Definite spoilers for IMTOD etc. It doesn't have anything scary, just Sam and Dean talking, but one of the vignettes is set around that conversation.)
Highway 101, Sam/Dean, R, 7100 words.
Highway 101
After she dies, Sam’s okay.
It’s not like he’s great, but most of what he can feel is anger, running straight and sharp beneath his skin. Dean keeps treating him like he’s porcelain, like he’s going to break any minute, and it kind of pisses Sam off, because all things considered, he’s fine. He’s pretty sure he loved her, but mostly he misses having a real bed, and classes, and Lucky Charms, because the only things he can find at diners are fucking Frosted Flakes and Cheerios. Sam hates Cheerios.
It’s good, just the road and Dean and a gun in his jacket pocket, and he’s good, perfectly all right. It’s what he’s always known it was going to be, no use running anymore, caught and kept tight against his chest, just beneath his rib cage, and he’s okay.
They’re driving in New Mexico, ten PM, straight through, and Sam’s almost asleep in the passenger seat when Dean turns off the radio and readjusts his grip on the steering wheel.
“Tell me about your first date,” he says, finally, just when Sam’s starting to wonder if maybe he just wanted the quiet.
“Whose?” he says, using Dean’s jacket for a pillow; it smells like him, cheap laundry detergent and gun powder, reassuring and guilt-inducing all at once.
“You and - Jessica,” Dean says. “Jess.”
Sam has no idea why he’s asking, but it’s Dean. He knows better than to try to figure it out.
“We met at - a party,” Sam says, and he barely remembers most of it, but he knows how he felt when he got her number, like maybe he’d be okay at this after all.
“Yeah?” Dean says.
“We went to the movies,” he says. “I don’t know what we saw, I - we had ice cream.”
He remembers the ice cream, because she spilled three quarters of a hot fudge sundae on his lap, driving home, and Sam almost hit a mailbox. He’s pretty sure he’s never wanted anything more than he wanted to kiss her in that moment, embarrassed and laughing and sweet, and suddenly, he can’t breathe.
“Ice cream’s good,” Dean says, not even making fun of him, and then Sam realizes his face is wet, and then he’s crying so hard he can’t think, huge, gulping sobs, and god, he loved her.
Dean pulls off the road, turns the lights down and just leans over.
“Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs, getting his arms around him, and Sam hurts so much he doesn’t know how he can keep going, how anyone can keep going, but Dean’s right there, solid. He gets his face against Dean’s shoulder and gives in to grief.
After, Dean finds him a couple Tylenol and a towel to wash his face, presses his palm against the back of Sam’s neck, warm and steady. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay,” and when Sam falls asleep with Dean’s jacket wrapped around his shoulders, he’s not okay, but he can feel again.
-
He’s got his hand up her skirt, hot as hell and inevitably just as damning, leaning back against the steering wheel just right, and Dean’s pretty sure she’s all of ten seconds from coming when he sees Sam, coming out of the bar, about to open the passenger side door. He looks tired and out of it, like he has for almost a month now, and god damn, Dean wants to fuck her across the dashboard until he just can’t think anymore, but it’s Sam. He probably wants to go back to the hotel and sleep, and Dean’s pretty sure he’d walk if he figured out what they were doing in here, but it’s half a mile and there’s just no fucking way Dean’s letting him do that. He shuts his eyes and breathes for a second, maybe two, because there’s not really a choice, but it really would’ve been so fucking nice to get laid.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, finally, getting the car door open.
He slides her out in one easy motion, before she can do anything about it.
Sam looks startled, and he goes kind of red. “Sorry,” he says, “sorry, I’m - I’ll come back.”
“We’re done,” Dean says, slides back into the car and shuts the car door on his side. “Get in, Sammy.”
“I, uh,” Sam says, still looking at the girl, who’s staring at him, but he gets in, embarrassed, hunched over on his side, and Dean’s pretty glad because it gives him enough time to get his jacket over his lap. Nothing a cold shower won’t take care of, but still - he doesn’t want Sam to notice.
“Sorry,” Sam says, again, when Dean pulls out of the parking lot. “I didn’t - I wasn’t trying to get in your way.”
Sam keeps going on about stupid fucking shit like this, like Dean’s got a problem with taking turns in the shower or handing off some of the driving or giving up some girl in a bar for his brother. Dean wishes he’d just figure it the fuck out, that Dean wants him here, would’ve done anything the past four years to have him back, but it’s Sam and he’s stupid sometimes.
“I wasn’t really in the mood anyway,” Dean says. “You want a hamburger?”
“A hamburger?” Sam says, kind of like he thinks Dean’s insane.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I could go for a hamburger. Cheese, extra pickles, maybe some onions.”
“I’m pretty sure if it has cheese on it, it’s a cheeseburger,” Sam says, finally, and Dean really, really can’t do anything but laugh.
-
There’s blood all over, and Sam doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea what to do.
“Motherfucking Black Dogs,” Dean says, breathless and pale, “motherfucking, son of a bitch, goddamned Kirkegrim.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, finding a knife, because Dean’s t-shirt is soaked through with blood and his wrist’s at an angle that ordinarily would have Sam heading straight for the ER, except he can’t.
“You shut up, bitch,” Dean retorts, and then passes out in the backseat, leaving Sam totally alone on the shoulder of the road outside of a church cemetery, leaning in through a car door, trying to patch up his sliced up, dumbass older brother, who can’t fucking stay away from anything.
Sam cuts off Dean’s t-shirt - it’s Dean’s favorite, but that’s just too fucking bad - pours holy water into the enormous, bleeding bite across his stomach, the gash across his ribcage, more to clean them out than anything. There aren’t any gloves in the first aid kid, so Sam finds a bar of soap and goes in bare handed, tries not to think about where he’s sticking his fingers, but the bite didn’t even go through muscle, and the cut’s even shallower. They’re both bleeding like hell, though, so Sam pours half a bottle of rubbing alcohol on, which is enough to make even Dean stir, then starts in with the butterfly bandages. He packs gauze, then tapes on some sterile pads. They’re going to have to buy another first aid kit, and all he’s got for Dean’s wrist is an ace bandage, but the bleeding’s not so bad now.
Sam manages to get to the front seat before his legs give out, slides his head between his knees and just breathes, in and out, slow, because he can’t think about everything that’s pressing in on him, and he can’t think about how Dean used to do this alone, what might have happened, what probably did happen, because Sam knew every single one of Dean’s scars when he left, and he doesn’t anymore.
“Fuck,” Dean says, finally, from the back, sounding almost amused, “that was awesome,” and Sam kind of wants to beat the shit out of him, but mostly he wants to crawl in the backseat with Dean and stay, and stay, and stay.
-
The only thing about Sam that Dean literally can’t stand is his taste in music. He seriously wonders some days where the fuck it came from, because it would be just like the fucking demon to have infected him with a preference for modern rock and new age elevator music along with pain in the ass psychic abilities. Except for Sam, Dean’s never met anyone who likes Kenny G who wasn’t possessed.
Dean usually controls the music, on the basis of it being his fucking car, but sometimes he falls asleep and wakes up to find that Sam’s actually had the audacity to change over to radio. One time he’s pretty sure Sam was listening to Sade, but he wasn’t really awake and denial is way better than having to come to terms with the fact that Sam - all evidence with a shotgun and that scythe aside - is actually a pussy.
So he’s not exactly thrilled when Sam finds a cassette tape in Arizona at one of those rest plazas, with the Starbucks and the fucking Sunglass Huts.
“It was like ninety percent off,” Sam points out, trying to pop it in the tape deck while Dean deflects with a soda.
“Probably because it sucks, dumbass,” Dean says, but Sam fakes him out and gets it in.
He drives down the middle of the road for awhile as revenge, just to piss Sam off, but it turns out to be something he can actually stand, a bunch of eighties music, and eventually he eases back over into the right lane so Sam will stop making outraged noises.
It’s not like it’s anything Dean would pick, but it’s stuff he knows the words to, grew up listening to, and about three songs in he starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. By the fifth, he’s singing along; more to himself than anything, kind of low, just to pass the time, so he’s a little startled when Sam joins in.
It feels good, though - Sam’s got a good voice, steady and deep, and it fits in just right with Dean’s, like it did when they were kids singing Christmas carols in the backseat.
Dean realizes he’s happy somewhere on side two, with the window rolled down and the smell of warm leather around them, just driving in the middle of the desert. He’s not sure he’s ready to trust that it’s going to last, just yet, but it’s good enough for now, and that’s all that Dean’s ever asked for.
-
Sam’s never been that good at knowing what to say. It’s never mattered, though, before now - he’s fumbled his way through everything, managed it, but it’s not enough, here. He doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea, and it’s tearing him open. Of all the things he’s failed at, everything he’s fucked up and let happen and fallen down on, this is the worst, because it’s Dean.
He’s been numb since Kansas, locked up tighter than Sam’s ever seen him. Sam knows the grief and guilt he’s carrying around are too much for one person, knows this might be enough to break both of them. He doesn’t know how to say it, though, because no one’s ever fucking taught him how to do this, how to say this, and there aren’t even words.
He was your dad, too, Dean said, the only time he’s cried since, but Sam’s pretty sure it’s not the same. He loved John, but he’s never liked him, never understood him, and he’s never known him as a parent. Dean had four years, four years of a real life, a real family, and Sam’s pretty sure that’s why this is ripping him to pieces: Sam’s lost his father, but Dean’s lost his dad.
Dean doesn’t say anything for six hours, driving through Wyoming, and by the time he pulls over for a break, Sam’s so sick with anger and grief and fear that he literally can’t get in the car again, can’t keep going, locked in with this one, monumental failure that’s breaking his brother - his family - apart.
“God damn it,” he says, standing on the fucking shoulder of the highway, wound tight with so much hurt that he can’t even breathe.
He finds a rock on the side of the road, just the right size for his palm, and throws it, as hard as he can. It hits a tree with a sickening crunch, but it feels good, feels like something, so he finds another, throws even harder, until the tree he’s aiming for is cracked open, and his eyes are so full of tears that he can’t even see.
“Sammy,” Dean says, finally, and Sam throws the last rock, the biggest one of all, with every bit of his strength behind it, stumbles so hard he almost falls. Dean catches him, close, but Sam pulls him down, pulls him in, kneeling on the pavement and holding on tight.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam says, and he knows he’s crying but he doesn’t even fucking care, “it wasn’t your fault and I love you,” and he’s not letting go.
Dean’s stiff against him, spine rigid, and Sam can’t see his face, but he can feel it when the fight goes out of him, when he stops trying and just gives in, but he just holds on tighter when Dean starts to cry, his whole body shaking, and Sam’s pretty sure that no force in heaven or on earth is ever going to make him let go.
-
Northern Wisconsin isn’t Dean’s favorite place to drive, all winding roads and forests, but he’s pretty sure it’s harder on Sam this time - he keeps getting visions, and headaches to go with them, ones Advil can’t touch. They’ve stopped four times this afternoon alone for him to go puke in the bushes, and he’s green the rest of the time, rubbing his temples like that’s going to help. Dean’s fucking exhausted from worrying about him. Sam’s not sleeping, just curled in on himself with his eyes shut tight, miserable, and Dean seriously can’t take it anymore.
He takes the next side road he can find and parks the car under some trees, nudges Sam’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta get some sleep,” he says, and Sam nods, a tiny bit.
“Okay, yeah,” he manages, his voice kind of cracked, and Dean goes around to the other side and opens the car door. Sam winces.
“Come on, back seat with me,” he says, and gets an arm under Sam’s shoulders to help him out. Sam abruptly goes a lot more green.
“I’m going to throw up again,” he says, sounding pretty bad, and Dean doesn’t make him go by himself this time, just gets him far enough away from the car and keeps a hand on the small of his back to make sure he doesn’t fall over.
Dean finds a canteen and makes Sam drink some water, because he hasn’t really had anything else all day, and then stuffs his jacket in the back seat. He slides in, up against the back, and puts a jacket against his shoulder, then lets Sam climb in next to him, nudges his head down onto his makeshift pillow, wraps an arm around him, just sliding his palm up and down Sam’s back, over his t-shirt, which is pretty much soaked with cold sweat.
“Hey,” he says, “it’ll be better if you can sleep a little bit,” and Sam exhales, softly, like he’s kind of amused.
“Don’t think that’s happening,” he says, but Dean figures if they just stay here, the fact that Sam hasn’t gotten any sleep in two days might catch up with him, and it’s better than being on the road.
“God, this is awful,” Sam mumbles, against his jaw, and Dean eases in a little more, slides his hand up to rub the back of Sam’s neck.
“Yeah,” Dean says, soft.
“If these don’t go away after we kill that son of a bitch,” Sam says, “you’re buying me the biggest fucking bed so I can sleep them off.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, kind of drowsy. “Whatever you want.”
“Maybe a king,” Sam says, with that sleepy edge that Dean’s pretty sure means he’s close to going straight under. “You couldn’t kick me in a king.”
“I don’t kick, bitch,” Dean says, protesting out of habit, but then he blinks, kind of slow, because Sam’s talking about after, after with him. It’s not something he’s ever let himself hope for, but Sam’s saying it, sleepy, honest, up against him, and Dean’s tired of being afraid.
“You do, too,” he says, head on Dean’s shoulder, but Dean just pulls him in a little closer, keeps him safe, and when Sam’s breathing finally evens out, he lets himself think, just for a little bit, about having someplace to call home.
-
One of the things Sam misses most about having a normal life is owning books. He’s always got one or two, but they’re usually pop fiction or mystery novels, and it’s not like he can hang onto them. There’s nothing he really loves, but it’s still hard to leave them, in library donation bins and Salvation Army boxes. One night they’re both totally drunk, lying in the car in a bar parking lot, and Dean asks him what he wants most, when they get the son of a bitch.
“I’m going to get a fuckin’ lawn mower,” Dean adds, from the backseat, “and some of that - ” he gestures, kind of waving a hand in the air. “Lasagna, the kind in those silver things, and in the oven - ” Sam hears him sigh, kind of happily. “I’m going to cook it. And then eat it. And have leftovers.”
Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s trashed, because he’s never heard anyone sound so enthusiastic about Stouffer’s.
“I want - uh, you,” Sam says, still kind of laughing, because he’s drunk enough to say it. “And bookshelves.”
“Fuckin’ bookshelves,” Dean says, and yeah, he’s totaled. “Bookshelves are awesome, man.”
He’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t remember anything about that conversation, so he’s kind of surprised when he opens the trunk a couple days later to put away the jack and finds a box of books stashed in a carefully cleared space between the gun rack and the ammo cases. They’re used, more classics than anything else, but there are at least twenty books in there. Dean stands up while he’s fingering the edges of the paperbacks, grease all over his shirt from changing the tire.
“Figured we’d just keep it there,” Dean says, when he figures out what’s holding Sam up. “I don’t fucking know what’s good, but - ” he clears his throat, looking a little awkward. “Thought maybe you’d want a place for things.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, swallowing, “yeah, it’s good,” and turns around to help Dean finish tightening the bolts.
-
Outside of Boston, heading south on the highway, Dean’s figuring it out. It’s a little past midnight, so late there’s almost no one on the road, and Sam’s asleep on Dean’s shoulder, breathing soft and quiet against his collar.
Sam’s been a mess since it happened, guilty and angry and not sleeping at all, but Dean’s okay with how bad Sam’s feeling, because he’s alive. He finally understands - for the first time since his father died - why things happened the way they did, and there’s a strange sort of peace in it. His dad loved him, maybe not as much as Dean loves Sam - he’s pretty sure nothing can touch that - but enough. Dean doesn’t lie awake at night trying to figure out why anymore, and he’s okay, genuinely okay, maybe better than he’s been in longer than he can remember, because he’s got an entire year with Sam, and if they haven’t figured something out by the end of it, well -
It’s worth it. It’s always been worth it, because this is what he was made for, keeping Sam safe.
Dean doesn’t regret any of it, watching him sleep in the soft dashboard light. It’s right there, running just beneath the surface of Sam’s skin, pooling in the hollow of his throat like warmth and the dull green glow of Sam’s watch face, the fact that he’s alive. Maybe he’s a little more messed up than before, with a few more scars and a little less faith, but Sam’s alive, and that’s what matters.
Six weeks later, hands tight on the steering wheel, he’s parked outside a crossroads and there’s nowhere to go but in. Maybe Dean’s been more stupid than brave, all along, but he’s never been more afraid of anything in his life, because there’s only one thing he’s ever cared about, and Sam’s taking it out of his hands.
“You do not fucking give her what she wants,” Dean says, flat, feeling his nails bite into his palms. “We are not making that trade.”
“I won’t,” Sam says, only because Dean’s laid it out, straight and sharp-edged: all or nothing, and Sam walks if it’s not going his way, because there’s no fucking way Dean’s doing this without him. His life has never been worth that much.
Sam’s got a bible, a flask of holy water, and a cardboard box balanced across his knees, but he leans in to meet Dean’s eyes, steady, holds eye contact for a minute. “You have to trust me,” he says, then opens the car door.
Dean looks away, and the next thing he hears is the sound of Sam’s shovel hitting the dirt, sharp and brutal. He’s never felt more helpless.
He makes himself watch them talk, and Sam looks cold and hard, not a child anymore, and Dean can’t do anything about it. Seeing them kiss is like cutting himself open and pulling his heart out.
When Sam slides into the other side of the car, he doesn’t look relieved, just tired, worn through.
“I paid,” he says, simply, and sets his head in his hands.
“Goddamn it, Sammy,” Dean says, because Sam would do anything for him, but he doesn’t want it to be that, it can’t be that.
“The thing is - ” Sam says, swallowing, rubbing a hand over his face, “it’s not really me that’s dying, on this one. I gave up the visions.”
Dean’s not really sure where the deal is on that one.
“People - ” Sam says. “I can’t save them.” He inhales, slow. “People are going to die, because I’m selfish - ”
Dean swallows, hard, figures it out in a rush, that this is going to haunt Sam for the rest of his life, and that’s what demons love, guilt that eats away at you until you can’t breathe anymore. “You don’t have to do this, you can call her back -”
“Yes,” Sam says, sudden and sharp, and wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist, holding on tight. “Yes, I do,” and Dean gets, all of a sudden, that what he’s asking Sam to do - what he’s been asking Sam to do, all along - is maybe the worst kind of betrayal.
Guilt doesn’t mean much to Dean these days, but he knows - has always known - what it is for Sam, what saving people means to Sam. He’s always thought he knew why Sam wouldn’t drop this, couldn’t let go of the open road, and it’s more than a little strange to figure out that he was wrong.
“I couldn’t,” Sam says, breathing hard, like even the thought is hurting him, “I couldn’t lose you.”
“Hey,” Dean says, leaning in to nudge his shoulder against Sam’s. “I’m going to fucking stay,” and all the tension slides away from Sam’s body, until he’s just leaning in.
“Yeah,” Sam says, pressing in with a sudden smile, “you bet your ass you are,” and the clarity of his relief at the thought, Dean figures, is more than enough to make every bit of it worthwhile.
-
Demons have a way of knowing things you don’t even know you want, and Sam’s never been more aware of it than he was at that crossroads.
“Just his life?” she whispered, against his mouth. “Are you sure that’s all you want?”
Sam’s hasn’t been able to get the images that she slid into his head to go away since. He sees them on the backs of his eyelids just before he falls asleep at night, in the blurred edges of heat mirages in the desert, and in his reflection, when he’s too drunk to see much of anything else.
They’re wrong, god, so wrong, and Sam knows that all he wanted to take away from that deal was Dean, knows the demon’s just playing games with him, fucking with his head, but there’s something in the pit of his stomach that he can’t quite get away from.
It doesn’t help that Dean’s been fucking weird lately - a couple days after, he started sleeping in Sam’s bed, and he’s been touchy, pissed off over every little thing. Sam’s pretty sure something’s going on, because he’s not even interested in bars, and he actually caught Dean reading one of his books - Casino Royale, admittedly, but still.
When Dean lets him pick the radio station two days in a row and doesn’t bitch about it - Sam’s not even driving - Sam decides something’s going the fuck on.
He swipes a cup from a 7-11 and fills it with some holy water while Dean’s paying for the gas.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, coming back out, “I brought you a - ”
Sam trips, not entirely on purpose, and soaks him. Dean stands there, dripping, for about ten seconds, then steps forward and shoves a donut down the back of Sam’s shirt.
“I’m driving, bitch,” he says, almost cheerfully, and goes to get a dry shirt out of the duffle, leaving Sam to figure out how to get rid of the donut.
Dean gets even worse later that week. They’re loading up to go after a couple of vampires, pulling guns out of the trunk, when Dean considers and hands him the Colt 1911.
“Hold your own damn gun,” Sam says, shoving a knife into the side of his boot, and Dean looks kind of torn.
“No, it’s okay,” he says, ducking his head under the pretense of filling their canteen of holy water, “I’m gonna take the Beretta.” He holds out the Colt toward Sam again, and Sam takes it, kind of cautious, maybe even a little freaked out.
“Uh, thanks,” he says, and waves the EMF reader vaguely in Dean’s direction. Nothing.
Sam checks Dean’s forehead that night, after he’s already asleep in the passenger seat, but he doesn’t feel extra warm or anything, so Sam’s pretty sure he’s not coming down with something.
The final straw, though, is when they stop for gas outside of Raleigh and Dean tosses him the keys. “You can drive, bitch,” he says, going for the passenger side, and Sam just kind of stands there, staring, for so long that Dean gets out again.
“Earth to Sam,” he says, holding his coffee cup, leaning between the door and the car. “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“Seriously,” Sam says, staring at the car keys, “what - you’re letting me drive.”
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says.
“You gave me your keys,” Sam says, feeling vaguely hysterical, because the way he’s feeling is bad enough without worrying something’s wrong with Dean on top of it. “And your gun! And - ” Sam’s definitely not freaking out, “you - the radio!”
“Uh, dude,” Dean says, a little bit flushed, and he runs a hand through his hair, looking a little guilty. “I was just - trying to make you happy, okay? Stop being such a fucking girl about it.”
“Oh,” says Sam, everything going out of him in a rush, and right there, in the fucking 7-11 parking lot, he realizes that there’s no use in fighting it anymore: he’s falling for Dean and there’s nothing he can do about it.
-
Sam’s been fucking insane for the past month or so, and Dean doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea of what’s causing it. They’re stuck in the middle of a goddamned traffic jam in the pouring rain, just outside of Portland, and he wishes Sam would knock it the fuck off, because this is seriously not the time.
“I just think you should see a doctor,” Sam says.
“My arm,” Dean says, trying to get a decent look out the windshield at the car in front of him, “is fucking fine, Sam.”
“It might need stitches,” Sam starts in, for the fourth time today. Dean’s about ready to make him fucking walk.
“If it needs stitches,” Dean says, through gritted teeth, “you can do it the next place we stop.”
Sam’s sewn up way worse than Dean’s arm - a six inch cut, he’ll admit, but not anything deep - before, with way less whining. Dean can’t figure out what the fuck his problem is.
“I just don’t want it to get infected,” Sam says. “It looked red last night.”
What’s going to look red in a minute is Sam’s face, when Dean punches him.
“Seriously,” Dean says, “not right now.” Someone honks at him, probably some motherfucking college student in a goddamned Prius, and Dean honks back, with a gesture behind him for good measure, then hits the brakes to avoid plowing into the next car, which has somehow moved backwards five feet.
Fucking gridlock.
Sam leaves it alone for exactly three minutes, and picks a moment where Dean is busy doing creeping battle with a semi to start up again. “I saw a free clinic,” he says. “We could turn around.”
“SAM!” Dean yells, because distraction has cost him three car lengths, which is just not cool.
“Dean,” Sam says back, in his most whiny voice, and Dean hits a hand against the steering wheel, then conveniently remembers he’s got that motherfucking cut. It kind of hurts.
“See,” Sam continues, vindicated. “I knew -”
“Sammy,” Dean says, completely out of patience, “if you don’t shut the fuck up -”
“I read an article about blood poisoning, okay,” Sam says, holding up his hands. “Forgive me for trying to make sure you don’t die an agonizing death.”
“I’M GOING TO PULL OVER THE CAR AND SHOW YOU AGONIZING DEATH!” Dean yells, and flings a coke bottle in his general direction.
“Oh, yeah, Dean, that’s totally mature,” Sam says, tossing it in the back seat. “Just because I’m worried about - ”
“Look," Dean snaps, and he’s seriously about ready to leave Sam on the side of the road at this point. “Right now I’d rather die of fucking blood poisoning than keep listening to you whining at me.”
"Don't even joke about that,” Sam says, his voice going kind of stupid and high pitched. “Don't you dare - ”
“You can have the fucking Impala, okay,” Dean bites out. The car is going absolutely fucking nowhere, so he turns to glare at Sam, who looks kind of stricken. He’s out of coke bottles, but he briefly considers throwing the keys, considering he probably doesn’t even need to have the fucking engine on. They could be here all afternoon. “And then you'd be free to whine your way across the fucking country without me and my theoretical blood poisoning getting in the way - ”
“Shut up,” Sam says, “shut up,” sounding really upset, and Dean feels kind of bad, except he has to check the side mirror at that point, so he manages to completely miss Sam leaning in.
“Just shut up,” Sam manages, and slides a hand in, tilts Dean’s face up, and, before Dean can actually process anything, kisses him.
Dean manages not to swerve, though it’s kind of a close call, largely because traffic picks a really fucking inopportune moment to start moving again. Sam’s mouth is warm and uncertain over his, and Dean can’t think.
“Hang on,” he manages, because there is no fucking way he’s figuring this out on the middle of the freeway. “Just - ”
Sam pulls back, looking even worse than before. “Oh, god,” he says, and sinks down into his seat, looking kind of miserable in the corner.
“Sammy,” Dean says, and changes lanes, slowly, because Oregon fucking sucks. “I’m pulling over.”
Sam says absolutely nothing, which Dean figures means he’s freaking out - Sam always freaks out - so the three minutes it takes him to find an exit and pull off are so bad that Dean almost wishes he’d just fucking stopped and got stitches, so they could’ve had this out, say, anywhere but the fucking freeway.
He pulls into the back of a gas station, slides the emergency brake on, then puts the car into park. Sam’s still hunched over in the passenger seat, not actually moving.
“Okay,” Dean says, taking a deep breath.
“Just - please,” Sam manages, “please don’t hate me - ”
“God, Sammy,” Dean says, kind of roughly, because sometimes Sam’s so stupid, and he watches the wiper blades swing back and forth.
“Please, Dean,” Sam says, sounding kind of broken, and Dean figures they should probably talk about it, but fuck if he’s letting Sam sound that upset for even another minute.
“Sam,” he says, leaning over, and kisses him back.
It takes a couple seconds for Sam to figure it out, and then, yeah, right there, he makes a startled noise against Dean’s mouth, gets the picture, and takes it deep.
“Christ,” Dean says, when he pulls back to breathe, “I just couldn’t fucking drive and make out at the same time.”
Sam blinks a couple times and then, aw, yeah, there it is. He goes from pleased to outraged in three seconds flat.
“You let me think you were pissed off ALL THE WAY OVER HERE,” he yells.
“You’d think you’d have figured out not to fuck with me while I’m driving, Sammy,” Dean smirks, and then ducks away, laughing, when Sam digs the coke bottle out of the back seat and starts hitting him with it.
-
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean all but moans against his jaw, and yeah, okay, that’s fucking amazing, because he’s finally got Dean where he wants him.
Okay, so the back seat of the Impala on the side of the road isn’t exactly ideal, but if Sam has to wait one more hour, he’s pretty sure he might actually die, considering it’s been five days since they first kissed, and through a combination of the world’s thinnest motel walls and three days sleeping on the road - fuck Montana’s lack of motels - they haven’t even managed to make out.
“Yeah,” he manages, and it doesn’t actually matter that there’s really not enough room in here for him to stretch out, because Dean’s mouth is right there, and Sam’s about ready to pass out from sheer, unadulterated happiness.
Dean slides his hands into the back pockets of Sam’s jeans, pulling him down as he leans up for a kiss, and Sam’s about to go for his jeans when Dean goes kind of tense all of a sudden.
“Fuck,” he says, and Sam sits up so fast he manages to hit his head on the roof, hard enough to effectively kill his erection.
“Ow,” Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck, and Dean sits up too.
“Sorry,” he says, wriggling. “Fucking seatbelt was digging into my kidney.”
Sam hates cars.
“Here, we could - ” Dean says, kind of sliding over into his lap, leaning in to lick into his mouth, and despite the fact that the back of his head’s killing him, Sam’s pretty happy again.
“Yeah,” he says, nudging his hips up just a little, and Dean somehow manages to get in close enough to rub up against him, which is maybe the best feeling ever.
At least until Sam realizes the headlights shining through the car window aren’t just passing by, and has to shove Dean out of his lap, fast.
“Anybody in there?” somebody calls, and Sam debates just hiding on the floor, but it looks like they’ve got a flashlight.
“Motherfucking son of a bitch,” Dean says, but he opens the car door.
There’s a minivan parked on the other side of the highway. Sam’s going to fucking kill someone. He climbs out the other side.
“Everything okay?” a woman holding the flashlight says, and Jesus, she has soccer mom written all over her. Her husband’s about ten steps behind. “Did you boys have a breakdown?”
“No, ma’am,” Sam says, stepping on Dean’s foot before he can get any ideas, because he looks like he’s about to start swearing, and there’s definitely at least one kid in that car. “Just taking a break - we’ve been driving awhile.”
“All right, then,” she says, but her husband looks kind of doubtful. Sam elbows Dean before he can say anything else.
“We were just getting back on the road, thanks,” Sam says, and tries not to hope that the next car they stop to help contains a particularly pissed off ghost. Maybe a serial killer.
Dean walks around to climb in the driver’s seat, looking kind of pissed off, and Sam gives up and gets in. “We could - ” he says.
“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean says, “a fucking minivan,” and starts backing out.
Sam puts his head in his hands and wishes cruel and unusual deaths on families of four everywhere.
-
If Dean were a superstitious kind of guy, he’d feel a little weird about the fact that every time he and Sam start actually getting into it, something goes ridiculously fucking wrong. He’s not, though, so mostly it’s just pissing him off, because every time he looks at Sam, sprawled out in the passenger seat, he starts getting hard, and after this long, that’s starting to get really fucking old.
Dean rubs a hand over the inside of his thigh, a little awkward, like that’s going to help things, and yeah, they could probably stop, because the last car he saw was two hours ago and the only thing out here is fucking corn and cattle pasture, but he thinks Sam might be asleep. As much as he wants to pull off the highway and figure it the fuck out - even if it means doing it in a goddamned corn field - he’s pretty sure Sam needs sleep more than sex, considering how uptight he’s been the past couple days.
Dean turns up the radio, leaning back a little, and manages not to jump a couple feet when it turns out Sam’s awake.
“The reception out here sucks,” Sam says, and digs through the glove compartment to find a cassette, one of Dean’s favorites, which he slides in, then undoes his seatbelt.
“You want to stop?” Dean says, and Sam grins, just a little, then slides a hand over against the back of Dean’s neck and runs his thumb along the curve of his shoulder.
“Nah,” he says. “You just - keep driving, okay?”
“Uh, Sammy,” Dean says, because he really doesn’t trust that look.
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, and then - oh, seriously, fuck - Sam’s sliding down a little, and leaning over, until he’s stretched out, stomach against the seat, looking really pleased with himself.
“Sam,” he manages. “You can’t -”
“What are you going to run into, corn?” Sam says, kind of amused, and unzips Dean’s jeans.
Dean’s not going to admit it, but for all the time he’s spent driving, he’s never actually had anybody try this, so when Sam slides his mouth down over Dean’s cock, Dean ends up about two seconds from slamming on the brakes entirely without meaning to, because fuck is it hot.
“Jesus,” Dean manages, opening and closing his hands for a minute on the wheel, trying to breathe. Sam goes a little deeper, and Dean can feel his tongue, which isn’t doing much for the whole keeping-his-eyes-on-the-road thing.
Sam makes a soft, amused noise in the back of his throat, and eases off a little, just licking, until Dean’s barely managing to keep the car steady - he keeps inching over into the wrong lane.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he hisses, when Sam slides down again, and thank god Sam’s got his free hand on the bottom of the wheel, because Dean comes the second Sam starts to go a little further, and there’s no fucking way he can drive through that.
Dean pulls over a minute later, still kind of catching his breath, and turns the car off.
“Fuck,” Dean says, again, tilting his head back for a second, and Sam sits up, flushed, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Dean kisses him, leaning across to get the car door open, and pretty much pushes him out, because they’ve proven pretty conclusively that Sam doesn’t fit in the damn car.
“Hey!” Sam says, looking kind of offended, so Dean just slides out after him and gets to his feet, then pushes Sam back against the car.
“Your turn,” he says, low, against Sam’s jaw, stepping in close, and can pretty much feel it when Sam gets the idea.
“Yeah, okay,” he manages, and Dean pulls him down for a kiss, then undoes the button of his jeans and slides a hand inside.
Sam’s hard and hot and making little noises against his mouth, and Dean has to shove him in, pin him against the car before he does anything more than just touch, because otherwise he’s pretty sure Sam’s going to fall down.
“Yeah,” Sam says, almost panting, swallowing hard, “yeah, Dean, fuck,” and Dean runs his thumb along the length of him, then over the head a couple times, until Sam’s hips are pushing into his hand.
“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, “come on,” and Sam comes before Dean can even really get into it, his face against Dean’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Sam says, a couple minutes later, when they’re still both leaning against the car, just kissing a little. “I can’t drive anymore, can you drive anymore?”
“Fuck no,” Dean says, and he shuts the car door and lets Sam lead him a little way into the field off the side of the road, all wildflowers and grass that’s probably never been cut, and half way through the field Sam just kind of pulls him down so that they're lying in the grass, looking up at that wide Montana sky.
“I think,” Sam says, while Dean’s watching clouds drift by, as lazy and warm as he feels.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean murmurs, and reaches over to fit his hand into Sam’s, just right.
This took fucking forever to write, and began and ended with spontaneous trips by me alone on the expressway, because apparently expressways inspire me. Or something.
So, this fic is both serious and funny, (a little bit) angst and romance, but I think the best description is that it's as real as I could make it, and that's what counts. It's the boys, doing what they do best, through a lot of time on the road. Everything here takes place in (or around) the Impala, so: no hotel rooms, bars, diners, laundromats, haunted houses, or bed and breakfasts. There are, however, gas stations, because jesus, it's hard to write an entire fic ONLY IN CARS. Porn and laundry were forbidden as plot devices. I needed donuts.
Twelve pieces (vignettes, if you will), one relationship progression, and one car.
A gaschmillion thanks to smangosbubbles and fahye who saved me when I couldn't figure out what the hell I was doing and allowed me to cockblock with a minivan. I love you both.
This contains spoilers for seasons one and two, especially In My Time of Dying, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things, and the season finale. (And by the way? If you haven't see Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things, I recommend checking out this clip, which is from the end of that episode. Definite spoilers for IMTOD etc. It doesn't have anything scary, just Sam and Dean talking, but one of the vignettes is set around that conversation.)
Highway 101, Sam/Dean, R, 7100 words.
Highway 101
After she dies, Sam’s okay.
It’s not like he’s great, but most of what he can feel is anger, running straight and sharp beneath his skin. Dean keeps treating him like he’s porcelain, like he’s going to break any minute, and it kind of pisses Sam off, because all things considered, he’s fine. He’s pretty sure he loved her, but mostly he misses having a real bed, and classes, and Lucky Charms, because the only things he can find at diners are fucking Frosted Flakes and Cheerios. Sam hates Cheerios.
It’s good, just the road and Dean and a gun in his jacket pocket, and he’s good, perfectly all right. It’s what he’s always known it was going to be, no use running anymore, caught and kept tight against his chest, just beneath his rib cage, and he’s okay.
They’re driving in New Mexico, ten PM, straight through, and Sam’s almost asleep in the passenger seat when Dean turns off the radio and readjusts his grip on the steering wheel.
“Tell me about your first date,” he says, finally, just when Sam’s starting to wonder if maybe he just wanted the quiet.
“Whose?” he says, using Dean’s jacket for a pillow; it smells like him, cheap laundry detergent and gun powder, reassuring and guilt-inducing all at once.
“You and - Jessica,” Dean says. “Jess.”
Sam has no idea why he’s asking, but it’s Dean. He knows better than to try to figure it out.
“We met at - a party,” Sam says, and he barely remembers most of it, but he knows how he felt when he got her number, like maybe he’d be okay at this after all.
“Yeah?” Dean says.
“We went to the movies,” he says. “I don’t know what we saw, I - we had ice cream.”
He remembers the ice cream, because she spilled three quarters of a hot fudge sundae on his lap, driving home, and Sam almost hit a mailbox. He’s pretty sure he’s never wanted anything more than he wanted to kiss her in that moment, embarrassed and laughing and sweet, and suddenly, he can’t breathe.
“Ice cream’s good,” Dean says, not even making fun of him, and then Sam realizes his face is wet, and then he’s crying so hard he can’t think, huge, gulping sobs, and god, he loved her.
Dean pulls off the road, turns the lights down and just leans over.
“Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs, getting his arms around him, and Sam hurts so much he doesn’t know how he can keep going, how anyone can keep going, but Dean’s right there, solid. He gets his face against Dean’s shoulder and gives in to grief.
After, Dean finds him a couple Tylenol and a towel to wash his face, presses his palm against the back of Sam’s neck, warm and steady. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay,” and when Sam falls asleep with Dean’s jacket wrapped around his shoulders, he’s not okay, but he can feel again.
-
He’s got his hand up her skirt, hot as hell and inevitably just as damning, leaning back against the steering wheel just right, and Dean’s pretty sure she’s all of ten seconds from coming when he sees Sam, coming out of the bar, about to open the passenger side door. He looks tired and out of it, like he has for almost a month now, and god damn, Dean wants to fuck her across the dashboard until he just can’t think anymore, but it’s Sam. He probably wants to go back to the hotel and sleep, and Dean’s pretty sure he’d walk if he figured out what they were doing in here, but it’s half a mile and there’s just no fucking way Dean’s letting him do that. He shuts his eyes and breathes for a second, maybe two, because there’s not really a choice, but it really would’ve been so fucking nice to get laid.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, finally, getting the car door open.
He slides her out in one easy motion, before she can do anything about it.
Sam looks startled, and he goes kind of red. “Sorry,” he says, “sorry, I’m - I’ll come back.”
“We’re done,” Dean says, slides back into the car and shuts the car door on his side. “Get in, Sammy.”
“I, uh,” Sam says, still looking at the girl, who’s staring at him, but he gets in, embarrassed, hunched over on his side, and Dean’s pretty glad because it gives him enough time to get his jacket over his lap. Nothing a cold shower won’t take care of, but still - he doesn’t want Sam to notice.
“Sorry,” Sam says, again, when Dean pulls out of the parking lot. “I didn’t - I wasn’t trying to get in your way.”
Sam keeps going on about stupid fucking shit like this, like Dean’s got a problem with taking turns in the shower or handing off some of the driving or giving up some girl in a bar for his brother. Dean wishes he’d just figure it the fuck out, that Dean wants him here, would’ve done anything the past four years to have him back, but it’s Sam and he’s stupid sometimes.
“I wasn’t really in the mood anyway,” Dean says. “You want a hamburger?”
“A hamburger?” Sam says, kind of like he thinks Dean’s insane.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I could go for a hamburger. Cheese, extra pickles, maybe some onions.”
“I’m pretty sure if it has cheese on it, it’s a cheeseburger,” Sam says, finally, and Dean really, really can’t do anything but laugh.
-
There’s blood all over, and Sam doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea what to do.
“Motherfucking Black Dogs,” Dean says, breathless and pale, “motherfucking, son of a bitch, goddamned Kirkegrim.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, finding a knife, because Dean’s t-shirt is soaked through with blood and his wrist’s at an angle that ordinarily would have Sam heading straight for the ER, except he can’t.
“You shut up, bitch,” Dean retorts, and then passes out in the backseat, leaving Sam totally alone on the shoulder of the road outside of a church cemetery, leaning in through a car door, trying to patch up his sliced up, dumbass older brother, who can’t fucking stay away from anything.
Sam cuts off Dean’s t-shirt - it’s Dean’s favorite, but that’s just too fucking bad - pours holy water into the enormous, bleeding bite across his stomach, the gash across his ribcage, more to clean them out than anything. There aren’t any gloves in the first aid kid, so Sam finds a bar of soap and goes in bare handed, tries not to think about where he’s sticking his fingers, but the bite didn’t even go through muscle, and the cut’s even shallower. They’re both bleeding like hell, though, so Sam pours half a bottle of rubbing alcohol on, which is enough to make even Dean stir, then starts in with the butterfly bandages. He packs gauze, then tapes on some sterile pads. They’re going to have to buy another first aid kit, and all he’s got for Dean’s wrist is an ace bandage, but the bleeding’s not so bad now.
Sam manages to get to the front seat before his legs give out, slides his head between his knees and just breathes, in and out, slow, because he can’t think about everything that’s pressing in on him, and he can’t think about how Dean used to do this alone, what might have happened, what probably did happen, because Sam knew every single one of Dean’s scars when he left, and he doesn’t anymore.
“Fuck,” Dean says, finally, from the back, sounding almost amused, “that was awesome,” and Sam kind of wants to beat the shit out of him, but mostly he wants to crawl in the backseat with Dean and stay, and stay, and stay.
-
The only thing about Sam that Dean literally can’t stand is his taste in music. He seriously wonders some days where the fuck it came from, because it would be just like the fucking demon to have infected him with a preference for modern rock and new age elevator music along with pain in the ass psychic abilities. Except for Sam, Dean’s never met anyone who likes Kenny G who wasn’t possessed.
Dean usually controls the music, on the basis of it being his fucking car, but sometimes he falls asleep and wakes up to find that Sam’s actually had the audacity to change over to radio. One time he’s pretty sure Sam was listening to Sade, but he wasn’t really awake and denial is way better than having to come to terms with the fact that Sam - all evidence with a shotgun and that scythe aside - is actually a pussy.
So he’s not exactly thrilled when Sam finds a cassette tape in Arizona at one of those rest plazas, with the Starbucks and the fucking Sunglass Huts.
“It was like ninety percent off,” Sam points out, trying to pop it in the tape deck while Dean deflects with a soda.
“Probably because it sucks, dumbass,” Dean says, but Sam fakes him out and gets it in.
He drives down the middle of the road for awhile as revenge, just to piss Sam off, but it turns out to be something he can actually stand, a bunch of eighties music, and eventually he eases back over into the right lane so Sam will stop making outraged noises.
It’s not like it’s anything Dean would pick, but it’s stuff he knows the words to, grew up listening to, and about three songs in he starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. By the fifth, he’s singing along; more to himself than anything, kind of low, just to pass the time, so he’s a little startled when Sam joins in.
It feels good, though - Sam’s got a good voice, steady and deep, and it fits in just right with Dean’s, like it did when they were kids singing Christmas carols in the backseat.
Dean realizes he’s happy somewhere on side two, with the window rolled down and the smell of warm leather around them, just driving in the middle of the desert. He’s not sure he’s ready to trust that it’s going to last, just yet, but it’s good enough for now, and that’s all that Dean’s ever asked for.
-
Sam’s never been that good at knowing what to say. It’s never mattered, though, before now - he’s fumbled his way through everything, managed it, but it’s not enough, here. He doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea, and it’s tearing him open. Of all the things he’s failed at, everything he’s fucked up and let happen and fallen down on, this is the worst, because it’s Dean.
He’s been numb since Kansas, locked up tighter than Sam’s ever seen him. Sam knows the grief and guilt he’s carrying around are too much for one person, knows this might be enough to break both of them. He doesn’t know how to say it, though, because no one’s ever fucking taught him how to do this, how to say this, and there aren’t even words.
He was your dad, too, Dean said, the only time he’s cried since, but Sam’s pretty sure it’s not the same. He loved John, but he’s never liked him, never understood him, and he’s never known him as a parent. Dean had four years, four years of a real life, a real family, and Sam’s pretty sure that’s why this is ripping him to pieces: Sam’s lost his father, but Dean’s lost his dad.
Dean doesn’t say anything for six hours, driving through Wyoming, and by the time he pulls over for a break, Sam’s so sick with anger and grief and fear that he literally can’t get in the car again, can’t keep going, locked in with this one, monumental failure that’s breaking his brother - his family - apart.
“God damn it,” he says, standing on the fucking shoulder of the highway, wound tight with so much hurt that he can’t even breathe.
He finds a rock on the side of the road, just the right size for his palm, and throws it, as hard as he can. It hits a tree with a sickening crunch, but it feels good, feels like something, so he finds another, throws even harder, until the tree he’s aiming for is cracked open, and his eyes are so full of tears that he can’t even see.
“Sammy,” Dean says, finally, and Sam throws the last rock, the biggest one of all, with every bit of his strength behind it, stumbles so hard he almost falls. Dean catches him, close, but Sam pulls him down, pulls him in, kneeling on the pavement and holding on tight.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam says, and he knows he’s crying but he doesn’t even fucking care, “it wasn’t your fault and I love you,” and he’s not letting go.
Dean’s stiff against him, spine rigid, and Sam can’t see his face, but he can feel it when the fight goes out of him, when he stops trying and just gives in, but he just holds on tighter when Dean starts to cry, his whole body shaking, and Sam’s pretty sure that no force in heaven or on earth is ever going to make him let go.
-
Northern Wisconsin isn’t Dean’s favorite place to drive, all winding roads and forests, but he’s pretty sure it’s harder on Sam this time - he keeps getting visions, and headaches to go with them, ones Advil can’t touch. They’ve stopped four times this afternoon alone for him to go puke in the bushes, and he’s green the rest of the time, rubbing his temples like that’s going to help. Dean’s fucking exhausted from worrying about him. Sam’s not sleeping, just curled in on himself with his eyes shut tight, miserable, and Dean seriously can’t take it anymore.
He takes the next side road he can find and parks the car under some trees, nudges Sam’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta get some sleep,” he says, and Sam nods, a tiny bit.
“Okay, yeah,” he manages, his voice kind of cracked, and Dean goes around to the other side and opens the car door. Sam winces.
“Come on, back seat with me,” he says, and gets an arm under Sam’s shoulders to help him out. Sam abruptly goes a lot more green.
“I’m going to throw up again,” he says, sounding pretty bad, and Dean doesn’t make him go by himself this time, just gets him far enough away from the car and keeps a hand on the small of his back to make sure he doesn’t fall over.
Dean finds a canteen and makes Sam drink some water, because he hasn’t really had anything else all day, and then stuffs his jacket in the back seat. He slides in, up against the back, and puts a jacket against his shoulder, then lets Sam climb in next to him, nudges his head down onto his makeshift pillow, wraps an arm around him, just sliding his palm up and down Sam’s back, over his t-shirt, which is pretty much soaked with cold sweat.
“Hey,” he says, “it’ll be better if you can sleep a little bit,” and Sam exhales, softly, like he’s kind of amused.
“Don’t think that’s happening,” he says, but Dean figures if they just stay here, the fact that Sam hasn’t gotten any sleep in two days might catch up with him, and it’s better than being on the road.
“God, this is awful,” Sam mumbles, against his jaw, and Dean eases in a little more, slides his hand up to rub the back of Sam’s neck.
“Yeah,” Dean says, soft.
“If these don’t go away after we kill that son of a bitch,” Sam says, “you’re buying me the biggest fucking bed so I can sleep them off.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, kind of drowsy. “Whatever you want.”
“Maybe a king,” Sam says, with that sleepy edge that Dean’s pretty sure means he’s close to going straight under. “You couldn’t kick me in a king.”
“I don’t kick, bitch,” Dean says, protesting out of habit, but then he blinks, kind of slow, because Sam’s talking about after, after with him. It’s not something he’s ever let himself hope for, but Sam’s saying it, sleepy, honest, up against him, and Dean’s tired of being afraid.
“You do, too,” he says, head on Dean’s shoulder, but Dean just pulls him in a little closer, keeps him safe, and when Sam’s breathing finally evens out, he lets himself think, just for a little bit, about having someplace to call home.
-
One of the things Sam misses most about having a normal life is owning books. He’s always got one or two, but they’re usually pop fiction or mystery novels, and it’s not like he can hang onto them. There’s nothing he really loves, but it’s still hard to leave them, in library donation bins and Salvation Army boxes. One night they’re both totally drunk, lying in the car in a bar parking lot, and Dean asks him what he wants most, when they get the son of a bitch.
“I’m going to get a fuckin’ lawn mower,” Dean adds, from the backseat, “and some of that - ” he gestures, kind of waving a hand in the air. “Lasagna, the kind in those silver things, and in the oven - ” Sam hears him sigh, kind of happily. “I’m going to cook it. And then eat it. And have leftovers.”
Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s trashed, because he’s never heard anyone sound so enthusiastic about Stouffer’s.
“I want - uh, you,” Sam says, still kind of laughing, because he’s drunk enough to say it. “And bookshelves.”
“Fuckin’ bookshelves,” Dean says, and yeah, he’s totaled. “Bookshelves are awesome, man.”
He’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t remember anything about that conversation, so he’s kind of surprised when he opens the trunk a couple days later to put away the jack and finds a box of books stashed in a carefully cleared space between the gun rack and the ammo cases. They’re used, more classics than anything else, but there are at least twenty books in there. Dean stands up while he’s fingering the edges of the paperbacks, grease all over his shirt from changing the tire.
“Figured we’d just keep it there,” Dean says, when he figures out what’s holding Sam up. “I don’t fucking know what’s good, but - ” he clears his throat, looking a little awkward. “Thought maybe you’d want a place for things.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, swallowing, “yeah, it’s good,” and turns around to help Dean finish tightening the bolts.
-
Outside of Boston, heading south on the highway, Dean’s figuring it out. It’s a little past midnight, so late there’s almost no one on the road, and Sam’s asleep on Dean’s shoulder, breathing soft and quiet against his collar.
Sam’s been a mess since it happened, guilty and angry and not sleeping at all, but Dean’s okay with how bad Sam’s feeling, because he’s alive. He finally understands - for the first time since his father died - why things happened the way they did, and there’s a strange sort of peace in it. His dad loved him, maybe not as much as Dean loves Sam - he’s pretty sure nothing can touch that - but enough. Dean doesn’t lie awake at night trying to figure out why anymore, and he’s okay, genuinely okay, maybe better than he’s been in longer than he can remember, because he’s got an entire year with Sam, and if they haven’t figured something out by the end of it, well -
It’s worth it. It’s always been worth it, because this is what he was made for, keeping Sam safe.
Dean doesn’t regret any of it, watching him sleep in the soft dashboard light. It’s right there, running just beneath the surface of Sam’s skin, pooling in the hollow of his throat like warmth and the dull green glow of Sam’s watch face, the fact that he’s alive. Maybe he’s a little more messed up than before, with a few more scars and a little less faith, but Sam’s alive, and that’s what matters.
Six weeks later, hands tight on the steering wheel, he’s parked outside a crossroads and there’s nowhere to go but in. Maybe Dean’s been more stupid than brave, all along, but he’s never been more afraid of anything in his life, because there’s only one thing he’s ever cared about, and Sam’s taking it out of his hands.
“You do not fucking give her what she wants,” Dean says, flat, feeling his nails bite into his palms. “We are not making that trade.”
“I won’t,” Sam says, only because Dean’s laid it out, straight and sharp-edged: all or nothing, and Sam walks if it’s not going his way, because there’s no fucking way Dean’s doing this without him. His life has never been worth that much.
Sam’s got a bible, a flask of holy water, and a cardboard box balanced across his knees, but he leans in to meet Dean’s eyes, steady, holds eye contact for a minute. “You have to trust me,” he says, then opens the car door.
Dean looks away, and the next thing he hears is the sound of Sam’s shovel hitting the dirt, sharp and brutal. He’s never felt more helpless.
He makes himself watch them talk, and Sam looks cold and hard, not a child anymore, and Dean can’t do anything about it. Seeing them kiss is like cutting himself open and pulling his heart out.
When Sam slides into the other side of the car, he doesn’t look relieved, just tired, worn through.
“I paid,” he says, simply, and sets his head in his hands.
“Goddamn it, Sammy,” Dean says, because Sam would do anything for him, but he doesn’t want it to be that, it can’t be that.
“The thing is - ” Sam says, swallowing, rubbing a hand over his face, “it’s not really me that’s dying, on this one. I gave up the visions.”
Dean’s not really sure where the deal is on that one.
“People - ” Sam says. “I can’t save them.” He inhales, slow. “People are going to die, because I’m selfish - ”
Dean swallows, hard, figures it out in a rush, that this is going to haunt Sam for the rest of his life, and that’s what demons love, guilt that eats away at you until you can’t breathe anymore. “You don’t have to do this, you can call her back -”
“Yes,” Sam says, sudden and sharp, and wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist, holding on tight. “Yes, I do,” and Dean gets, all of a sudden, that what he’s asking Sam to do - what he’s been asking Sam to do, all along - is maybe the worst kind of betrayal.
Guilt doesn’t mean much to Dean these days, but he knows - has always known - what it is for Sam, what saving people means to Sam. He’s always thought he knew why Sam wouldn’t drop this, couldn’t let go of the open road, and it’s more than a little strange to figure out that he was wrong.
“I couldn’t,” Sam says, breathing hard, like even the thought is hurting him, “I couldn’t lose you.”
“Hey,” Dean says, leaning in to nudge his shoulder against Sam’s. “I’m going to fucking stay,” and all the tension slides away from Sam’s body, until he’s just leaning in.
“Yeah,” Sam says, pressing in with a sudden smile, “you bet your ass you are,” and the clarity of his relief at the thought, Dean figures, is more than enough to make every bit of it worthwhile.
-
Demons have a way of knowing things you don’t even know you want, and Sam’s never been more aware of it than he was at that crossroads.
“Just his life?” she whispered, against his mouth. “Are you sure that’s all you want?”
Sam’s hasn’t been able to get the images that she slid into his head to go away since. He sees them on the backs of his eyelids just before he falls asleep at night, in the blurred edges of heat mirages in the desert, and in his reflection, when he’s too drunk to see much of anything else.
They’re wrong, god, so wrong, and Sam knows that all he wanted to take away from that deal was Dean, knows the demon’s just playing games with him, fucking with his head, but there’s something in the pit of his stomach that he can’t quite get away from.
It doesn’t help that Dean’s been fucking weird lately - a couple days after, he started sleeping in Sam’s bed, and he’s been touchy, pissed off over every little thing. Sam’s pretty sure something’s going on, because he’s not even interested in bars, and he actually caught Dean reading one of his books - Casino Royale, admittedly, but still.
When Dean lets him pick the radio station two days in a row and doesn’t bitch about it - Sam’s not even driving - Sam decides something’s going the fuck on.
He swipes a cup from a 7-11 and fills it with some holy water while Dean’s paying for the gas.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, coming back out, “I brought you a - ”
Sam trips, not entirely on purpose, and soaks him. Dean stands there, dripping, for about ten seconds, then steps forward and shoves a donut down the back of Sam’s shirt.
“I’m driving, bitch,” he says, almost cheerfully, and goes to get a dry shirt out of the duffle, leaving Sam to figure out how to get rid of the donut.
Dean gets even worse later that week. They’re loading up to go after a couple of vampires, pulling guns out of the trunk, when Dean considers and hands him the Colt 1911.
“Hold your own damn gun,” Sam says, shoving a knife into the side of his boot, and Dean looks kind of torn.
“No, it’s okay,” he says, ducking his head under the pretense of filling their canteen of holy water, “I’m gonna take the Beretta.” He holds out the Colt toward Sam again, and Sam takes it, kind of cautious, maybe even a little freaked out.
“Uh, thanks,” he says, and waves the EMF reader vaguely in Dean’s direction. Nothing.
Sam checks Dean’s forehead that night, after he’s already asleep in the passenger seat, but he doesn’t feel extra warm or anything, so Sam’s pretty sure he’s not coming down with something.
The final straw, though, is when they stop for gas outside of Raleigh and Dean tosses him the keys. “You can drive, bitch,” he says, going for the passenger side, and Sam just kind of stands there, staring, for so long that Dean gets out again.
“Earth to Sam,” he says, holding his coffee cup, leaning between the door and the car. “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“Seriously,” Sam says, staring at the car keys, “what - you’re letting me drive.”
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says.
“You gave me your keys,” Sam says, feeling vaguely hysterical, because the way he’s feeling is bad enough without worrying something’s wrong with Dean on top of it. “And your gun! And - ” Sam’s definitely not freaking out, “you - the radio!”
“Uh, dude,” Dean says, a little bit flushed, and he runs a hand through his hair, looking a little guilty. “I was just - trying to make you happy, okay? Stop being such a fucking girl about it.”
“Oh,” says Sam, everything going out of him in a rush, and right there, in the fucking 7-11 parking lot, he realizes that there’s no use in fighting it anymore: he’s falling for Dean and there’s nothing he can do about it.
-
Sam’s been fucking insane for the past month or so, and Dean doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea of what’s causing it. They’re stuck in the middle of a goddamned traffic jam in the pouring rain, just outside of Portland, and he wishes Sam would knock it the fuck off, because this is seriously not the time.
“I just think you should see a doctor,” Sam says.
“My arm,” Dean says, trying to get a decent look out the windshield at the car in front of him, “is fucking fine, Sam.”
“It might need stitches,” Sam starts in, for the fourth time today. Dean’s about ready to make him fucking walk.
“If it needs stitches,” Dean says, through gritted teeth, “you can do it the next place we stop.”
Sam’s sewn up way worse than Dean’s arm - a six inch cut, he’ll admit, but not anything deep - before, with way less whining. Dean can’t figure out what the fuck his problem is.
“I just don’t want it to get infected,” Sam says. “It looked red last night.”
What’s going to look red in a minute is Sam’s face, when Dean punches him.
“Seriously,” Dean says, “not right now.” Someone honks at him, probably some motherfucking college student in a goddamned Prius, and Dean honks back, with a gesture behind him for good measure, then hits the brakes to avoid plowing into the next car, which has somehow moved backwards five feet.
Fucking gridlock.
Sam leaves it alone for exactly three minutes, and picks a moment where Dean is busy doing creeping battle with a semi to start up again. “I saw a free clinic,” he says. “We could turn around.”
“SAM!” Dean yells, because distraction has cost him three car lengths, which is just not cool.
“Dean,” Sam says back, in his most whiny voice, and Dean hits a hand against the steering wheel, then conveniently remembers he’s got that motherfucking cut. It kind of hurts.
“See,” Sam continues, vindicated. “I knew -”
“Sammy,” Dean says, completely out of patience, “if you don’t shut the fuck up -”
“I read an article about blood poisoning, okay,” Sam says, holding up his hands. “Forgive me for trying to make sure you don’t die an agonizing death.”
“I’M GOING TO PULL OVER THE CAR AND SHOW YOU AGONIZING DEATH!” Dean yells, and flings a coke bottle in his general direction.
“Oh, yeah, Dean, that’s totally mature,” Sam says, tossing it in the back seat. “Just because I’m worried about - ”
“Look," Dean snaps, and he’s seriously about ready to leave Sam on the side of the road at this point. “Right now I’d rather die of fucking blood poisoning than keep listening to you whining at me.”
"Don't even joke about that,” Sam says, his voice going kind of stupid and high pitched. “Don't you dare - ”
“You can have the fucking Impala, okay,” Dean bites out. The car is going absolutely fucking nowhere, so he turns to glare at Sam, who looks kind of stricken. He’s out of coke bottles, but he briefly considers throwing the keys, considering he probably doesn’t even need to have the fucking engine on. They could be here all afternoon. “And then you'd be free to whine your way across the fucking country without me and my theoretical blood poisoning getting in the way - ”
“Shut up,” Sam says, “shut up,” sounding really upset, and Dean feels kind of bad, except he has to check the side mirror at that point, so he manages to completely miss Sam leaning in.
“Just shut up,” Sam manages, and slides a hand in, tilts Dean’s face up, and, before Dean can actually process anything, kisses him.
Dean manages not to swerve, though it’s kind of a close call, largely because traffic picks a really fucking inopportune moment to start moving again. Sam’s mouth is warm and uncertain over his, and Dean can’t think.
“Hang on,” he manages, because there is no fucking way he’s figuring this out on the middle of the freeway. “Just - ”
Sam pulls back, looking even worse than before. “Oh, god,” he says, and sinks down into his seat, looking kind of miserable in the corner.
“Sammy,” Dean says, and changes lanes, slowly, because Oregon fucking sucks. “I’m pulling over.”
Sam says absolutely nothing, which Dean figures means he’s freaking out - Sam always freaks out - so the three minutes it takes him to find an exit and pull off are so bad that Dean almost wishes he’d just fucking stopped and got stitches, so they could’ve had this out, say, anywhere but the fucking freeway.
He pulls into the back of a gas station, slides the emergency brake on, then puts the car into park. Sam’s still hunched over in the passenger seat, not actually moving.
“Okay,” Dean says, taking a deep breath.
“Just - please,” Sam manages, “please don’t hate me - ”
“God, Sammy,” Dean says, kind of roughly, because sometimes Sam’s so stupid, and he watches the wiper blades swing back and forth.
“Please, Dean,” Sam says, sounding kind of broken, and Dean figures they should probably talk about it, but fuck if he’s letting Sam sound that upset for even another minute.
“Sam,” he says, leaning over, and kisses him back.
It takes a couple seconds for Sam to figure it out, and then, yeah, right there, he makes a startled noise against Dean’s mouth, gets the picture, and takes it deep.
“Christ,” Dean says, when he pulls back to breathe, “I just couldn’t fucking drive and make out at the same time.”
Sam blinks a couple times and then, aw, yeah, there it is. He goes from pleased to outraged in three seconds flat.
“You let me think you were pissed off ALL THE WAY OVER HERE,” he yells.
“You’d think you’d have figured out not to fuck with me while I’m driving, Sammy,” Dean smirks, and then ducks away, laughing, when Sam digs the coke bottle out of the back seat and starts hitting him with it.
-
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean all but moans against his jaw, and yeah, okay, that’s fucking amazing, because he’s finally got Dean where he wants him.
Okay, so the back seat of the Impala on the side of the road isn’t exactly ideal, but if Sam has to wait one more hour, he’s pretty sure he might actually die, considering it’s been five days since they first kissed, and through a combination of the world’s thinnest motel walls and three days sleeping on the road - fuck Montana’s lack of motels - they haven’t even managed to make out.
“Yeah,” he manages, and it doesn’t actually matter that there’s really not enough room in here for him to stretch out, because Dean’s mouth is right there, and Sam’s about ready to pass out from sheer, unadulterated happiness.
Dean slides his hands into the back pockets of Sam’s jeans, pulling him down as he leans up for a kiss, and Sam’s about to go for his jeans when Dean goes kind of tense all of a sudden.
“Fuck,” he says, and Sam sits up so fast he manages to hit his head on the roof, hard enough to effectively kill his erection.
“Ow,” Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck, and Dean sits up too.
“Sorry,” he says, wriggling. “Fucking seatbelt was digging into my kidney.”
Sam hates cars.
“Here, we could - ” Dean says, kind of sliding over into his lap, leaning in to lick into his mouth, and despite the fact that the back of his head’s killing him, Sam’s pretty happy again.
“Yeah,” he says, nudging his hips up just a little, and Dean somehow manages to get in close enough to rub up against him, which is maybe the best feeling ever.
At least until Sam realizes the headlights shining through the car window aren’t just passing by, and has to shove Dean out of his lap, fast.
“Anybody in there?” somebody calls, and Sam debates just hiding on the floor, but it looks like they’ve got a flashlight.
“Motherfucking son of a bitch,” Dean says, but he opens the car door.
There’s a minivan parked on the other side of the highway. Sam’s going to fucking kill someone. He climbs out the other side.
“Everything okay?” a woman holding the flashlight says, and Jesus, she has soccer mom written all over her. Her husband’s about ten steps behind. “Did you boys have a breakdown?”
“No, ma’am,” Sam says, stepping on Dean’s foot before he can get any ideas, because he looks like he’s about to start swearing, and there’s definitely at least one kid in that car. “Just taking a break - we’ve been driving awhile.”
“All right, then,” she says, but her husband looks kind of doubtful. Sam elbows Dean before he can say anything else.
“We were just getting back on the road, thanks,” Sam says, and tries not to hope that the next car they stop to help contains a particularly pissed off ghost. Maybe a serial killer.
Dean walks around to climb in the driver’s seat, looking kind of pissed off, and Sam gives up and gets in. “We could - ” he says.
“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean says, “a fucking minivan,” and starts backing out.
Sam puts his head in his hands and wishes cruel and unusual deaths on families of four everywhere.
-
If Dean were a superstitious kind of guy, he’d feel a little weird about the fact that every time he and Sam start actually getting into it, something goes ridiculously fucking wrong. He’s not, though, so mostly it’s just pissing him off, because every time he looks at Sam, sprawled out in the passenger seat, he starts getting hard, and after this long, that’s starting to get really fucking old.
Dean rubs a hand over the inside of his thigh, a little awkward, like that’s going to help things, and yeah, they could probably stop, because the last car he saw was two hours ago and the only thing out here is fucking corn and cattle pasture, but he thinks Sam might be asleep. As much as he wants to pull off the highway and figure it the fuck out - even if it means doing it in a goddamned corn field - he’s pretty sure Sam needs sleep more than sex, considering how uptight he’s been the past couple days.
Dean turns up the radio, leaning back a little, and manages not to jump a couple feet when it turns out Sam’s awake.
“The reception out here sucks,” Sam says, and digs through the glove compartment to find a cassette, one of Dean’s favorites, which he slides in, then undoes his seatbelt.
“You want to stop?” Dean says, and Sam grins, just a little, then slides a hand over against the back of Dean’s neck and runs his thumb along the curve of his shoulder.
“Nah,” he says. “You just - keep driving, okay?”
“Uh, Sammy,” Dean says, because he really doesn’t trust that look.
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, and then - oh, seriously, fuck - Sam’s sliding down a little, and leaning over, until he’s stretched out, stomach against the seat, looking really pleased with himself.
“Sam,” he manages. “You can’t -”
“What are you going to run into, corn?” Sam says, kind of amused, and unzips Dean’s jeans.
Dean’s not going to admit it, but for all the time he’s spent driving, he’s never actually had anybody try this, so when Sam slides his mouth down over Dean’s cock, Dean ends up about two seconds from slamming on the brakes entirely without meaning to, because fuck is it hot.
“Jesus,” Dean manages, opening and closing his hands for a minute on the wheel, trying to breathe. Sam goes a little deeper, and Dean can feel his tongue, which isn’t doing much for the whole keeping-his-eyes-on-the-road thing.
Sam makes a soft, amused noise in the back of his throat, and eases off a little, just licking, until Dean’s barely managing to keep the car steady - he keeps inching over into the wrong lane.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he hisses, when Sam slides down again, and thank god Sam’s got his free hand on the bottom of the wheel, because Dean comes the second Sam starts to go a little further, and there’s no fucking way he can drive through that.
Dean pulls over a minute later, still kind of catching his breath, and turns the car off.
“Fuck,” Dean says, again, tilting his head back for a second, and Sam sits up, flushed, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Dean kisses him, leaning across to get the car door open, and pretty much pushes him out, because they’ve proven pretty conclusively that Sam doesn’t fit in the damn car.
“Hey!” Sam says, looking kind of offended, so Dean just slides out after him and gets to his feet, then pushes Sam back against the car.
“Your turn,” he says, low, against Sam’s jaw, stepping in close, and can pretty much feel it when Sam gets the idea.
“Yeah, okay,” he manages, and Dean pulls him down for a kiss, then undoes the button of his jeans and slides a hand inside.
Sam’s hard and hot and making little noises against his mouth, and Dean has to shove him in, pin him against the car before he does anything more than just touch, because otherwise he’s pretty sure Sam’s going to fall down.
“Yeah,” Sam says, almost panting, swallowing hard, “yeah, Dean, fuck,” and Dean runs his thumb along the length of him, then over the head a couple times, until Sam’s hips are pushing into his hand.
“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, “come on,” and Sam comes before Dean can even really get into it, his face against Dean’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Sam says, a couple minutes later, when they’re still both leaning against the car, just kissing a little. “I can’t drive anymore, can you drive anymore?”
“Fuck no,” Dean says, and he shuts the car door and lets Sam lead him a little way into the field off the side of the road, all wildflowers and grass that’s probably never been cut, and half way through the field Sam just kind of pulls him down so that they're lying in the grass, looking up at that wide Montana sky.
“I think,” Sam says, while Dean’s watching clouds drift by, as lazy and warm as he feels.
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean murmurs, and reaches over to fit his hand into Sam’s, just right.