Crush, Chapter 4
Chapter 4
February 2013
When they finally get up, it’s just after midday, and the sun’s at its highest point, or as high as it can manage this time of year. Sam shuffles out the front door in a pair of tattered sneakers and wanders down to the mailbox to retrieve the local news-rag. He stands for a moment in the cold winter light, feeling the sun’s feeble rays on the back of his shoulders through his thin, cotton shirt. He shivers and turns to trudge back towards the house, noticing that the ivy’s started another assault on the north side, already half covering the guest bedroom window, they’ll have to cut it back again soon.
When he gets back inside, Dean’s feeding pieces of his uneaten sausage to Dougal, who’s got his feet propped up on Dean’s thigh, ultra-obedient, begging expression in place.
“You spoil him,” Sam tells him as he pours the coffee.
“Aw, honey, don’t be jealous.”
Sam rolls his eyes and slides onto a stool, flipping the newspaper open.
Dean reaches over to snatch the coffee (the one Sam’s just poured for himself) from Sam’s side of the table and spoons in three heaped spoonfuls of sugar. Sam watches him for a moment, shakes his head and gets up again to fetch another.
“Are you looking for somethin'?" Dean asks when Sam’s reseated.
"No.”
"We haven't been on a hunt for ages.”
It's probably meant to be an observation, but it rings in Sam’s ears as something closer to an accusation. Dean sometimes has these momentary panics about giving up their old life, not that they have given it up, not entirely. The vengeful spirit in Greensboro, NC, a couple of months back and the water spirit in Morristown, NJ, in September would say otherwise. Anything local, in the surrounding states, they're always on it, just from a local base of operations, instead of a seedy motel.
Still, this argument raises its inevitable head regularly, probably every five or six months since they settled here, and they've never yet come to a satisfactory conclusion. Dean makes noises about wanting to get back on the road and Sam counters, not backing down in his fervent desire to stay put. He suspects that deep down Dean's not being completely honest with himself when he argues for going back to the full-time hunting lifestyle, Dean just thinks he should; so many years spent believing that's his job and that's his life, and no matter if it's going to kill him before he gets to thirty (hell, it did kill him before he got to thirty) that was all he needed to aspire to, all he deserved out of life. Sam blames their father for that, not ready to blame Dean himself.
"You miss it?" He tosses the paper aside and looks at Dean, Dean doesn’t meet his eyes. "Cause I don't. I don't miss sewing you up after a spirit's ripped out half your side, cause it’s me that has to patch you up, Dean. No one else can do it. You seem to forget that sometimes.”
“I don’t forget it,” grits out Dean wearily. “Christ, you know that!”
And that’s it: the burning too real fear always present at the back of his mind that their next hunt could be their last hunt. However much Dean protests, Sam doesn’t believe that Dean truly does get it, Dean still believes too much in his own invulnerability, still holds his own life so cheap.
Sam shuts his mouth on the easy retort, clamps down the momentary anger that always sparks so fast these days, he doesn’t want to fight with Dean.
"Whatever, I got papers to grade."
He’s only gotten through four papers by the time he hears the purr, rumble, roar of the Impala backing down the driveway. He sighs and leans back in his chair, feeling the bones in his spine creak as he tries to get comfortable. He needs… more coffee.
The kitchen looks improbably shiny, the yellow, country-kitsch tiles soft and homely in the thin, afternoon sunlight, it’s the only place in the house they ever manage to keep clean, and for that reason, it’s Sam’s favorite room. Dean’s cleaned up this time: dishes stacked, washed and gleaming by the sink, table wiped down and a new pot of coffee on the machine, the smell competing with the lemony aroma of the dishes. He takes a moment to savor it and pours himself a fresh cup. For some reason, Dean has a knack with the coffeemaker that he just doesn't possess, he's not sure if it's something to do with how many spoons of coffee Dean uses, how he filters the water through it once before doing it proper, or if it's just some sort of innate talent, but Dean's coffee always tastes better than his own. He pads back through to the study and sits down once more, gazing forlornly at the undiminishing pile of papers resting by his elbow. He glances at his watch and promises himself another cup if he gets two more done in the next thirty minutes.
He didn't set out to be a professor. Once they settled down, bought the garage and got the house and decided that they were going to stay, he began to realize that spending his days doing home repairs, chasing up the occasional hunt and helping Dean out with the paperwork for the garage, was not going to be as fulfilling as he thought it would, already, the invoices, tax returns and health and safety certifications were giving him brain freeze.
After he fixed the plumbing (kinda), electric (again, kinda), and got the den and kitchen into a livable condition, he started feeling resentful; bored and brain-dead by the endless days of repetitive work. When Dean got home from the garage, whistling and generally acting satisfied with life and himself, he bitched at him, picked fights and moped around, a morose and irritable presence. But he couldn’t say anything out loud, he was the one who’d persuaded Dean that this settling down and staying in one place business was a good idea, and Dean, as he always did, was making the best of it; blithely going about his days making friends and fixing cars and fitting in, while Sam sat out in the middle of nowhere and tried to convince himself that he didn’t miss hunting.
Ironically (or not), it was a hunt that saved him. He was doing research into a haunting the next couple of towns over and managed to score an appointment with Professor Gina Weeks from the local university, an expert in the occult and local rituals and legends. He pretended to interview her, trying to gain information about the legend, but found himself sliding into a debate about myths and different cultures’ relationships with those myths. It was the first, truly intellectual conversation he could remember having since leaving Stanford, and he felt his brain grind slowly open, taking in her arguments, countering them with his own, and actually learning something new that wasn’t engine or home-repair related for the first time in months.
He got up to go, shocked to realize that they’d been talking for over two hours. She looked at him for a moment as they shook goodbye, a cool, appraising glance before she turned and took a piece of paper down from the top of a filing cabinet.
“We’ve got funding for two extra PhD students this coming year, you should give serious thought to the idea of applying, you’re obviously an expert in the area. What school did you say you attended?”
He was pretty sure he hadn’t said anything about having graduated from anywhere, but the implication was flattering, so he said without thinking, “Stanford. But, um, I was Pre-law.” She looked surprised for a moment, before he hastily added, “All this - the occult, myths, urban legends… it’s always been a personal interest of mine.”
“Well for a personal interest, you seem to know more than most of my faculty.” Her voice was dry but with an underlying hint of humor. “Think about it, I’m going to be reviewing the applications myself.”
He nodded at her and dropped the application into his laptop bag along with the pages of research he’d already dug up. He didn’t give it another moment’s thought until he started plowing through the research later that evening, laying out the pages on the kitchen table while Dean made pot roast. He picked up the application, caught between some photocopies of old local newspaper articles and an essay the professor had given him on local magick rites, and placed it carefully to one side.
He sat up in bed that evening with the laptop on his knees and read about the university, its students, its courses, its research expertise. He dreamed about college that night: seeing himself sipping beer in the campus bar, walking from the library to class, weighed down by his books and laptop, his brain helpfully giving him all the good memories he had of college without the guilt-edged, pain-tinged memories of Jess. The next day, he said the words aloud before he really realized what it was he was saying:
“I want to do a PhD.”
Dean did a double take, gaped at him with his mouth full of honey-covered toast. “Dude, random much.”
“I… now that we’re settled here, it feels like a good time to do it.”
Dean swallowed the rest of his toast and reached for his coffee mug, carefully avoiding meeting his gaze.
“Don’t you think?”
Dean raised his eyes reluctantly and shrugged, “If that’s what you want.” But his voice was distant, gaze flat, and it occurred to Sam with a rush of fondness and exasperation that Dean thought he meant going back to Stanford, Dean thought he wanted to leave.
It was official: his brother was an idiot.
“I meant the university here,” he said. “The one I went to the other day. There’s a program I want to apply for. I’ve already spoken to Bobby about faking up the transcripts and references; he said he knows someone who could do it for me no problem.”
Dean’s head came up with a jerk. “But what about Stanford?”
“What about it? Why would I want to move to the other side of the country when we’ve just settled here?”
“Cause it’s a great school. Cause you used to go there. Cause… you’re not happy here?”
“Dean, that’s not true,” he said softly. “Okay, so I’ve been… bored, but I like it here and if you think I’m going anywhere without you then…” he broke off and shook his head. “Idiot.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he was trying not to smile, so that was okay.
He filled in the application, passed the interview, and only six weeks after meeting Gina for the first time, he found himself a part of the Department of Cultural Anthropology.
He assisted Gina as a higher level TA and helped out in seminars, grading papers and running student research groups. He undertook research for her, in addition to his own, and soon got the reputation among the department of being someone who knew the subject inside out, which of course, was absolutely true.
He got on well with his coworkers, despite some of the bitching about “Gina’s new protégé” from some embittered members of the faculty, fitting so easily into the role of smart, friendly everyman he'd performed back when he'd been at Stanford. He was popular with the students too, very popular, judging by the number of subtle and extremely unsubtle invitations thrown his way by both female and male students alike.
“You should take ‘em up on it,” Dean counseled, “seriously, dude, get some of that co-ed ass. Just cause I can’t do it anymore, don’t mean you should keep it locked up like Fort Knox. Hell, you know I won’t mind.”
“Dean, shut up. I’m not gonna hook up with anyone.”
“Why not? It’s not like we’re exclusive.”
“Yes we are.”
Dean gaped at him, “What? We are? Since when?”
“Since always,” Sam replied matter-of-factly. “You can’t have sex with anybody else, ever. And I don’t want to, so yeah, we’re exclusive.”
“What do you mean you don’t want to? Take it from me, there are a helluva lotta hot chicks out there, you don’t wanna miss out.”
“Dean, listen to me. I know you have this stupid, misguided idea that I’m missin’ out on something by not sleeping with every girl that comes my way, and I get that you have this even stupider, fucked-up idea that it’s somehow your fault, that you’re holding me back or some such bullshit.”
“Sam…”
“I’m not finished. Think about it: before, uh, before us - how often did I use to hook up? What makes you think that’s changed now? When I have sex with someone, I want it to mean something, I want it to be with someone I care about. And I care about you, I love you more than anyone, more than anything, and we have fuckin’ incredible sex, so why would I want to hook up with anyone else when I could be with you?”
Dean’s mouth worked soundlessly, his expression morphing from disbelief through to extreme discomfort eventually landing up somewhere around smugness.
“Okay, so you’ve got a point about the incredible sex.”
Sam smiled, “I always have a point.”
Two months into his second semester, Gina told him she was recommending him to take over as a junior lecturer on some of the basic freshman courses and electives, “You have a great rapport with the students and you’re young, fresh, dedicated. I can’t think of anyone better. Plus, if you accept, it saves me the considerable trouble and cost of recruiting a new junior professor.”
He did accept, ridiculously flattered that she thought him good enough to take on teaching responsibilities, but she shrugged his thanks off with her customary detachment, saying, “You know the subject better than anyone, Sam, I have absolutely no doubt that you will be amazing.”
Fast forward eighteen months, and he was actually teaching, okay, so he was about the most junior of juniors in the department, he had to share an office with three of his colleagues leading to endless conflicts when it came to scheduling student office hours, and worst of all, he had about zero time for his own research, but despite all that, he loved his job.
Dean gets back a couple of hours later. Sam hears him come in: front door banging open, Dougal barking and Dean talking back at him, the usual endearment-laden, one-sided conversation that makes Sam smile: Hey, dumbass, you want some food? Want some of this super delicious shit here? Mmmm, tasty, what’s this then… rabbit? Mmmmm. Lucky bastard, aint’cha, boy? Yeah, there you go, dude, munch on that…
The radio goes on and Sam hears cupboards slam, the puffy, plastic sound of the fridge seal opening and closing, and above it all, Dean whistling along to KWRA’s Rock The Seventies! He can’t concentrate, eyes slanting over and over the same sentence, but it’s so goddamn boring, and the background noise (and Dean) are just too damn distracting.
He’s restless, wants to work it off, a run perhaps, or a session in their garage home-gym, working out side by side with Dean, perhaps even bending him over the exercise bike when he’s done. He smirks to himself, licking his lips, feeling his cock start to inevitably harden as he thinks about the last time they “worked out” together, how he licked the beads of sweat from his brother’s asscrack, sucked his warm, sweaty balls into his mouth, Dean coming with a shout in his own sweat-drenched hair…
He tosses the half-read paper to one side, adjusting himself before he gets up. Dean glances at him as he slouches into the kitchen, but goes back to unpacking the groceries without saying anything.
“Did you get -“
“- Yeah, I did, and it cost me six dollars more than the regular stuff. I don’t get it, it’s a freakin’ chicken, it’s gonna get eaten, so who gives a shit what kinda life it lived beforehand?”
“I do. Anyway, organic free-range chicken tastes better.”
“Bullshit,” scoffs Dean, “that shit cost me six fuckin’ dollars extra! You owe me that money, Sammy!”
“I’ll take it out in trade.”
Dean looks up, his mouth twisting as he huffs out a laugh. “So, you, uh, done with work, whatever?”
“Nah. But I can’t take anymore right now. Was thinking of workin’ out.”
“Working out working out or working out working out?”
“Working out working out,” he answers with a sly smile, advancing slowly on Dean. Dean watches him with his own sly, knowing smile as Sam leans closer, hands braced on the worktop either side of Dean's body, their chests tantalizingly close. “Come work out with me,” he whispers.
Dean swallows, and Sam’s eyes track the ripple of his throat, his cock hardening further as he lowers his mouth to Dean’s. The kiss is short and easy, and when Sam pulls away, Dean’s smiling at him, that soft, private, just-for him smile that no one else gets to see.
“Yeah, okay.”
***********************************************
August 2007
All things considered, Dean's first attempt at giving a blowjob was not much more successful than Sam's, but still… pretty fucking awesome.
He was determined to outdo Sam, as if this was just another one of their brotherly competitions. He flung himself into it with characteristic enthusiasm, eagerly licking and slobbering at Sam's cock, and okay, so he could only fit the head in his mouth comfortably, anymore than that and he was choking and spluttering and bitching about genetic freaks and their monstercocks. He finally gave up on being able to deep-throat first time round, instead sticking to swirling his tongue around the head and up and down the shaft which… Jesus fucking Christ… got the job done in record time.
When Sam came, Dean gamely tried to swallow it all; choking and coughing until there were tears in his eyes. In the end, he just let it collect all over his lips, mouth and chin in white, slimy trails, gathering it up with his fingers and sucking on them with this obscene look on his face. Sam watched him, utterly mesmerized by what he was seeing, feeling like he could come all over again, because this had to be just about the filthiest, most wrong and most amazingly hot thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.
After the blowjobs, they graduated quickly onto the real, proper sex, or as Dean gleefully called it, “the ass-fucking!"
Sam wanted to take it slow, he’d read enough horror stories to put them both off for life, but Dean was impatient to get on with things.
“After all, if I’m gonna be havin’ sex with my brother, I wanna do everything. And, dude, it’s not like we’ve got time here.”
It was that ominous reminder that had Sam swallowing back the wedge of grief which seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the back of his throat, and agreeing to speed things up.
They played three rounds of rock paper scissors to see who got to bottom first. It wasn't the most romantic of preludes to a night of "making-love", (not that Sam ever called it that; even in his head he could hear Dean calling him a girl). Dean, of course, had gone with scissors all three times, idiot, and he'd lost, all three times.
They kissed for a while, slowly taking each other’s clothes off, trying to calm each other down, and it felt... good. Not earth-shattering or awesome or amazing or anywhere near as hot as it usually did, both of them too aware of what they were about to do, like a couple of kids after prom, about to "do it" for the very first time.
"We should be wasted for this," groaned Dean when Sam rolled him onto his front and pushed his thighs apart with one knee.
"I won't hurt you," he promised.
Dean twisted around and gave Sam's cock a pointed look. "Yeah, sure, cause that thing - goin’ up my ass, oh that's not gonna hurt at all."
Sam smiled smugly and squeezed about half the tube of lube onto his fingers. "Shut up for a minute. I'm uh, I'm going in." And right then and there, he almost called the whole thing off, because Dean started laughing, sniggering into the pillow, body quivering as he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
"Dean! Jesus, get a grip! You wanna get fucked or not? Cause if you don’t fuckin’ shut up then…"
Dean immediately stopped, twisting around again and squinting at him. "Just - stick your goddamn fingers in my ass!"
He had to bite his lip himself then to prevent any stray laughter, really, the whole thing was so fucking weird - how did guys do this? He poked in one finger tentatively, half-shocked when he felt it slide in, easy and sticky; the ton of lube had really helped. Dean gasped and flinched beneath him.
"Does it feel good?"
"Strange."
"Strange, how?" enquired Sam as he attempted to flex the finger. There was another sound from Dean. "You like that?"
"Yeah, do that again."
He did and Dean groaned again, his body giving an imperceptible shudder. Huh, he'd obviously already managed to find the prostate; he was going to be awesome at this. He slid in another finger, that was a bit harder, he had to remember to tell Dean not to wear his ring when he did it to him, because, man, there was no spare room for jewelry up there.
"I'm gonna try and stretch you, okay?"
Dean kinda nodded and he attempted to flex his fingers, turning them around slowly and working them like scissors, just like he’d read. Dean's thighs had started shaking, just small quivering movements betraying nerves, or maybe some sort of automatic muscle reaction to having some guy's fingers up your ass, who the hell even knew? He smoothed his other hand softly down Dean's back, caressing his spine and running his fingers gently over his brother’s shoulder blades. Dean seemed to relax a bit, making those small, whimpering noises he always made when Sam sucked him off. He leaned forward, into Dean, and kissed the small of his back, tonguing at the beads of sweat, tasting the salty tang of Dean's skin.
"You want another finger?"
"I - uh, yeah." Dean's voice was a low hiss, almost a whisper. Sam coated his ring finger with lube, shit; the stuff was getting everywhere, his hands, Dean's thighs and ass, the sheets. He twisted his fingers, squeezing the third digit inside Dean, working them gently. He could barely get it in, just the tip of his nail, then slowly, carefully, the first knuckle. He placed his other hand on Dean's shoulders, firm and loving, feeling the trembling of his brother's body through his sweaty palm.
"It's alright, I think, I - I'm gonna fuck you now." He withdrew his fingers and wiped the stickiness off on the sheets.
"Sam." Dean twisted around, grabbed onto his arm, pulling him down into a kiss. He fell into Dean's body, meeting his lips and kissing him hungrily, eyes open, staring at the blur of Dean's too close skin, his soft freckles and the elegant curve of his cheekbone. Dean let him go and shot him a wry grin. "Make it good, stud."
He smiled back, "Okay, get on your knees."
Dean obeyed as he pulled on the condom, emptying the rest of the lube onto his palm, greasing up his sheathed cock. Dean's ass was directly in sight and he stared at it, feeling the breath catch in his chest: it looked... ready, red and sticky and shiny in the low lighting, lube smeared across his brother’s hole, ass cheeks and thighs in thick, slimy clumps. He touched the head of his cock through the latex... Jesus, he was hard, he was... thrumming with it, body tight and taut and God, he wanted to be inside Dean, like, now.
He placed his hands on Dean's ass, pulling his ass cheeks apart and lining up the head of his cock. He heard Dean make a harsh intake of breath and he thrust in.
Pushing into Dean with his cock was a lot harder than it had been with his fingers. It was so… tight, obscenely tight, so tight that it fucking hurt. And if it was hurting him that much, then Dean must be -
“Dean?” he whispered.
Dean was breathing shallowly beneath him, the muscles in his legs really shaking now, beads of sweat running down his spine. Sam bent over him, bracing himself on his hands, either side of Dean’s body, pressing his chest up against Dean’s back, skin on skin, sweat on sweat, flesh on flesh. He mouthed at the nape of Dean’s neck, ran his tongue down the bumps of his spine, willing him to relax. He felt Dean shudder, and then… slowly, breath by painful breath, relax…
The pressure around his cock lessened minutely and he could move again, he pulled back experimentally and thrust back in. Beneath him, he heard Dean hiss; a scrambled, ragged intake of breath, he could feel every shiver and tremor of his body, their skin glued together with their shared sweat.
Sam took a long breath and stilled.
He was finding it hard to breathe, there was something so monumentally life-shattering about this, about being inside Dean; his cock was inside Dean,… They were joined together, their bodies fitted together, joined… together… so fundamentally close, so absolutely together, not just their bodies, but their souls too... Dean would laugh at him if he knew Sam was thinking like this, but at this moment, he felt vindicated. This was a whole new level of intimacy, this was something beyond normal, human relationships between regular, normal couples, he and Dean had some of the same genetic code written into every cell of their bodies, they'd shared the same childhood, the same memories, the same values. They'd brought each other back from the dead, saved each other’s lives, been everything to each other, for forever. Dean had sold his soul, given away his future just because he couldn't live without him. This was right, this was meant to be.
He smoothed a hand through Dean’s hair, wet with sweat; he cupped the side of Dean’s face and lowered his mouth into a clumsy, sloppy kiss.
“You okay?”
“Fuck, it - fucking hurts, Sammy. Just - let’s finish it.”
He pressed a kiss against Dean’s temple and started to thrust again. It was tight and hard and burning hot, but God, he was inside Dean… and he was…
…not gonna last much longer.
He gripped Dean, wrapped an arm around his chest, squeezed him hard with every muscle he possessed, pulling him back onto his cock, manhandling him and taking charge, claiming ownership. His blood beat hard in his head, a thump, thump, thump, reverberating throughout every cell like his brother’s name: Dean, Dean, Dean… A litany of love and heat and desire.
He came with a strangled cry, collapsing onto Dean, squashing him flat into the mattress. He pulled his arm out from under Dean, bracing himself on trembling muscles, taking care, being so gentle, when he pulled out of Dean’s ass. His brother’s hole was red, glistening with lube and puffy looking around the edges, like just another wound. He bent over and pressed a kiss to each of Dean’s ass cheeks, feeling Dean wince beneath him, boneless and shaking.
He rolled Dean over gently; his cock was half-hard, the head curving up weakly towards his belly. Slowly, he lowered his head, taking it into his mouth, feeling Dean harden almost instantaneously. Dean gasped and writhed, cursing and moaning out Sam’s name as he sucked him to a climax.
He pulled off and licked his lips, meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time since they’d done it. Done it.
Dean’s eyes were hooded as he stared up at Sam, heavy with lust and affection.
“You’ve gotten too good at that,” he told him. “Seriously, we could start chargin’ people. We’d make good money, s’easier than credit card fraud.”
Sam smiled and sank down onto the bed beside him. “I’ll think about it.”
They lay for a few minutes in silence. Dean shifted into a sitting position, wincing again as he did. “Shit, Dean, are you okay?”
“Feel like I’ve just had a fuckin’ tent pole shoved up my ass, but apart from that -”
“I was trying to be gentle, sorry.”
“Whatever. First time always sucks. But it’s your turn next, dude.”
“Okay.” He met Dean’s eyes and smiled. “It will get easier. You know, all the stuff I read said it’s just a matter of practice.”
“Like bow-hunting?”
“Like -“ he glanced at Dean who was smirking, Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. But, yeah, I guess same idea applies. If you wanna think of it that way.”
Dean nodded, satisfied. “Awesome.”
Chapter 5
February 2013
When they finally get up, it’s just after midday, and the sun’s at its highest point, or as high as it can manage this time of year. Sam shuffles out the front door in a pair of tattered sneakers and wanders down to the mailbox to retrieve the local news-rag. He stands for a moment in the cold winter light, feeling the sun’s feeble rays on the back of his shoulders through his thin, cotton shirt. He shivers and turns to trudge back towards the house, noticing that the ivy’s started another assault on the north side, already half covering the guest bedroom window, they’ll have to cut it back again soon.
When he gets back inside, Dean’s feeding pieces of his uneaten sausage to Dougal, who’s got his feet propped up on Dean’s thigh, ultra-obedient, begging expression in place.
“You spoil him,” Sam tells him as he pours the coffee.
“Aw, honey, don’t be jealous.”
Sam rolls his eyes and slides onto a stool, flipping the newspaper open.
Dean reaches over to snatch the coffee (the one Sam’s just poured for himself) from Sam’s side of the table and spoons in three heaped spoonfuls of sugar. Sam watches him for a moment, shakes his head and gets up again to fetch another.
“Are you looking for somethin'?" Dean asks when Sam’s reseated.
"No.”
"We haven't been on a hunt for ages.”
It's probably meant to be an observation, but it rings in Sam’s ears as something closer to an accusation. Dean sometimes has these momentary panics about giving up their old life, not that they have given it up, not entirely. The vengeful spirit in Greensboro, NC, a couple of months back and the water spirit in Morristown, NJ, in September would say otherwise. Anything local, in the surrounding states, they're always on it, just from a local base of operations, instead of a seedy motel.
Still, this argument raises its inevitable head regularly, probably every five or six months since they settled here, and they've never yet come to a satisfactory conclusion. Dean makes noises about wanting to get back on the road and Sam counters, not backing down in his fervent desire to stay put. He suspects that deep down Dean's not being completely honest with himself when he argues for going back to the full-time hunting lifestyle, Dean just thinks he should; so many years spent believing that's his job and that's his life, and no matter if it's going to kill him before he gets to thirty (hell, it did kill him before he got to thirty) that was all he needed to aspire to, all he deserved out of life. Sam blames their father for that, not ready to blame Dean himself.
"You miss it?" He tosses the paper aside and looks at Dean, Dean doesn’t meet his eyes. "Cause I don't. I don't miss sewing you up after a spirit's ripped out half your side, cause it’s me that has to patch you up, Dean. No one else can do it. You seem to forget that sometimes.”
“I don’t forget it,” grits out Dean wearily. “Christ, you know that!”
And that’s it: the burning too real fear always present at the back of his mind that their next hunt could be their last hunt. However much Dean protests, Sam doesn’t believe that Dean truly does get it, Dean still believes too much in his own invulnerability, still holds his own life so cheap.
Sam shuts his mouth on the easy retort, clamps down the momentary anger that always sparks so fast these days, he doesn’t want to fight with Dean.
"Whatever, I got papers to grade."
He’s only gotten through four papers by the time he hears the purr, rumble, roar of the Impala backing down the driveway. He sighs and leans back in his chair, feeling the bones in his spine creak as he tries to get comfortable. He needs… more coffee.
The kitchen looks improbably shiny, the yellow, country-kitsch tiles soft and homely in the thin, afternoon sunlight, it’s the only place in the house they ever manage to keep clean, and for that reason, it’s Sam’s favorite room. Dean’s cleaned up this time: dishes stacked, washed and gleaming by the sink, table wiped down and a new pot of coffee on the machine, the smell competing with the lemony aroma of the dishes. He takes a moment to savor it and pours himself a fresh cup. For some reason, Dean has a knack with the coffeemaker that he just doesn't possess, he's not sure if it's something to do with how many spoons of coffee Dean uses, how he filters the water through it once before doing it proper, or if it's just some sort of innate talent, but Dean's coffee always tastes better than his own. He pads back through to the study and sits down once more, gazing forlornly at the undiminishing pile of papers resting by his elbow. He glances at his watch and promises himself another cup if he gets two more done in the next thirty minutes.
He didn't set out to be a professor. Once they settled down, bought the garage and got the house and decided that they were going to stay, he began to realize that spending his days doing home repairs, chasing up the occasional hunt and helping Dean out with the paperwork for the garage, was not going to be as fulfilling as he thought it would, already, the invoices, tax returns and health and safety certifications were giving him brain freeze.
After he fixed the plumbing (kinda), electric (again, kinda), and got the den and kitchen into a livable condition, he started feeling resentful; bored and brain-dead by the endless days of repetitive work. When Dean got home from the garage, whistling and generally acting satisfied with life and himself, he bitched at him, picked fights and moped around, a morose and irritable presence. But he couldn’t say anything out loud, he was the one who’d persuaded Dean that this settling down and staying in one place business was a good idea, and Dean, as he always did, was making the best of it; blithely going about his days making friends and fixing cars and fitting in, while Sam sat out in the middle of nowhere and tried to convince himself that he didn’t miss hunting.
Ironically (or not), it was a hunt that saved him. He was doing research into a haunting the next couple of towns over and managed to score an appointment with Professor Gina Weeks from the local university, an expert in the occult and local rituals and legends. He pretended to interview her, trying to gain information about the legend, but found himself sliding into a debate about myths and different cultures’ relationships with those myths. It was the first, truly intellectual conversation he could remember having since leaving Stanford, and he felt his brain grind slowly open, taking in her arguments, countering them with his own, and actually learning something new that wasn’t engine or home-repair related for the first time in months.
He got up to go, shocked to realize that they’d been talking for over two hours. She looked at him for a moment as they shook goodbye, a cool, appraising glance before she turned and took a piece of paper down from the top of a filing cabinet.
“We’ve got funding for two extra PhD students this coming year, you should give serious thought to the idea of applying, you’re obviously an expert in the area. What school did you say you attended?”
He was pretty sure he hadn’t said anything about having graduated from anywhere, but the implication was flattering, so he said without thinking, “Stanford. But, um, I was Pre-law.” She looked surprised for a moment, before he hastily added, “All this - the occult, myths, urban legends… it’s always been a personal interest of mine.”
“Well for a personal interest, you seem to know more than most of my faculty.” Her voice was dry but with an underlying hint of humor. “Think about it, I’m going to be reviewing the applications myself.”
He nodded at her and dropped the application into his laptop bag along with the pages of research he’d already dug up. He didn’t give it another moment’s thought until he started plowing through the research later that evening, laying out the pages on the kitchen table while Dean made pot roast. He picked up the application, caught between some photocopies of old local newspaper articles and an essay the professor had given him on local magick rites, and placed it carefully to one side.
He sat up in bed that evening with the laptop on his knees and read about the university, its students, its courses, its research expertise. He dreamed about college that night: seeing himself sipping beer in the campus bar, walking from the library to class, weighed down by his books and laptop, his brain helpfully giving him all the good memories he had of college without the guilt-edged, pain-tinged memories of Jess. The next day, he said the words aloud before he really realized what it was he was saying:
“I want to do a PhD.”
Dean did a double take, gaped at him with his mouth full of honey-covered toast. “Dude, random much.”
“I… now that we’re settled here, it feels like a good time to do it.”
Dean swallowed the rest of his toast and reached for his coffee mug, carefully avoiding meeting his gaze.
“Don’t you think?”
Dean raised his eyes reluctantly and shrugged, “If that’s what you want.” But his voice was distant, gaze flat, and it occurred to Sam with a rush of fondness and exasperation that Dean thought he meant going back to Stanford, Dean thought he wanted to leave.
It was official: his brother was an idiot.
“I meant the university here,” he said. “The one I went to the other day. There’s a program I want to apply for. I’ve already spoken to Bobby about faking up the transcripts and references; he said he knows someone who could do it for me no problem.”
Dean’s head came up with a jerk. “But what about Stanford?”
“What about it? Why would I want to move to the other side of the country when we’ve just settled here?”
“Cause it’s a great school. Cause you used to go there. Cause… you’re not happy here?”
“Dean, that’s not true,” he said softly. “Okay, so I’ve been… bored, but I like it here and if you think I’m going anywhere without you then…” he broke off and shook his head. “Idiot.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he was trying not to smile, so that was okay.
He filled in the application, passed the interview, and only six weeks after meeting Gina for the first time, he found himself a part of the Department of Cultural Anthropology.
He assisted Gina as a higher level TA and helped out in seminars, grading papers and running student research groups. He undertook research for her, in addition to his own, and soon got the reputation among the department of being someone who knew the subject inside out, which of course, was absolutely true.
He got on well with his coworkers, despite some of the bitching about “Gina’s new protégé” from some embittered members of the faculty, fitting so easily into the role of smart, friendly everyman he'd performed back when he'd been at Stanford. He was popular with the students too, very popular, judging by the number of subtle and extremely unsubtle invitations thrown his way by both female and male students alike.
“You should take ‘em up on it,” Dean counseled, “seriously, dude, get some of that co-ed ass. Just cause I can’t do it anymore, don’t mean you should keep it locked up like Fort Knox. Hell, you know I won’t mind.”
“Dean, shut up. I’m not gonna hook up with anyone.”
“Why not? It’s not like we’re exclusive.”
“Yes we are.”
Dean gaped at him, “What? We are? Since when?”
“Since always,” Sam replied matter-of-factly. “You can’t have sex with anybody else, ever. And I don’t want to, so yeah, we’re exclusive.”
“What do you mean you don’t want to? Take it from me, there are a helluva lotta hot chicks out there, you don’t wanna miss out.”
“Dean, listen to me. I know you have this stupid, misguided idea that I’m missin’ out on something by not sleeping with every girl that comes my way, and I get that you have this even stupider, fucked-up idea that it’s somehow your fault, that you’re holding me back or some such bullshit.”
“Sam…”
“I’m not finished. Think about it: before, uh, before us - how often did I use to hook up? What makes you think that’s changed now? When I have sex with someone, I want it to mean something, I want it to be with someone I care about. And I care about you, I love you more than anyone, more than anything, and we have fuckin’ incredible sex, so why would I want to hook up with anyone else when I could be with you?”
Dean’s mouth worked soundlessly, his expression morphing from disbelief through to extreme discomfort eventually landing up somewhere around smugness.
“Okay, so you’ve got a point about the incredible sex.”
Sam smiled, “I always have a point.”
Two months into his second semester, Gina told him she was recommending him to take over as a junior lecturer on some of the basic freshman courses and electives, “You have a great rapport with the students and you’re young, fresh, dedicated. I can’t think of anyone better. Plus, if you accept, it saves me the considerable trouble and cost of recruiting a new junior professor.”
He did accept, ridiculously flattered that she thought him good enough to take on teaching responsibilities, but she shrugged his thanks off with her customary detachment, saying, “You know the subject better than anyone, Sam, I have absolutely no doubt that you will be amazing.”
Fast forward eighteen months, and he was actually teaching, okay, so he was about the most junior of juniors in the department, he had to share an office with three of his colleagues leading to endless conflicts when it came to scheduling student office hours, and worst of all, he had about zero time for his own research, but despite all that, he loved his job.
Dean gets back a couple of hours later. Sam hears him come in: front door banging open, Dougal barking and Dean talking back at him, the usual endearment-laden, one-sided conversation that makes Sam smile: Hey, dumbass, you want some food? Want some of this super delicious shit here? Mmmm, tasty, what’s this then… rabbit? Mmmmm. Lucky bastard, aint’cha, boy? Yeah, there you go, dude, munch on that…
The radio goes on and Sam hears cupboards slam, the puffy, plastic sound of the fridge seal opening and closing, and above it all, Dean whistling along to KWRA’s Rock The Seventies! He can’t concentrate, eyes slanting over and over the same sentence, but it’s so goddamn boring, and the background noise (and Dean) are just too damn distracting.
He’s restless, wants to work it off, a run perhaps, or a session in their garage home-gym, working out side by side with Dean, perhaps even bending him over the exercise bike when he’s done. He smirks to himself, licking his lips, feeling his cock start to inevitably harden as he thinks about the last time they “worked out” together, how he licked the beads of sweat from his brother’s asscrack, sucked his warm, sweaty balls into his mouth, Dean coming with a shout in his own sweat-drenched hair…
He tosses the half-read paper to one side, adjusting himself before he gets up. Dean glances at him as he slouches into the kitchen, but goes back to unpacking the groceries without saying anything.
“Did you get -“
“- Yeah, I did, and it cost me six dollars more than the regular stuff. I don’t get it, it’s a freakin’ chicken, it’s gonna get eaten, so who gives a shit what kinda life it lived beforehand?”
“I do. Anyway, organic free-range chicken tastes better.”
“Bullshit,” scoffs Dean, “that shit cost me six fuckin’ dollars extra! You owe me that money, Sammy!”
“I’ll take it out in trade.”
Dean looks up, his mouth twisting as he huffs out a laugh. “So, you, uh, done with work, whatever?”
“Nah. But I can’t take anymore right now. Was thinking of workin’ out.”
“Working out working out or working out working out?”
“Working out working out,” he answers with a sly smile, advancing slowly on Dean. Dean watches him with his own sly, knowing smile as Sam leans closer, hands braced on the worktop either side of Dean's body, their chests tantalizingly close. “Come work out with me,” he whispers.
Dean swallows, and Sam’s eyes track the ripple of his throat, his cock hardening further as he lowers his mouth to Dean’s. The kiss is short and easy, and when Sam pulls away, Dean’s smiling at him, that soft, private, just-for him smile that no one else gets to see.
“Yeah, okay.”
***********************************************
August 2007
All things considered, Dean's first attempt at giving a blowjob was not much more successful than Sam's, but still… pretty fucking awesome.
He was determined to outdo Sam, as if this was just another one of their brotherly competitions. He flung himself into it with characteristic enthusiasm, eagerly licking and slobbering at Sam's cock, and okay, so he could only fit the head in his mouth comfortably, anymore than that and he was choking and spluttering and bitching about genetic freaks and their monstercocks. He finally gave up on being able to deep-throat first time round, instead sticking to swirling his tongue around the head and up and down the shaft which… Jesus fucking Christ… got the job done in record time.
When Sam came, Dean gamely tried to swallow it all; choking and coughing until there were tears in his eyes. In the end, he just let it collect all over his lips, mouth and chin in white, slimy trails, gathering it up with his fingers and sucking on them with this obscene look on his face. Sam watched him, utterly mesmerized by what he was seeing, feeling like he could come all over again, because this had to be just about the filthiest, most wrong and most amazingly hot thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.
After the blowjobs, they graduated quickly onto the real, proper sex, or as Dean gleefully called it, “the ass-fucking!"
Sam wanted to take it slow, he’d read enough horror stories to put them both off for life, but Dean was impatient to get on with things.
“After all, if I’m gonna be havin’ sex with my brother, I wanna do everything. And, dude, it’s not like we’ve got time here.”
It was that ominous reminder that had Sam swallowing back the wedge of grief which seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the back of his throat, and agreeing to speed things up.
They played three rounds of rock paper scissors to see who got to bottom first. It wasn't the most romantic of preludes to a night of "making-love", (not that Sam ever called it that; even in his head he could hear Dean calling him a girl). Dean, of course, had gone with scissors all three times, idiot, and he'd lost, all three times.
They kissed for a while, slowly taking each other’s clothes off, trying to calm each other down, and it felt... good. Not earth-shattering or awesome or amazing or anywhere near as hot as it usually did, both of them too aware of what they were about to do, like a couple of kids after prom, about to "do it" for the very first time.
"We should be wasted for this," groaned Dean when Sam rolled him onto his front and pushed his thighs apart with one knee.
"I won't hurt you," he promised.
Dean twisted around and gave Sam's cock a pointed look. "Yeah, sure, cause that thing - goin’ up my ass, oh that's not gonna hurt at all."
Sam smiled smugly and squeezed about half the tube of lube onto his fingers. "Shut up for a minute. I'm uh, I'm going in." And right then and there, he almost called the whole thing off, because Dean started laughing, sniggering into the pillow, body quivering as he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
"Dean! Jesus, get a grip! You wanna get fucked or not? Cause if you don’t fuckin’ shut up then…"
Dean immediately stopped, twisting around again and squinting at him. "Just - stick your goddamn fingers in my ass!"
He had to bite his lip himself then to prevent any stray laughter, really, the whole thing was so fucking weird - how did guys do this? He poked in one finger tentatively, half-shocked when he felt it slide in, easy and sticky; the ton of lube had really helped. Dean gasped and flinched beneath him.
"Does it feel good?"
"Strange."
"Strange, how?" enquired Sam as he attempted to flex the finger. There was another sound from Dean. "You like that?"
"Yeah, do that again."
He did and Dean groaned again, his body giving an imperceptible shudder. Huh, he'd obviously already managed to find the prostate; he was going to be awesome at this. He slid in another finger, that was a bit harder, he had to remember to tell Dean not to wear his ring when he did it to him, because, man, there was no spare room for jewelry up there.
"I'm gonna try and stretch you, okay?"
Dean kinda nodded and he attempted to flex his fingers, turning them around slowly and working them like scissors, just like he’d read. Dean's thighs had started shaking, just small quivering movements betraying nerves, or maybe some sort of automatic muscle reaction to having some guy's fingers up your ass, who the hell even knew? He smoothed his other hand softly down Dean's back, caressing his spine and running his fingers gently over his brother’s shoulder blades. Dean seemed to relax a bit, making those small, whimpering noises he always made when Sam sucked him off. He leaned forward, into Dean, and kissed the small of his back, tonguing at the beads of sweat, tasting the salty tang of Dean's skin.
"You want another finger?"
"I - uh, yeah." Dean's voice was a low hiss, almost a whisper. Sam coated his ring finger with lube, shit; the stuff was getting everywhere, his hands, Dean's thighs and ass, the sheets. He twisted his fingers, squeezing the third digit inside Dean, working them gently. He could barely get it in, just the tip of his nail, then slowly, carefully, the first knuckle. He placed his other hand on Dean's shoulders, firm and loving, feeling the trembling of his brother's body through his sweaty palm.
"It's alright, I think, I - I'm gonna fuck you now." He withdrew his fingers and wiped the stickiness off on the sheets.
"Sam." Dean twisted around, grabbed onto his arm, pulling him down into a kiss. He fell into Dean's body, meeting his lips and kissing him hungrily, eyes open, staring at the blur of Dean's too close skin, his soft freckles and the elegant curve of his cheekbone. Dean let him go and shot him a wry grin. "Make it good, stud."
He smiled back, "Okay, get on your knees."
Dean obeyed as he pulled on the condom, emptying the rest of the lube onto his palm, greasing up his sheathed cock. Dean's ass was directly in sight and he stared at it, feeling the breath catch in his chest: it looked... ready, red and sticky and shiny in the low lighting, lube smeared across his brother’s hole, ass cheeks and thighs in thick, slimy clumps. He touched the head of his cock through the latex... Jesus, he was hard, he was... thrumming with it, body tight and taut and God, he wanted to be inside Dean, like, now.
He placed his hands on Dean's ass, pulling his ass cheeks apart and lining up the head of his cock. He heard Dean make a harsh intake of breath and he thrust in.
Pushing into Dean with his cock was a lot harder than it had been with his fingers. It was so… tight, obscenely tight, so tight that it fucking hurt. And if it was hurting him that much, then Dean must be -
“Dean?” he whispered.
Dean was breathing shallowly beneath him, the muscles in his legs really shaking now, beads of sweat running down his spine. Sam bent over him, bracing himself on his hands, either side of Dean’s body, pressing his chest up against Dean’s back, skin on skin, sweat on sweat, flesh on flesh. He mouthed at the nape of Dean’s neck, ran his tongue down the bumps of his spine, willing him to relax. He felt Dean shudder, and then… slowly, breath by painful breath, relax…
The pressure around his cock lessened minutely and he could move again, he pulled back experimentally and thrust back in. Beneath him, he heard Dean hiss; a scrambled, ragged intake of breath, he could feel every shiver and tremor of his body, their skin glued together with their shared sweat.
Sam took a long breath and stilled.
He was finding it hard to breathe, there was something so monumentally life-shattering about this, about being inside Dean; his cock was inside Dean,… They were joined together, their bodies fitted together, joined… together… so fundamentally close, so absolutely together, not just their bodies, but their souls too... Dean would laugh at him if he knew Sam was thinking like this, but at this moment, he felt vindicated. This was a whole new level of intimacy, this was something beyond normal, human relationships between regular, normal couples, he and Dean had some of the same genetic code written into every cell of their bodies, they'd shared the same childhood, the same memories, the same values. They'd brought each other back from the dead, saved each other’s lives, been everything to each other, for forever. Dean had sold his soul, given away his future just because he couldn't live without him. This was right, this was meant to be.
He smoothed a hand through Dean’s hair, wet with sweat; he cupped the side of Dean’s face and lowered his mouth into a clumsy, sloppy kiss.
“You okay?”
“Fuck, it - fucking hurts, Sammy. Just - let’s finish it.”
He pressed a kiss against Dean’s temple and started to thrust again. It was tight and hard and burning hot, but God, he was inside Dean… and he was…
…not gonna last much longer.
He gripped Dean, wrapped an arm around his chest, squeezed him hard with every muscle he possessed, pulling him back onto his cock, manhandling him and taking charge, claiming ownership. His blood beat hard in his head, a thump, thump, thump, reverberating throughout every cell like his brother’s name: Dean, Dean, Dean… A litany of love and heat and desire.
He came with a strangled cry, collapsing onto Dean, squashing him flat into the mattress. He pulled his arm out from under Dean, bracing himself on trembling muscles, taking care, being so gentle, when he pulled out of Dean’s ass. His brother’s hole was red, glistening with lube and puffy looking around the edges, like just another wound. He bent over and pressed a kiss to each of Dean’s ass cheeks, feeling Dean wince beneath him, boneless and shaking.
He rolled Dean over gently; his cock was half-hard, the head curving up weakly towards his belly. Slowly, he lowered his head, taking it into his mouth, feeling Dean harden almost instantaneously. Dean gasped and writhed, cursing and moaning out Sam’s name as he sucked him to a climax.
He pulled off and licked his lips, meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time since they’d done it. Done it.
Dean’s eyes were hooded as he stared up at Sam, heavy with lust and affection.
“You’ve gotten too good at that,” he told him. “Seriously, we could start chargin’ people. We’d make good money, s’easier than credit card fraud.”
Sam smiled and sank down onto the bed beside him. “I’ll think about it.”
They lay for a few minutes in silence. Dean shifted into a sitting position, wincing again as he did. “Shit, Dean, are you okay?”
“Feel like I’ve just had a fuckin’ tent pole shoved up my ass, but apart from that -”
“I was trying to be gentle, sorry.”
“Whatever. First time always sucks. But it’s your turn next, dude.”
“Okay.” He met Dean’s eyes and smiled. “It will get easier. You know, all the stuff I read said it’s just a matter of practice.”
“Like bow-hunting?”
“Like -“ he glanced at Dean who was smirking, Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. But, yeah, I guess same idea applies. If you wanna think of it that way.”
Dean nodded, satisfied. “Awesome.”
Chapter 5