original by lissa_bear
Remix Title: The Apocalypse Inside You
Remix Author: la_folle_allure
Original Story: So Much Writing On The Wall, Even The Wall Fell Down
Original Author: lissa_bear
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: It all starts when a selkie tackles Sam off the Long Wharf and he falls into the Boston Harbor.
The music’s too loud, but that’s never been much of an issue. Play it loud or don’t bother playing it at all, Dean often says. Most of the time, it doesn’t even bother Sam that much. He’s used to it, to a degree.
This time, it’s different.
"What the fuck, Dean? You don’t even like this band."
Dean smiles softly. A little bit hurt, a little stung. It’s one of those smiles that are only reserved for the deepest disappointment.
"Yeah, Sammy, I really do."
---
It all starts when a selkie tackles Sam off the Long Wharf and he falls into the Boston Harbor. Connor - the man who gets them into this mess in the first place - is screaming and swearing from the sidelines, threatening them if they hurt Sophie. Dean can’t hear his ravings over the crashing of the water against the wharf.
"Sam!"
The water is murky and ink black in the night. Dean can’t see Sam, can’t even see an air bubble or the outline of struggling figures. The water sloshes like boiling tar as Dean rushes from side to side, hoping that the sweeping yellow beam from the fog light will pick up any form of movement. Aside from Connor’s hollering and the tattoo of Dean’s heart slamming between his ears, the harbor is quiet.
"Sam!"
No answer.
Dean drops his gun on the wooden planks and shrugs off his leather jacket. He ignores the frigid wind as it whips across his body, chilling him right through. He’s about to jump in when he hears a cough like wet cloth ripping, sloshing, and the painful sound of someone trying to force too much air into abused lungs.
"Sam!" Dean calls out again as dripping hands wrap around the edge of the wharf, followed by an arm and a head of sopping wet hair. Sam tries to claw his way back up to the surface and Dean’s hands dig into his sternum and clavicle, hoisting him up until he’s sprawled out in a dripping mess, shivering and coughing and spitting out lungfuls of the thick and tarry water.
Dean wraps both arms around Sam, pulls him up against his chest and tucks Sam’s head safely under his chin. Sam smells like tea. Dean doesn’t think it’s all that funny.
"It got me," Sam manages through the clattering of his teeth. His skin is bruised purple, and glows as pale as the waxing moon. Sam’s hands clench over his stomach and when Dean pries his fingers away, he sees a blue stain mixed in with the red blood that’s smeared across Sam’s palms.
---
As much as it pains Dean to admit, he’s not strong enough to carry Sam back to the Impala. Sam half shuffles, half trips, and is mostly dragged back to the car where Dean stretches him out across the backseat and rips his shirt off with his bare hands.
"Hey," Sam halfheartedly jokes even though his voice is pinched with pain, "I don’t have a lot of those."
"Looked like shit on you, anyway." Dean smiles but Sam’s eyes are squeezed shut, bottom lip wedged between his teeth.
The clean up is robotic, instinctive. Dean unscrews the cap from a bottle of the Fiji water that Sam insists on drinking, and uses the liquid to wipe away the drying blood on Sam’s chest. Sam makes a low whining noise and his fingers weakly motion for the bottle.
Dean cups his head, tilts his chin back and pours the rest of the water into Sam’s mouth. Sam coughs out more than he swallows and the blood from his belly curls around his slender hips like savage claws.
The selkie bit him. Dean feels like his stomach is going to eat itself.
Thankfully, most of the blood belongs to the creature. Dean wonders how much of a fight Sam put up underwater. Aside from the bite mark on Sam’s hip, the worst of the damage comes in the form of long, shallow scratches that don’t require stitches.
A few Tylenol and a goodnight’s sleep and Sam’ll be back in action before he can even milk his injury.
Dean tells Sam this. Sam curses, his weak smile faltering. "I never get to stay home."
"Always were too much of a geek, Sammy."
Sam manages a garbled laugh before he passes out.
Dean sighs, grabs the peroxide and the antibiotics, and just for good measure, washes away the stench of the chemicals with an entire bottle of holy water. Sam’s injury bubbles more than it did with the peroxide. A few of the welts bleed lightly, but Dean patches them up with butterfly bandages and a wrap.
He tucks Sam’s legs into the backseat and slams the door. He thinks about giving Connor the finger as he pulls out, leaving him to go back to his loveless marriage and two children that he was more than willing to give up for the monster masquerading as a human.
But Dean can’t muster up a damn about him now, not with Sam unconscious and packed into the backseat. Dean looks back at Sam, sees his baby brother shivering and he slows the car as he pulls off his jacket to lay it across Sam’s torso. He needs to get Sam dried and warm before he takes another look at the wound and assesses the real damage.
---
He pulls into The Lucky Aces Motel at precisely two in the morning and throws down the fifty dollars for a room. He still has Sam’s blood under his nails and caked around his cuticles. He hopes the man at the front desk is too wrapped up in his TV movie to notice.
Turns out, the motel is pretty packed and the only room left is a cottage stuck between two towering cedars, far in back of the rest of the motel. It’s cut off from the other housing units and was originally intended to be a storage-shed. The guy at the front desk says he’s required by law to tell Dean about the drug bust that went sour. "Still can’t get all the blood off the walls. Give it to ya for forty-five."
Dean smiles with his lips pressed into a tight line. He doesn’t mind this at all.
What he does mind though, is the fact the bed’s a single with ambitions of a double that’s dressed up like a queen.
He heaves the duffels and medical kit in first, drops the canvas bags against the side of the bed and goes back for Sam. Dean lightly swats at Sam’s cheeks, pulls him from his glassy daze. "C’mon, Sammy," he grunts when Sam’s weight falls against his back, "let’s get you inside."
---
Sam smells like rotting garbage and fish. The stench makes Dean gag.
He pulls Sam into what’s supposed to be the bathroom, and wrenches the hot water tap. The pipes groan and the water that shoots out is yellow. Dean sighs. He’d probably have been better off with the wharf water.
It takes some clever maneuvering and cajoling on his part, but he finally gets Sam standing on his own - braced against the sink - as he works off the wet jeans that have fused with Sam’s skin.
Sam groans when Dean tugs at his pants, works them and his boxers down. Sam’s still stiff and his body is incapable of lifting or bending his legs. Dean silently curses as he crouches down, physically lifts Sam’s left leg at the knee, and pulls the fabric away.
Sam’s hand blindly gropes for Dean’s short hair as Dean repeats the motion with Sam’s other leg. Dean steadies Sam with a firm hand on his thigh and doesn’t complain when Sam’s fingers twist through his short bangs and tugs hard. Sam always somehow manages to grab a decent handful, no matter how short Dean cuts it.
Sam moans.
Dean rubs his face.
"If I leave ya in here, you gonna fall and crack your skull open?" Sam doesn’t reply. He sighs and forks his fingers though Dean’s hair, petting him like he would a terrified animal. Dean groans in frustration when Sam’s fingers curl around his ear, his nails scraping down the sensitive stretch of skin.
Dean jumps back and Sam teeters. He reaches out for Dean and Dean catches him before he falls backward. Sam leans completely against him, hands under Dean’s shirt, trailing up his spine before threading through his hair again.
"I’m sorry," Sam mutters against the side of Dean’s face, fingers trembling, freezing cold and stiff.
"For what?" Dean keeps the concern from his voice by guiding Sam toward the shower. Sam’s eyes are wet with unshed tears and Dean looks away as he helps Sam into the tub.
"Thank you," Sam half-whispers as he lets go of Dean’s head. Dean’s never been good at moments like this. He lays a soft kiss against Sam’s shoulder - the only part he can reach without having to stand on his tiptoes - and tells Sam to shower off the stink.
"Can you stand?"
Sam shakes his head, damp hair starting to curl from the humidity. Dean turns the cold-water tap for the extra pressure and shifts Sam until he’s right under the steaming jet. Sam’s lips curl into a pout that looks ridiculous on a grown man, and Dean’s distracted enough to not notice Sam’s hands as they shoot out and tug him forward.
"Sam, what the hell-"
"Stay," Sam interrupts and Dean’s joints lock into place under the burning gaze Sam directs at him.
The water soaks through Dean’s shirt the second Sam’s lips brush across his own. Dean’s mouth tingles like the spearmint toothpaste Sam keeps buying, as Sam’s tongue spears his lips and invades his mouth hungrily.
Steam curls around Dean’s body and makes breathing difficult, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice. He viciously pulls up Dean’s shirt, one hand rolling Dean’s nipples between two strong and calloused fingers, as he drives his rock hard cock against Dean’s stomach.
Dean feels like he’s slipping.
Sam’s mouth cuts into his, tongue slick and scorching hot as they tangle together. Dean’s jaw aches from the pressure behind Sam’s kiss, his teeth numb and cheeks stretched. Sam keeps going deeper, tries to swallow him, tries to taste everything until Dean feels like he’s choking.
Sam pulls away. His groans echo under the steady streams of water, his hips piston harder and harder against Dean’s stomach. Sam’s hands firmly plant themselves on both sides of Dean’s face, cupping and holding. Sam’s cheeks are flushed red, his eyes so green and vivid that Dean momentarily loses his ability to breathe. Sam’s hair is plastered against his cheeks and obscures his eyes and Dean drags his hand across the wet strands and pushes them away as he pulls Sam against his mouth, urging on his ruthless exploration.
Sam doesn’t waste a second and Dean shudders when Sam’s tongue snakes back into his mouth, when he whimpers and thrusts up hard and comes against Dean’s stomach. Sam sucks the oxygen straight from Dean’s lungs, drinks it down. Dean’s never felt so completely full before, like his chest is about to burst open, like his brain is throbbing in his skull like his heart in his chest.
Sam pants against his lips, and his eyes shut softly as his mouth curves into a brilliant smile.
"Feel better?" Dean asks, with no hint of sarcasm, and Sam nods like a lost puppy, tongue licking his lips, eyes still closed as he kisses up the curve of Dean’s neck.
"You smell like candy," Sam murmurs, tongue licking along Dean’s jugular.
"And you still smell like shit. Finish showering, man."
Dean slides out from between Sam’s arms, passes a hand through his hair to shakes out the water. Sam’s hand closes around his bicep and drags him back into the band of his arms. Sam plants his chin on Dean’s shoulder and pulls him flush against his chest. Dean can feel the hard press of Sam’s dick through drenched denim, hanging on his hips.
Sam bites him, mouth wet, teeth sharp and breath scalding hot. He cups Dean through his jeans, makes him buckle and hiss and brace himself against the wall with both arms. "I want to smell like candy, too."
Dean can barely hear his whimpers over Sam’s chuckles.
---
When Dean wakes up the next morning, he finds Sam hunched over a toilet, throwing up everything he’s ever eaten in his whole life. He’s making pained noises and Dean can almost feel how chafed and raw Sam’s throat must be. Dean throws off the blankets and makes his way to the bathroom where he leans over and presses the back of his hand against Sam’s neck. His skin is fever hot, sweaty, and flushed crimson.
Dean groans.
"Guess you get to stay home after all," he jokes as Sam chokes on another mouthful of vomit. Sam’s always hated throwing up, has ever since he was a kid and Dean told him there were monsters that lived in the toilet that jumped up into people’s mouths when they were sick.
At least now, Sam doesn’t cry every time he throws up.
"Dean," Sam hisses, forehead sticking to the toilet seat that’s cushioned with crackling teal plastic. Sam’s sprawled out in the too tiny bathroom, his limbs skewered like a rag doll with severed strings. Dean feels like he’s walking through an obstacle course as he steps over Sam’s legs and sits at the edge of the tub.
The bathtub sinks slightly under his weight. Dean jumps up and almost trips across Sam’s right knee. Sam moans at the jostling and throws up again. He’s shaking everywhere, boiling hot to the touch but shuddering as if freezing cold. The muscles in Sam’s back ripple and glisten from sweat, stretched tight and look excruciatingly sore.
Dean grabs a paper thinning terrycloth towel and drenches it with cold water. He crouches behind Sam and drags the towel across his taut skin; rubs between Sam’s shoulder blades with wide, soothing circles that drain the tension from Sam’s tightly wound back.
"You fall asleep, I’m leaving you here," Dean warns, palms rubbing lower, careful of the wound that he’s going to redress soon.
"No you’re not." Sam groans but seems surprisingly certain of this. He turns his head slightly, hair sticking up wildly, crooked smile smeared against his flushed face. Dean leans over and brushes his damp bangs aside, cups his forehead. Sam’s burning up. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and he looks like he did at six. "You’re gonna stay right here until I feel better."
Dean sighs and sits back on the sinking bathtub, runs the towel under more cold water and rubs Sam’s back until the vomit turns to dry, brittle heaves that whittle away Sam’s strength. Dean passes his fingers through his hair and massages at the back of San’s neck until he shifts and mutters, "Bed, please."
It’s surprisingly easier to pick Sam up and drag him to the bed. When Sam’s body connects with the sheets, he curls into a tight ball, chin folding against his sternum, arms wrapping around his bare chest.
"I suppose you want me to tuck you in too?" Sam nods and Dean rolls his eyes but grabs the blankets and pulls them to Sam’s chin. He turns to leave - drugstore and the free clinic for more medical supplies - when Sam’s hand shoots out like a striking viper and wraps tightly around Dean’s wrist.
"Stay," Sam pouts, tugging Dean closer to the bed. "Always made me feel better."
"One: you were a kid and still small enough to fit in a bed with me and two: I’m not catching whatever nasty fucking disease you caught from that water." Dean pulls his wrist free from Sam’s grip easily.
He wants to leave Sam to sleep off the virus while he gets the food and gas and them the hell out of this fucking state, but Sam’s bottom lip curls and he looks so pathetic that Dean finds himself sitting on the bed, immediately swallowed by Sam’s arms and thin cotton sheets. Sam pulls Dean into the curve of his body, curls his arms around Dean’s torso and presses him against his chest.
"Sam," Dean warns as Sam sleepily sighs.
"Comfy," Sam mumbles, tightening his arms. He tucks Dean’s head under his chin and Dean can feel the heat of Sam’s body soak through his shirt and warm his skin. Sam’s like a furnace and Dean swelters.
After a while, the heat becomes lulling, soothing, and Sam smells like pine, brown sugar and the bubblegum flavored toothpaste Dean used to brush his teeth. Dean inhales, leans in closer and Sam hooks his leg between Dean’s legs and slides his thigh up Dean’s thighs. Sam’s mouth moves against Dean’s head, lips wet and sloppily pressing kisses along his hairline and Dean pulls himself from Sam, breaks that pocket of heat and lets the cool air rush in.
"Sam," Dean begins at the same time Sam snuggles in closer and whispers: "Sleep."
Sam’s lips drop kisses along Dean’s shoulder and suddenly, Sam’s suggestion doesn’t seem that terrible.
---
When Dean wakes, Sam’s already up. He’s showered and dressing and looks like he slept off the flu that had him immobilized not twelve hours before.
"Morning," Sam smiles, white and toothy, as he shrugs on his shirt. His bandages are gone, the injuries vanished as if they’d been red marks on a dry-erase board.
"The fuck?" Dean splutters, dazed and exhausted. He sluggishly pushes himself up on his elbows, rubs a hand across his face. Sam’s still at the end of the bed, smiling. He looks younger. Brighter. He looks happy. Dean can’t remember the last time he’d seen Sam look like that.
"Get up." Sam laughs, kicks the end of the bed lightly. Dean's body pulls itself up; joints crack in familiar places. "I’m starving and don’t want to spend any more time in this fucking state."
The duffels are packed but Sam left out a shirt for Dean. It's the black one with the gray spots from a disastrous encounter with bleach. It's Dean's favorite. It’s Sam’s favorite on Dean.
"Damn straight," Sam grins. "Oh, I already returned the key," he informs Dean as Dean groggily pulls the shirt over his head. When the collar dips past his nose, Dean sees Sam staring at him intently, lips pulled tight, desire swimming in his eyes.
Sam groans softly when Dean flattens the material on his chest, hands splayed across his abs. For a fraction of a second, Dean would swear Sam’s eyes are a bright, sapphire blue.
"My eyes aren't blue, Dean."
Sam sounds vaguely amused as he lifts both duffels onto his shoulders. His back is toward Dean. Dean didn't say anything.
"How did you-"
"My eyes aren't blue, Dean," Sam repeats, looking over his shoulder. Murky green. "You know that."
Dean knows he did.
---
Cincinnati. It feels like it’s six hundred degrees outside, so sticky that breathing feels like a chore. They’re hunting a vampire that’s been killing kindergarten teachers. Already killed three, a fourth in the hospital due to exsanguinations, not expected to make it.
Sam takes the lead, keeps Dean behind him at all times. Dean’s irritated and frustrated, but there’s a look in Sam’s eyes that keeps Dean from second-guessing or arguing.
The hunt is quick.
When they split up, Sam knows exactly where Dean is at all times. He anticipates Dean’s moves, covers his weak spots. They work as one unit, one being. The vampire goes down so fast they don’t even break a sweat.
"That wasn’t even worth getting out of bed for," Dean jokes as he wipes his edge of his blade on the cuff of his sleeve. Sam’s fingers suddenly curl around his throat and drum once before he pulls Dean toward him.
"What-"
Sam’s eyes scan Dean’s face. His fingers tighten a fraction. Dean cocks an eyebrow in confusion. He’s so close to Sam that he can feel all the pent up, reckless energy Sam’s been harboring for the past five hundred miles radiate off him.
"It’s okay," Sam promises as he arches down, crushes their mouths together. Dean immediately feels his stomach tighten, his dick twitching. He wants Sam so badly that sometimes, he thinks he would die if he couldn’t have him.
"I know," Sam mutters as he quickly pulls away for air, immediately resumes devouring Dean’s mouth. "Me too."
---
They're curled together, skin sticky and sweaty, both their chests heaving. Dean's dizzy, fucked out and exhausted to the very core of his bones. Sam's still poised above him, bangs stuck to his forehead. He smiles and arches, lips skim Dean's left nipple. Dean shivers.
"One more time," Sam cajoles, hungry mouth dipping past Dean's hipbone.
"Sam," Dean finds himself whining. He tries to bat away Sam's head, but Sam's fingers are already circling his lube slick hole, already pushing in and finding all the right places that make Dean mewl.
"Just a little longer," Sam’s voice is warm, heavy with awe. "I know you want more. I know you can take more." His voice is the texture of sandpaper, jagged like broken glass. Dean knows he wants this, wants to fuck Sam again, knows he wants to feel that blinding euphoria again.
Sam groans as his fingers sink in to the knuckle. Dean’s body squeezes around the intrusion. Sam’s already hard again, stiff cock dripping and nudging Dean’s thigh.
Dean bites his lip hard. He wants this fast and messy, wants bruises and scratches and wants Sam to fuck him. He likes it best when Sam loses control, likes it when he wakes up the next morning and it still feels like he’s being fucked.
"Jut tell me next time," Sam hisses as he pushes inside in one thrust. Dean feels split open, groans low in his throat. Sam reaches over and grabs the headboard, uses his other hand to curl under Dean’s head and pull his face up to his lips.
The kiss is all teeth, hard nips and saliva. Sam flexes his hips and the second thrust feels like fire and power, like Dean’s being hacked apart. It’s good. It’s so good he damn near blacks out.
---
Dean wakes to the smell of coffee. His body aches everywhere, muscles strained, ass throbbing, throat stripped raw from the screaming. Every breath he swallows feels like Sam’s still in him, still rocking inside him, still making him claw at the sheets while shouting his vocal chords hoarse.
Sam’s sitting in a chair, coffee cup clutched loosely in his grip. He’s naked and staring at Dean with an indecipherable expression on his face. When he sees Dean stir, he sets the cup on the ground, makes his way over and dips the bed with his weight.
Dean shivers when Sam drags his hand down the curve of his spine. He’d give anything for enough energy for another round; would love to feel Sam fuck him with the lube and come and spit from the previous night.
"Next time," Sam mumbles, quiet like a promise. "Get some rest while you can."
Something doesn’t feel quite right. Sam is talking in a soothing voice, lulling Dean back to sleep. Dean can’t remember talking. In fact, he can’t remember saying much since the selkie, but somehow, Sam’s known-
"Shh," Sam whispers. "Just sleep."
So Dean does.
---
They’re barreling down Route 66; Sam’s driving and Dean’s dozing in the passenger seat, chilled bottle of Mountain Dew between his knees. He’d been craving the drink since Sacramento and at the last gas station, Sam had come out with a bottle and a Kit Kat for him.
Now, Sam reaches into the plastic bag with the Wal-Mart logo on it and pulls out a cassette tape. "I picked this up for you," he says. Dean looks over at the shiny plastic perched between Sam’s index and middle finger and feels his jaw drop slightly.
The Smith’s Hatful of Hollow. He’d been looking for that damn tape for years. "How did you-"
Sam smiles wide but says nothing as Morrissey’s voice pounds out a beat on the pavement.
---
Dean’s seen a lot in his life. He was trained to be exceedingly vigilant, extraordinarily perceptive and above all else, hyper-observant. But when it comes to Sam, Dean’s always possessed an Uncanny ability to deny.
He chalks up to that very ability the amount of time it takes him to realize something is wrong. It only seems to cement itself when Sam comes back to the motel one night, dripping wet.
It's not raining outside and the motel doesn't have a pool.
"Don't worry about it," Sam laughs, bubbly and bright when Dean goes to ask what happened. "It’s okay, Dean. It’s all gonna be over soon. I just want to enjoy it while it lasts."
Dean wants to ask him what the hell's going on with him, but Sam's already yanking off his wet shirt, already turning toward him.
"It’s nothing bad, I swear. I’m just enjoying this. Let me enjoy it?"
"Sam, this isn’t funny anymor-"
"C'mon. Let's go to bed." Sam interrupts, pulls Dean close to him. He nips at the pale strip of skin under Dean's jaw; makes Dean give in. "I've been wanting to fuck you since Memphis."
---
There’s always been something exciting about not having a home; always traveling around and living each day like it’s the last. Dean’s always liked the anonymity, the mystery of always being a stranger in every town or city he’d end up in.
It works out. Especially lately, where Sam makes it a priority to touch him as much as he can in public. A hand on his lower back, shoulders always touching, the occasional kiss that has Dean pushing him away with a laugh on his lips.
---
They’re in a booth in a diner in Pittsburgh.
It’s past midnight and they’re dirty and starving and Sam can’t keep his hands to himself. He pulls Dean against his chest, cards his hands through his hair and begins sucking on his lips, swallowing him whole.
Dean’s tired, sluggish like he’s drunk and his brain is so cloudy he feels like he’s high. High but happy. Sam tastes like blue cotton candy and it’s good. He feels so relaxed and zen it’s like magic. He figures it probably is, but it’s Sam and he knows Sam would never hurt him.
Besides, it’s easy to let Sam take what he wants, always has been. He doesn’t mind so much anymore.
"What can I get you, lovebirds?" an honest to god drag queen asks, waitress pad clutched between her rainbow colored nails. They both look up; see the smoothest looking flaxen hair Dean’s ever seen. It’s shiny and long and Dean wants to reach out and touch it. Sam’s fingers tighten around his, pulls him in closer.
"One order of number three, hold the spinach" Sam tucks Dean’s head under his chin as he looks at her nametag, "Tammy. Brown gravy for the potatoes; he hates the other kind. Oh, and coffee, decaf if you have; black. Extra onions on the burger. Mayo, not relish if you can."
Just what Dean’s been craving since they stumbled into the diner.
Tammy giggles, cocks a hip and rests her hand there. She’s beautiful, Dean thinks, exotic looking. Maybe taller than Sam, even without the platforms. Sam smiles and kisses Dean’s forehead, won’t stop touching his face with small, tender strokes.
Tammy refills their water, charm bracelet tinkling as it clinks against the metal pitcher. She’s smiling. "What’s he high on, sweetness? E?"
Sam laughs. "Nah. Just love."
Tammy giggles again. "Like I said, E." Sam laughs with her. "Watch out for him, sugar, or else all the gay little vulture boys here will gobble him right up."
Sam’s smirk looks like it pulls apart his cheeks. "Won’t let him out of my sight. Scout’s honor."
Tammy winks over her shoulder. "Not his honor I’m worried about."
---
"It’s the selkie, isn’t it?" Dean asks. They’re in the shower, Sam’s arms are wrapped around his waist, his stomach pressed tightly against Dean’s back. Sam mouth stalls against Dean’s shoulder. He clears his throat.
"Yeah."
"What did it do to you?"
"It’ll be over by tomorrow morning," Sam replies.
"Sam."
Sam sighs. He pulls away from Dean, warm, firm body replaced with steam and chill. He turns off the faucets as he pulls open the flimsy shower curtain, grabs a towel from the bar and ties it around his hips.
There’s a bite mark there, puckered and scabbed over, freshly healed skin lurking beneath.
Dean remembers it, but hasn’t seen it in almost a week. He’s quick to follow, barely spares a second to grab the spare towel. Sam’s pacing by the bed, arms crossed, his face expressionless.
"Sam, why-"
"Because you always know, Dean. You always know and I’ve forgotten everything." He sighed heavily, rubbed his hands across his face. "I didn’t mean to do it at first, but it just kept happening and it let me… it let me get to know you again. It let me into your head and I couldn’t stop once I was in there."
Dean takes it all in, let’s Sam’s words replay in his head. He’s not sure how he should feel about having his brain co-opted for the past week. He thinks he should feel violated, but it’s Sam. His Sammy. Everything he’s ever had has belonged to him.
He doesn’t feel any different about this.
"It ends tomorrow?"
Sam nods. "Seven days."
Dean chuckles. He drops his towel and thinks of something that has Sam’s head pop up in surprise. "Then let’s make the most of it, shall we?"
Remix Author: la_folle_allure
Original Story: So Much Writing On The Wall, Even The Wall Fell Down
Original Author: lissa_bear
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: It all starts when a selkie tackles Sam off the Long Wharf and he falls into the Boston Harbor.
The music’s too loud, but that’s never been much of an issue. Play it loud or don’t bother playing it at all, Dean often says. Most of the time, it doesn’t even bother Sam that much. He’s used to it, to a degree.
This time, it’s different.
"What the fuck, Dean? You don’t even like this band."
Dean smiles softly. A little bit hurt, a little stung. It’s one of those smiles that are only reserved for the deepest disappointment.
"Yeah, Sammy, I really do."
---
It all starts when a selkie tackles Sam off the Long Wharf and he falls into the Boston Harbor. Connor - the man who gets them into this mess in the first place - is screaming and swearing from the sidelines, threatening them if they hurt Sophie. Dean can’t hear his ravings over the crashing of the water against the wharf.
"Sam!"
The water is murky and ink black in the night. Dean can’t see Sam, can’t even see an air bubble or the outline of struggling figures. The water sloshes like boiling tar as Dean rushes from side to side, hoping that the sweeping yellow beam from the fog light will pick up any form of movement. Aside from Connor’s hollering and the tattoo of Dean’s heart slamming between his ears, the harbor is quiet.
"Sam!"
No answer.
Dean drops his gun on the wooden planks and shrugs off his leather jacket. He ignores the frigid wind as it whips across his body, chilling him right through. He’s about to jump in when he hears a cough like wet cloth ripping, sloshing, and the painful sound of someone trying to force too much air into abused lungs.
"Sam!" Dean calls out again as dripping hands wrap around the edge of the wharf, followed by an arm and a head of sopping wet hair. Sam tries to claw his way back up to the surface and Dean’s hands dig into his sternum and clavicle, hoisting him up until he’s sprawled out in a dripping mess, shivering and coughing and spitting out lungfuls of the thick and tarry water.
Dean wraps both arms around Sam, pulls him up against his chest and tucks Sam’s head safely under his chin. Sam smells like tea. Dean doesn’t think it’s all that funny.
"It got me," Sam manages through the clattering of his teeth. His skin is bruised purple, and glows as pale as the waxing moon. Sam’s hands clench over his stomach and when Dean pries his fingers away, he sees a blue stain mixed in with the red blood that’s smeared across Sam’s palms.
---
As much as it pains Dean to admit, he’s not strong enough to carry Sam back to the Impala. Sam half shuffles, half trips, and is mostly dragged back to the car where Dean stretches him out across the backseat and rips his shirt off with his bare hands.
"Hey," Sam halfheartedly jokes even though his voice is pinched with pain, "I don’t have a lot of those."
"Looked like shit on you, anyway." Dean smiles but Sam’s eyes are squeezed shut, bottom lip wedged between his teeth.
The clean up is robotic, instinctive. Dean unscrews the cap from a bottle of the Fiji water that Sam insists on drinking, and uses the liquid to wipe away the drying blood on Sam’s chest. Sam makes a low whining noise and his fingers weakly motion for the bottle.
Dean cups his head, tilts his chin back and pours the rest of the water into Sam’s mouth. Sam coughs out more than he swallows and the blood from his belly curls around his slender hips like savage claws.
The selkie bit him. Dean feels like his stomach is going to eat itself.
Thankfully, most of the blood belongs to the creature. Dean wonders how much of a fight Sam put up underwater. Aside from the bite mark on Sam’s hip, the worst of the damage comes in the form of long, shallow scratches that don’t require stitches.
A few Tylenol and a goodnight’s sleep and Sam’ll be back in action before he can even milk his injury.
Dean tells Sam this. Sam curses, his weak smile faltering. "I never get to stay home."
"Always were too much of a geek, Sammy."
Sam manages a garbled laugh before he passes out.
Dean sighs, grabs the peroxide and the antibiotics, and just for good measure, washes away the stench of the chemicals with an entire bottle of holy water. Sam’s injury bubbles more than it did with the peroxide. A few of the welts bleed lightly, but Dean patches them up with butterfly bandages and a wrap.
He tucks Sam’s legs into the backseat and slams the door. He thinks about giving Connor the finger as he pulls out, leaving him to go back to his loveless marriage and two children that he was more than willing to give up for the monster masquerading as a human.
But Dean can’t muster up a damn about him now, not with Sam unconscious and packed into the backseat. Dean looks back at Sam, sees his baby brother shivering and he slows the car as he pulls off his jacket to lay it across Sam’s torso. He needs to get Sam dried and warm before he takes another look at the wound and assesses the real damage.
---
He pulls into The Lucky Aces Motel at precisely two in the morning and throws down the fifty dollars for a room. He still has Sam’s blood under his nails and caked around his cuticles. He hopes the man at the front desk is too wrapped up in his TV movie to notice.
Turns out, the motel is pretty packed and the only room left is a cottage stuck between two towering cedars, far in back of the rest of the motel. It’s cut off from the other housing units and was originally intended to be a storage-shed. The guy at the front desk says he’s required by law to tell Dean about the drug bust that went sour. "Still can’t get all the blood off the walls. Give it to ya for forty-five."
Dean smiles with his lips pressed into a tight line. He doesn’t mind this at all.
What he does mind though, is the fact the bed’s a single with ambitions of a double that’s dressed up like a queen.
He heaves the duffels and medical kit in first, drops the canvas bags against the side of the bed and goes back for Sam. Dean lightly swats at Sam’s cheeks, pulls him from his glassy daze. "C’mon, Sammy," he grunts when Sam’s weight falls against his back, "let’s get you inside."
---
Sam smells like rotting garbage and fish. The stench makes Dean gag.
He pulls Sam into what’s supposed to be the bathroom, and wrenches the hot water tap. The pipes groan and the water that shoots out is yellow. Dean sighs. He’d probably have been better off with the wharf water.
It takes some clever maneuvering and cajoling on his part, but he finally gets Sam standing on his own - braced against the sink - as he works off the wet jeans that have fused with Sam’s skin.
Sam groans when Dean tugs at his pants, works them and his boxers down. Sam’s still stiff and his body is incapable of lifting or bending his legs. Dean silently curses as he crouches down, physically lifts Sam’s left leg at the knee, and pulls the fabric away.
Sam’s hand blindly gropes for Dean’s short hair as Dean repeats the motion with Sam’s other leg. Dean steadies Sam with a firm hand on his thigh and doesn’t complain when Sam’s fingers twist through his short bangs and tugs hard. Sam always somehow manages to grab a decent handful, no matter how short Dean cuts it.
Sam moans.
Dean rubs his face.
"If I leave ya in here, you gonna fall and crack your skull open?" Sam doesn’t reply. He sighs and forks his fingers though Dean’s hair, petting him like he would a terrified animal. Dean groans in frustration when Sam’s fingers curl around his ear, his nails scraping down the sensitive stretch of skin.
Dean jumps back and Sam teeters. He reaches out for Dean and Dean catches him before he falls backward. Sam leans completely against him, hands under Dean’s shirt, trailing up his spine before threading through his hair again.
"I’m sorry," Sam mutters against the side of Dean’s face, fingers trembling, freezing cold and stiff.
"For what?" Dean keeps the concern from his voice by guiding Sam toward the shower. Sam’s eyes are wet with unshed tears and Dean looks away as he helps Sam into the tub.
"Thank you," Sam half-whispers as he lets go of Dean’s head. Dean’s never been good at moments like this. He lays a soft kiss against Sam’s shoulder - the only part he can reach without having to stand on his tiptoes - and tells Sam to shower off the stink.
"Can you stand?"
Sam shakes his head, damp hair starting to curl from the humidity. Dean turns the cold-water tap for the extra pressure and shifts Sam until he’s right under the steaming jet. Sam’s lips curl into a pout that looks ridiculous on a grown man, and Dean’s distracted enough to not notice Sam’s hands as they shoot out and tug him forward.
"Sam, what the hell-"
"Stay," Sam interrupts and Dean’s joints lock into place under the burning gaze Sam directs at him.
The water soaks through Dean’s shirt the second Sam’s lips brush across his own. Dean’s mouth tingles like the spearmint toothpaste Sam keeps buying, as Sam’s tongue spears his lips and invades his mouth hungrily.
Steam curls around Dean’s body and makes breathing difficult, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice. He viciously pulls up Dean’s shirt, one hand rolling Dean’s nipples between two strong and calloused fingers, as he drives his rock hard cock against Dean’s stomach.
Dean feels like he’s slipping.
Sam’s mouth cuts into his, tongue slick and scorching hot as they tangle together. Dean’s jaw aches from the pressure behind Sam’s kiss, his teeth numb and cheeks stretched. Sam keeps going deeper, tries to swallow him, tries to taste everything until Dean feels like he’s choking.
Sam pulls away. His groans echo under the steady streams of water, his hips piston harder and harder against Dean’s stomach. Sam’s hands firmly plant themselves on both sides of Dean’s face, cupping and holding. Sam’s cheeks are flushed red, his eyes so green and vivid that Dean momentarily loses his ability to breathe. Sam’s hair is plastered against his cheeks and obscures his eyes and Dean drags his hand across the wet strands and pushes them away as he pulls Sam against his mouth, urging on his ruthless exploration.
Sam doesn’t waste a second and Dean shudders when Sam’s tongue snakes back into his mouth, when he whimpers and thrusts up hard and comes against Dean’s stomach. Sam sucks the oxygen straight from Dean’s lungs, drinks it down. Dean’s never felt so completely full before, like his chest is about to burst open, like his brain is throbbing in his skull like his heart in his chest.
Sam pants against his lips, and his eyes shut softly as his mouth curves into a brilliant smile.
"Feel better?" Dean asks, with no hint of sarcasm, and Sam nods like a lost puppy, tongue licking his lips, eyes still closed as he kisses up the curve of Dean’s neck.
"You smell like candy," Sam murmurs, tongue licking along Dean’s jugular.
"And you still smell like shit. Finish showering, man."
Dean slides out from between Sam’s arms, passes a hand through his hair to shakes out the water. Sam’s hand closes around his bicep and drags him back into the band of his arms. Sam plants his chin on Dean’s shoulder and pulls him flush against his chest. Dean can feel the hard press of Sam’s dick through drenched denim, hanging on his hips.
Sam bites him, mouth wet, teeth sharp and breath scalding hot. He cups Dean through his jeans, makes him buckle and hiss and brace himself against the wall with both arms. "I want to smell like candy, too."
Dean can barely hear his whimpers over Sam’s chuckles.
---
When Dean wakes up the next morning, he finds Sam hunched over a toilet, throwing up everything he’s ever eaten in his whole life. He’s making pained noises and Dean can almost feel how chafed and raw Sam’s throat must be. Dean throws off the blankets and makes his way to the bathroom where he leans over and presses the back of his hand against Sam’s neck. His skin is fever hot, sweaty, and flushed crimson.
Dean groans.
"Guess you get to stay home after all," he jokes as Sam chokes on another mouthful of vomit. Sam’s always hated throwing up, has ever since he was a kid and Dean told him there were monsters that lived in the toilet that jumped up into people’s mouths when they were sick.
At least now, Sam doesn’t cry every time he throws up.
"Dean," Sam hisses, forehead sticking to the toilet seat that’s cushioned with crackling teal plastic. Sam’s sprawled out in the too tiny bathroom, his limbs skewered like a rag doll with severed strings. Dean feels like he’s walking through an obstacle course as he steps over Sam’s legs and sits at the edge of the tub.
The bathtub sinks slightly under his weight. Dean jumps up and almost trips across Sam’s right knee. Sam moans at the jostling and throws up again. He’s shaking everywhere, boiling hot to the touch but shuddering as if freezing cold. The muscles in Sam’s back ripple and glisten from sweat, stretched tight and look excruciatingly sore.
Dean grabs a paper thinning terrycloth towel and drenches it with cold water. He crouches behind Sam and drags the towel across his taut skin; rubs between Sam’s shoulder blades with wide, soothing circles that drain the tension from Sam’s tightly wound back.
"You fall asleep, I’m leaving you here," Dean warns, palms rubbing lower, careful of the wound that he’s going to redress soon.
"No you’re not." Sam groans but seems surprisingly certain of this. He turns his head slightly, hair sticking up wildly, crooked smile smeared against his flushed face. Dean leans over and brushes his damp bangs aside, cups his forehead. Sam’s burning up. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and he looks like he did at six. "You’re gonna stay right here until I feel better."
Dean sighs and sits back on the sinking bathtub, runs the towel under more cold water and rubs Sam’s back until the vomit turns to dry, brittle heaves that whittle away Sam’s strength. Dean passes his fingers through his hair and massages at the back of San’s neck until he shifts and mutters, "Bed, please."
It’s surprisingly easier to pick Sam up and drag him to the bed. When Sam’s body connects with the sheets, he curls into a tight ball, chin folding against his sternum, arms wrapping around his bare chest.
"I suppose you want me to tuck you in too?" Sam nods and Dean rolls his eyes but grabs the blankets and pulls them to Sam’s chin. He turns to leave - drugstore and the free clinic for more medical supplies - when Sam’s hand shoots out like a striking viper and wraps tightly around Dean’s wrist.
"Stay," Sam pouts, tugging Dean closer to the bed. "Always made me feel better."
"One: you were a kid and still small enough to fit in a bed with me and two: I’m not catching whatever nasty fucking disease you caught from that water." Dean pulls his wrist free from Sam’s grip easily.
He wants to leave Sam to sleep off the virus while he gets the food and gas and them the hell out of this fucking state, but Sam’s bottom lip curls and he looks so pathetic that Dean finds himself sitting on the bed, immediately swallowed by Sam’s arms and thin cotton sheets. Sam pulls Dean into the curve of his body, curls his arms around Dean’s torso and presses him against his chest.
"Sam," Dean warns as Sam sleepily sighs.
"Comfy," Sam mumbles, tightening his arms. He tucks Dean’s head under his chin and Dean can feel the heat of Sam’s body soak through his shirt and warm his skin. Sam’s like a furnace and Dean swelters.
After a while, the heat becomes lulling, soothing, and Sam smells like pine, brown sugar and the bubblegum flavored toothpaste Dean used to brush his teeth. Dean inhales, leans in closer and Sam hooks his leg between Dean’s legs and slides his thigh up Dean’s thighs. Sam’s mouth moves against Dean’s head, lips wet and sloppily pressing kisses along his hairline and Dean pulls himself from Sam, breaks that pocket of heat and lets the cool air rush in.
"Sam," Dean begins at the same time Sam snuggles in closer and whispers: "Sleep."
Sam’s lips drop kisses along Dean’s shoulder and suddenly, Sam’s suggestion doesn’t seem that terrible.
---
When Dean wakes, Sam’s already up. He’s showered and dressing and looks like he slept off the flu that had him immobilized not twelve hours before.
"Morning," Sam smiles, white and toothy, as he shrugs on his shirt. His bandages are gone, the injuries vanished as if they’d been red marks on a dry-erase board.
"The fuck?" Dean splutters, dazed and exhausted. He sluggishly pushes himself up on his elbows, rubs a hand across his face. Sam’s still at the end of the bed, smiling. He looks younger. Brighter. He looks happy. Dean can’t remember the last time he’d seen Sam look like that.
"Get up." Sam laughs, kicks the end of the bed lightly. Dean's body pulls itself up; joints crack in familiar places. "I’m starving and don’t want to spend any more time in this fucking state."
The duffels are packed but Sam left out a shirt for Dean. It's the black one with the gray spots from a disastrous encounter with bleach. It's Dean's favorite. It’s Sam’s favorite on Dean.
"Damn straight," Sam grins. "Oh, I already returned the key," he informs Dean as Dean groggily pulls the shirt over his head. When the collar dips past his nose, Dean sees Sam staring at him intently, lips pulled tight, desire swimming in his eyes.
Sam groans softly when Dean flattens the material on his chest, hands splayed across his abs. For a fraction of a second, Dean would swear Sam’s eyes are a bright, sapphire blue.
"My eyes aren't blue, Dean."
Sam sounds vaguely amused as he lifts both duffels onto his shoulders. His back is toward Dean. Dean didn't say anything.
"How did you-"
"My eyes aren't blue, Dean," Sam repeats, looking over his shoulder. Murky green. "You know that."
Dean knows he did.
---
Cincinnati. It feels like it’s six hundred degrees outside, so sticky that breathing feels like a chore. They’re hunting a vampire that’s been killing kindergarten teachers. Already killed three, a fourth in the hospital due to exsanguinations, not expected to make it.
Sam takes the lead, keeps Dean behind him at all times. Dean’s irritated and frustrated, but there’s a look in Sam’s eyes that keeps Dean from second-guessing or arguing.
The hunt is quick.
When they split up, Sam knows exactly where Dean is at all times. He anticipates Dean’s moves, covers his weak spots. They work as one unit, one being. The vampire goes down so fast they don’t even break a sweat.
"That wasn’t even worth getting out of bed for," Dean jokes as he wipes his edge of his blade on the cuff of his sleeve. Sam’s fingers suddenly curl around his throat and drum once before he pulls Dean toward him.
"What-"
Sam’s eyes scan Dean’s face. His fingers tighten a fraction. Dean cocks an eyebrow in confusion. He’s so close to Sam that he can feel all the pent up, reckless energy Sam’s been harboring for the past five hundred miles radiate off him.
"It’s okay," Sam promises as he arches down, crushes their mouths together. Dean immediately feels his stomach tighten, his dick twitching. He wants Sam so badly that sometimes, he thinks he would die if he couldn’t have him.
"I know," Sam mutters as he quickly pulls away for air, immediately resumes devouring Dean’s mouth. "Me too."
---
They're curled together, skin sticky and sweaty, both their chests heaving. Dean's dizzy, fucked out and exhausted to the very core of his bones. Sam's still poised above him, bangs stuck to his forehead. He smiles and arches, lips skim Dean's left nipple. Dean shivers.
"One more time," Sam cajoles, hungry mouth dipping past Dean's hipbone.
"Sam," Dean finds himself whining. He tries to bat away Sam's head, but Sam's fingers are already circling his lube slick hole, already pushing in and finding all the right places that make Dean mewl.
"Just a little longer," Sam’s voice is warm, heavy with awe. "I know you want more. I know you can take more." His voice is the texture of sandpaper, jagged like broken glass. Dean knows he wants this, wants to fuck Sam again, knows he wants to feel that blinding euphoria again.
Sam groans as his fingers sink in to the knuckle. Dean’s body squeezes around the intrusion. Sam’s already hard again, stiff cock dripping and nudging Dean’s thigh.
Dean bites his lip hard. He wants this fast and messy, wants bruises and scratches and wants Sam to fuck him. He likes it best when Sam loses control, likes it when he wakes up the next morning and it still feels like he’s being fucked.
"Jut tell me next time," Sam hisses as he pushes inside in one thrust. Dean feels split open, groans low in his throat. Sam reaches over and grabs the headboard, uses his other hand to curl under Dean’s head and pull his face up to his lips.
The kiss is all teeth, hard nips and saliva. Sam flexes his hips and the second thrust feels like fire and power, like Dean’s being hacked apart. It’s good. It’s so good he damn near blacks out.
---
Dean wakes to the smell of coffee. His body aches everywhere, muscles strained, ass throbbing, throat stripped raw from the screaming. Every breath he swallows feels like Sam’s still in him, still rocking inside him, still making him claw at the sheets while shouting his vocal chords hoarse.
Sam’s sitting in a chair, coffee cup clutched loosely in his grip. He’s naked and staring at Dean with an indecipherable expression on his face. When he sees Dean stir, he sets the cup on the ground, makes his way over and dips the bed with his weight.
Dean shivers when Sam drags his hand down the curve of his spine. He’d give anything for enough energy for another round; would love to feel Sam fuck him with the lube and come and spit from the previous night.
"Next time," Sam mumbles, quiet like a promise. "Get some rest while you can."
Something doesn’t feel quite right. Sam is talking in a soothing voice, lulling Dean back to sleep. Dean can’t remember talking. In fact, he can’t remember saying much since the selkie, but somehow, Sam’s known-
"Shh," Sam whispers. "Just sleep."
So Dean does.
---
They’re barreling down Route 66; Sam’s driving and Dean’s dozing in the passenger seat, chilled bottle of Mountain Dew between his knees. He’d been craving the drink since Sacramento and at the last gas station, Sam had come out with a bottle and a Kit Kat for him.
Now, Sam reaches into the plastic bag with the Wal-Mart logo on it and pulls out a cassette tape. "I picked this up for you," he says. Dean looks over at the shiny plastic perched between Sam’s index and middle finger and feels his jaw drop slightly.
The Smith’s Hatful of Hollow. He’d been looking for that damn tape for years. "How did you-"
Sam smiles wide but says nothing as Morrissey’s voice pounds out a beat on the pavement.
---
Dean’s seen a lot in his life. He was trained to be exceedingly vigilant, extraordinarily perceptive and above all else, hyper-observant. But when it comes to Sam, Dean’s always possessed an Uncanny ability to deny.
He chalks up to that very ability the amount of time it takes him to realize something is wrong. It only seems to cement itself when Sam comes back to the motel one night, dripping wet.
It's not raining outside and the motel doesn't have a pool.
"Don't worry about it," Sam laughs, bubbly and bright when Dean goes to ask what happened. "It’s okay, Dean. It’s all gonna be over soon. I just want to enjoy it while it lasts."
Dean wants to ask him what the hell's going on with him, but Sam's already yanking off his wet shirt, already turning toward him.
"It’s nothing bad, I swear. I’m just enjoying this. Let me enjoy it?"
"Sam, this isn’t funny anymor-"
"C'mon. Let's go to bed." Sam interrupts, pulls Dean close to him. He nips at the pale strip of skin under Dean's jaw; makes Dean give in. "I've been wanting to fuck you since Memphis."
---
There’s always been something exciting about not having a home; always traveling around and living each day like it’s the last. Dean’s always liked the anonymity, the mystery of always being a stranger in every town or city he’d end up in.
It works out. Especially lately, where Sam makes it a priority to touch him as much as he can in public. A hand on his lower back, shoulders always touching, the occasional kiss that has Dean pushing him away with a laugh on his lips.
---
They’re in a booth in a diner in Pittsburgh.
It’s past midnight and they’re dirty and starving and Sam can’t keep his hands to himself. He pulls Dean against his chest, cards his hands through his hair and begins sucking on his lips, swallowing him whole.
Dean’s tired, sluggish like he’s drunk and his brain is so cloudy he feels like he’s high. High but happy. Sam tastes like blue cotton candy and it’s good. He feels so relaxed and zen it’s like magic. He figures it probably is, but it’s Sam and he knows Sam would never hurt him.
Besides, it’s easy to let Sam take what he wants, always has been. He doesn’t mind so much anymore.
"What can I get you, lovebirds?" an honest to god drag queen asks, waitress pad clutched between her rainbow colored nails. They both look up; see the smoothest looking flaxen hair Dean’s ever seen. It’s shiny and long and Dean wants to reach out and touch it. Sam’s fingers tighten around his, pulls him in closer.
"One order of number three, hold the spinach" Sam tucks Dean’s head under his chin as he looks at her nametag, "Tammy. Brown gravy for the potatoes; he hates the other kind. Oh, and coffee, decaf if you have; black. Extra onions on the burger. Mayo, not relish if you can."
Just what Dean’s been craving since they stumbled into the diner.
Tammy giggles, cocks a hip and rests her hand there. She’s beautiful, Dean thinks, exotic looking. Maybe taller than Sam, even without the platforms. Sam smiles and kisses Dean’s forehead, won’t stop touching his face with small, tender strokes.
Tammy refills their water, charm bracelet tinkling as it clinks against the metal pitcher. She’s smiling. "What’s he high on, sweetness? E?"
Sam laughs. "Nah. Just love."
Tammy giggles again. "Like I said, E." Sam laughs with her. "Watch out for him, sugar, or else all the gay little vulture boys here will gobble him right up."
Sam’s smirk looks like it pulls apart his cheeks. "Won’t let him out of my sight. Scout’s honor."
Tammy winks over her shoulder. "Not his honor I’m worried about."
---
"It’s the selkie, isn’t it?" Dean asks. They’re in the shower, Sam’s arms are wrapped around his waist, his stomach pressed tightly against Dean’s back. Sam mouth stalls against Dean’s shoulder. He clears his throat.
"Yeah."
"What did it do to you?"
"It’ll be over by tomorrow morning," Sam replies.
"Sam."
Sam sighs. He pulls away from Dean, warm, firm body replaced with steam and chill. He turns off the faucets as he pulls open the flimsy shower curtain, grabs a towel from the bar and ties it around his hips.
There’s a bite mark there, puckered and scabbed over, freshly healed skin lurking beneath.
Dean remembers it, but hasn’t seen it in almost a week. He’s quick to follow, barely spares a second to grab the spare towel. Sam’s pacing by the bed, arms crossed, his face expressionless.
"Sam, why-"
"Because you always know, Dean. You always know and I’ve forgotten everything." He sighed heavily, rubbed his hands across his face. "I didn’t mean to do it at first, but it just kept happening and it let me… it let me get to know you again. It let me into your head and I couldn’t stop once I was in there."
Dean takes it all in, let’s Sam’s words replay in his head. He’s not sure how he should feel about having his brain co-opted for the past week. He thinks he should feel violated, but it’s Sam. His Sammy. Everything he’s ever had has belonged to him.
He doesn’t feel any different about this.
"It ends tomorrow?"
Sam nods. "Seven days."
Dean chuckles. He drops his towel and thinks of something that has Sam’s head pop up in surprise. "Then let’s make the most of it, shall we?"