(no subject)

[whereupon]

Bulletproof
by whereupon
Sam/Dean, R. No spoilers. 5,039 words.
Late at night, driving since noon.
For paxlux.



These might be the best fries Dean's ever had in his whole life, so it seems entirely appropriate to savor them as completely as possible. So maybe he's making a mess, just a little, but that only makes it better, salt and ketchup and the root beer going slowly warm on the bedside table. It's part of the experience. These fries wouldn't taste nearly as good if he ate them on the couch, sitting next to Sam, who's frowning at his laptop and neglecting his own fries, which are going cold on the table and that's just a goddamn travesty, but Dean's used to that as far as Sam's concerned.

These things Sam doesn't get, life's simple pleasures and all of that, like he's too busy focusing on things of great and serious import to pay attention. Which is his loss. He's always been like that and Dean's given up on trying to teach him otherwise, is mostly content to let him do his own thing and to sometimes make fun of him for it, but really, whatever Sam needs to do, you know? Whatever he needs to do to make it through the day.

So maybe Dean's making a mess, but it's not that big of a deal, it's not like they're gonna move in here or something, not even like he's gonna have to clean up the mess, so he's confused when he looks up a few minutes later and Sam's glaring at him.

"What?" Dean says. He reaches for his root beer, raises his eyebrows at Sam.

"That's my bed," Sam says. "I called it when we got here."

"Uh, okay, Goldilocks," Dean says. He's not entirely sure where this territorial thing's coming from, but hey, whatever. Sam's weird, Dean accepts that. He's a very accepting person, really. Some of the things Sam does, anybody else would ditch him on the side of the road, but not Dean, no way.

It's not Sam's fault that he's stupidly tall and that he sometimes forgets to duck, not Sam's fault that he's way too nice to people who don't deserve it and sometimes he talks to Dean like Dean took some college class with him, like Sam assumes these are things everybody knows, and other times he doesn't see the most blindingly obvious things when they're staring him right in the face.

It's not Sam's fault and there's nothing the kid can do about it, so Dean grins at him reassuringly. Sam's life kind of sucks sometimes, but at least he's got Dean and that's not gonna change, so that's something, that's more than some people have.

"So," Sam says slowly, like he's waiting for Dean to finish his sentence.

"So what?" Dean says. "You're not gonna mark your territory, are you?"

"Oh my god," Sam says. "Dean, you're getting crumbs all over my bed. And ketchup and is that cheese?"

"No," Dean lies. "Dude, they're just crumbs."

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Then you sleep in them."

"No," Dean says, disgusted.

"But you said they're just crumbs."

"Well, yeah, but this is your bed," Dean says. "You called it when we got here, remember?"

Sam sets the laptop down carefully, which lacks something in drama, and gets up from the couch. The room's far too small for him to do this, to come over and tower at Dean, but that's okay, Dean's not threatened. He's comfortable where he is, on Sam's kind-of-messy bed, and just because Sam's a freak doesn't mean Dean has to apologize.

"Dean," Sam says, crossing his arms, and if this is his patient voice, it really sucks. Dean hears it a lot, though, so he's used to it.

"Yeah, Sam."

Sam exhales, which makes his nostrils flare, and then he uncrosses his arms and rolls his eyes. "Whatever, it's your bed now."

He turns to go and Dean sits up. "No way," he says. "You called it, it's yours, you got my blessing."

Sam turns back. "No," he says.

"No?" Dean echoes. "What do you mean, 'no?'"

"I mean you made the mess, you deal with it. I got like three hours of sleep last night, man, and I put up with your stupid music and your stupid food and we still don't know what's attacking those kids and I'm not gonna sleep in your crumbs," Sam says. By the time he finishes, he's breathing kind of heavily.

"You done?" Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"Okay, I didn't get any more sleep than you and I had to drive us here so yeah, I got to pick the music, and you coulda got a goddamn salad if you wanted, I wasn't serious about that, and I told you it's a fuckin' werewolf so I don't know why you're still researching except for how you got a serious hard-on for the Beast of Geva-whatever, that French thing and you should be thankful that all you gotta do is sleep in my crumbs, goddamn it, you should be thankful I didn't leave you outside a' that truckstop."

"Gévaudan," Sam says.

"What?"

"The Beast of Gévaudan," Sam says. Dean stares at him. "Seriously, Dean, the Beast of 'that French thing?'"

"Whatever," Dean says and Sam is twitching. Why the fuck is Sam twitching, and now he's laughing and no, this is not fucking funny. Sam wanted to start a fight, he's gonna get a fight, he's not gonna get out of it by laughing even though it is kind of funny, but only because of the way Sam's stupid face looks when he's having trouble breathing in a non-fatal way.

And Dean's not gonna laugh, he's so fucking not gonna laugh.

Fuck.

Sam's hair's flopping in front of his eyes and he's turning an alarming shade of red and Dean wishes he had a camera because his brother is, on occasion, the weirdest, most hilarious thing ever. And then Sam puts a hand out to catch his balance and he was probably aiming for the bedside table, it's probably hard to see behind all of that hair, but instead his hand hits the lamp that's on the bedside table and the lamp knocks into Dean's root beer and knocks the root beer onto the bed and onto Dean.

Dean stops laughing, but Sam, the bastard, only laughs harder.

The root beer isn't nearly as warm as Dean had thought it was and now he's fucking drenched. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but that's not the point. The point is that it's convenient how Sam somehow always forgets to be graceful when Dean's around and now Dean's fries are ruined and his shirt is soaked and Sam apparently finds this hysterical.

Dean kind of hopes that Sam will laugh hard enough to knock himself out, either from oxygen deprivation or because he loses his balance and hits his head on something. Dean narrows his eyes and waits expectantly; that would, after all, be the least of what Sam deserves and it might go a little way towards making up for what he just did to Dean, starting with the bitching about the bed.

It doesn't happen. After a few minutes, Sam stops laughing and wipes a hand across his eyes and straightens up.

"Sorry," he says, a little shakily, not even having the decency to pretend to sound like he means it. "It's just, man, you, you--"And he's laughing again. A little hysterical, probably sleep-deprived, and so genuine, so real. Dean stares at him and crosses his arms, which makes his t-shirt cling stickily to his skin. He winces and uncrosses his arms and waits for Sam to stop having a fit.

Maybe Sam's possessed. Maybe Dean should get the holy water. Just, you know, to be safe.

Probably that would be paranoid, though. Overly cautious, or maybe just petty.

When Sam doesn't stop laughing, though, he does. He has to watch out for his little brother, after all. He gets up and Sam turns a little to watch him, see where he's going. He doesn't stop laughing, though, not until Dean uncaps the bottle and flings the contents at his face.

The room is suddenly very, very quiet.

"What the hell," Sam says. His hair's dripping, plastered to his forehead. That's kind of funny, actually.

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't possessed," Dean says. "Because that wasn't funny."

"Just because you're the one wearing root beer doesn't mean you have to get bitchy," Sam says. "You'd have thought it was hilarious if it had been me."

"It would have been hilarious if it had been you."

"So what's the difference?

"Those were my fries and now they're ruined and I'm covered in fuckin' root beer."

"And so's my bed," Sam says. "So we both lose. The thing is, it's your fault."

Dean glares at him. "Like hell it is."

"Look," Sam says. "We're both tired, if one of us is gonna keep being unreasonable--"

"You're not being unreasonable," Dean says. "You're being a bitch."

"I'll rephrase," Sam says. "If you're gonna keep being unreasonable, then maybe we should just stop."

"Stop?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Stop before somebody gets hurt. One of us could get another room. Just for tonight."

Dean stares at him.

"Since you're, uh, you know," Sam says, gesturing at Dean's shirt. "I'll do it."

"You're not gonna leave me here," Dean says, and it doesn't sound pitiful, it sounds pissed. Sam's not gonna go all morally superior and leave him here like he's, fuck, in a time-out or something.

"Just for tonight," Sam says. "We could both use a break, right?"

And Dean is suddenly even more not in the mood to deal with this. Let Sam go pretend to be all morally superior, if that's what he wants, if that's how he gets his kicks. He fucked up Dean's night, ruined Dean's goddamn dinner, and now he wants to go waste Dean's hard-earned money in order to go sulk down the hall, what the fuck ever. "What the fuck ever," Dean says. "Knock yourself out."

Dean turns around, turns his back on Sam. Sam can do whatever he wants, seriously. If Sam wants to get a room down the hall, fine, if Sam wants to go hitch a ride back to hippie central, awesome. Dean doesn't care so much it's almost funny.

"Dean," Sam says, and he's rightfuckingupclose when Dean turns back, and Dean doesn't really mean to shove him back. It's just that Dean needs his space and Sam has no right to be that close, not right after going all high and mighty at him.

And even if Dean did mean to shove him, he didn't really mean to do it that hard. Though the look on Sam's face, the way he flails out, that is funny.

At least until Sam stumbles back and the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he trips and goes down onto the floor.

And fuck. Now he's gonna be all morally superior, wounded and righteous, and Dean's actually going to have to feel guilty about it.

Sam deserved it, though.

Sam totally fucking deserved it.

Dean looks down at his brother. His brother looks back up at him. "Sammy," Dean says. "You okay?"

"You asshole," Sam says, which is answer enough, that and the look on Sam's face, and Dean's going to say, fine, it's not like I even care and you asked for that one, man, getting up in my space, thought you were the one who wanted space, but Sam strikes first. He gets one foot caught up behind Dean's knee and the other one kicks and oh, fuck, it hurts when Dean lands. Dean lies there for a second, a half-second, waiting until his lungs remember how to work again, and then he rolls a fraction to the left in order to avoid being hit by the lamp that used to be on the bedside table.

Sam is going to pay and it's gonna fucking hurt.

Dean scrambles to his knees in time to swing out, catch Sam in the chest and send him sprawling back onto the floor. And then he's kneeling over Sam as Sam grabs at his arms and fucking headbutts him, flips him over and pins him on the ground amidst the shattered remnants of the lamp.

"Stop," Sam says, grinds out, his eyes wide and his hair's still wet and he looks like one crazy motherfucker and this is who Dean's been riding around with, this is who Dean's been spending every hour of every goddamn day with? Dean's lucky Sam didn't snap over, like, getting the wrong kind of salad dressing or something and stab Dean in the throat with a plastic fork. Dean wouldn't put it past him, not at all.

"Dean, seriously, stop," Sam says, and Dean pauses with his hands around Sam's wrists.

"What?" Dean says. "Don't tell me you're backin' out now. Scared, huh? You fuckin' better be."

Really, Sam could try to look a little more afraid. He could at least not to look annoyed. "We're not doing this," Sam says. "You know how it's gonna end. You're gonna threaten to kill me-"

"I am gonna kill you," Dean snarls.

"And then you're gonna maybe split my lip, that's if you're lucky, and then you're gonna trip over something and hurt yourself or I'm gonna knock you out and tomorrow we'll both be sore and we're in the middle of a hunt, Dean, can you please try to act at least a little like a professional?"

"Fuck you," Dean says, and he headbutts Sam. Seriously, Sam shouldn't lean in like that, it's his own fault for giving Dean the opportunity.

And oh, fuck, that hurts. Sam lets go of Dean's arms but he's got a forehead made out of like, goddamn cast iron or something, because now Dean's the one seeing stars.

"Happy now?" Sam says, one hand pressed against his forehead like some emoting starlet.

"No," Dean says. "I'm gonna tear your fuckin' arms off, you bastard."

"Oh my god," Sam says, and at least now he sounds pained. "You're not gonna win this. I'm bigger than you and you fight dirty, but you forget, you taught me everything I know."

"And don't I fuckin' regret it," Dean says. He works his jaw. "Let me up, Sam."

"You gonna come after me again?"

"You gonna ask for it?"

"I didn't ask for it last time. Don't blame me just because you're a psychopath."

"I'm the one wearing root beer, here, Sam, and I didn't exactly pour it over myself."

"That was," Sam says, and then he pauses. "An accident. I said I was sorry."

"No, you laughed," Dean says. "And then you said something and maybe it was an apology, but I couldn't hear over the sound of you laughing. You sound like a dying goat when you laugh, man, it's fuckin' ridiculous."

"Shut up," Sam says.

"Make me," Dean says. "You're the one on top."

Which makes Sam laugh again, but not that stupid dying-goat one, just his usual my-brother-is-a-moron huff, and then he gets up, offers Dean a hand.

Dean takes it, lets Sam pull him to his feet. "Dude, you killed the lamp," he says, dusting himself off.

"No, you killed the lamp," Sam says. "I was just an accomplice."

"Law geek," Dean says.

"Criminal."

"Professor," Dean says.

"Neanderthal," Sam says, and Dean grins, and why the fuck is his heart pounding so fast, so hard, why when Sam turns to look at him with that grin, that wide open eternal grin like the best thing ever, why does his mouth go dry, and it's all Sam's fault, Dean's ruined dinner and the fact that he smells like root beer and Sam's looking down at him and Sam's smile's starting to slip, starting to be replaced by something wearier, and Dean can't have that, not now, so he does the only thing he can, short of punching Sam in the face.

Sam's mouth tastes like salt and ketchup and he was eating his fries, at least the kid's not a total lost cause, and then Sam makes this startled noise and breaks away, his eyes wide.

He's looking at Dean like maybe he thinks Dean's completely lost his mind. More so than usual. He's looking at Dean like he's terrified.

And maybe Dean should have thought that one out a little more thoroughly, seeing as how it had the exact opposite effect of that he'd hoped for (and what the hell was he hoping for, anyway? Sam to laugh, maybe, or at least to grin, hell, Dean would have even taken a smirk, something), but it's a little late now, so he does what he can. He attempts to salvage the situation.

He wipes a hand across his mouth and says, "Jesus, Sam, I know you been kissed before, remember that one time I walked in on you and Holly Mir-"

"Oh my god," Sam says again, and this time it's a little closer to a wail. "Dean, are you fucking out of your fucking mind."

"Uh, maybe?" Dean says. He scratches his head. This isn't really the outcome he'd hoped for. Shock, yeah, an interrogation, not so much. But it's Sam, of course; Dean should have known better than to expect anything else, should have known better than to expect him to let it go.

"You kissed me," Sam says.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Thanks, I was there."

"Why did you kiss me," Sam says.

And that's a really good question, something Dean's starting to wonder himself. He wonders if this is regret. It doesn't really feel like regret, though. Huh. "It seemed like a good idea at the time?" he offers.

"Why," Sam says.

"You were," and he stops, because there's no way he can answer this that won't sound girly, won't turn this into a chick flick or make it awkward, though it's kind of awkward already. "Never mind, forget it. It was a stupid idea."

"Dean," Sam says, and he looks fucking intent, fucking focused, that expression he gets when he makes some impossible connection, something that nobody else ever would have even attempted. His unknowable impossible brain that some days Dean can't even begin to comprehend. Now, though, he's staring at Dean, and Dean shifts a little. "Why. Did you kiss me."

"I wanted to see what you'd do," Dean snaps, defensive. He's going to blame sleep deprivation, he decides. That or low blood sugar.

Sam's face falls a little. That's interesting. "Oh," he says. "That's nice. Dean, don't experiment on me. Keep your sexual experiments to yourself, okay?"

"I ran out of experiments to do by myself a long time ago, Sammy," Dean says, a little distracted because he's still working through that expression on Sam's face. The glimpse of that expression, really, and it's not fair, how little his brother gives him to work with. What does Sam expect, Dean to perform goddamn miracles?

"Okay, you and a willing partner," Sam says. "Don't go around molesting me. Maybe it's a good thing I'm getting another room, you'll have this one to yourself and your . . . hooker. Pygmy monkey. I don't even wanna know."

"Dude, you're not leaving me with this one," Dean says. "That bed's fucked and the goddamn lamp doesn't work."

"That's because you broke it," Sam says.

"I didn't break it," Dean says. "You fuckin' assaulted me."

"I assaulted you?" Sam says incredulously.

"And now you're deaf?" Dean says. "Great. Just what I need."

"If I were deaf, I wouldn't have to listen to your fucking music all the time," Sam says.

"If you weren't always bitching, I wouldn't have to try to drown you out all the time!" Dean says.

"If you weren't such a jerk, I wouldn't have to bitch all the time!"

"If you weren't such a delicate fuckin' flower, you wouldn't think I was a jerk!"

"Everyone you meet thinks you're a jerk," Sam says. "Everyone on the entire fucking planet. It's probably been broadcast into space."

"You're just jealous," Dean says. "That's your big dream, huh, make it up into space. Sammy the astronaut, I remember that. What were you, six? And you cried so hard when you had to go to first grade instead of Florida."

"I was crying because of you," Sam says.

"You were crying because you're a fuckin' crybaby," Dean says. "And you always have been. I bet that'll come in handy at my funeral, you can cry the whole damn time and nobody'll suspect you're the fucker who actually killed me."

"I'm not giving you a funeral," Sam says. "I'm gonna burn the body. I'm going to set it on fire and then I'm going to nuke it from space."

"Well, as long as you get space in there somewhere," Dean says. "I guess you'll be happy."

"I'll be happy because you'll finally shut up!" Sam says.

Dean doesn't answer. His ears are ringing a little. Sam licks his lips, shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Why don't you tell me exactly how you feel, there, Sammy," Dean says.

"Oh, fuck you," Sam says. "You started it."

"Whatever," Dean says. "You started it the day you were born. I was fine until then."

Sam sighs. "Look, man, I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"You're not serious," Dean says.

"Uh, yeah, I am," Sam says, raising his eyebrows. He looks really serious, too, and fuck it, forget what Dean thought before, he's the lucky one, if Sam turns around, if Sam goes through that door, Dean might as well shoot himself, because what if Sam decides he likes it better when Dean's not there and what if he never comes back.

And what the fuck, it's one goddamn night, Dean can be on his own for one goddamn night, he's not, like, needy.

"Sam," he says. Sometimes Sam's the only thing keeping him sane and other times Sam drives him fucking crazy. Sometimes he does both at the same goddamn time.

Now would be one of those times.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"Before, when I, uh, you know."

"Dean, I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam says flatly.

"When I kissed you," Dean spits and is it his imagination or does Sam actually flinch?

"Yeah," Sam says.

"It was because you were laughing and you were gonna stop and you seriously need to lighten up, man, okay."

"Really," Sam says.

"Yeah," Dean says. "All that doom and gloom shit, unless you wanna attract one a' those Anne Rice groupies, vampire chicks . . ."

"No, I meant, is that why," Sam says, and then he stops.

"What?" Dean says.

"Why you, uh. Kissed me." Sam's fidgeting. And he's turning red again.

"Uh, yeah," Dean says.

"Oh," Sam says, a little falsely, a little brightly. "Okay. See you tomorrow."

"What," Dean says. "You were expecting something else?"

"No," Sam says. "I was just checking."

"Why else would I've done it?"

"No reason," Sam says. "I was just making sure."

"Because anything else would be, you know. Weird."

"Right," Sam says. "I know. I was just, uh. You got some weird kinks, I wanted to make sure."

"Dude," Dean says. "Ew."

"That's what I thought," Sam says. "Which is why I had to ask."

"Dude," Dean says.

"Okay!" Sam says. "I was just asking."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay."

Sam licks his lips. "Dean do you," he says quickly, words tumbling together before he stops abruptly.

"What?" Dean says.

"Nothing," Sam says.

"Sam."

"It was an experiment, right?"

"Uh, kind of," Dean says. "Sure."

Sam bites his lip. "So you should probably do it again to make sure."

"What?" Dean says. He can't have heard Sam correctly. There's no way Sam just said that. No way.

"You know," Sam says. "The results have to be repeatable in a lab in order to be considered valid. If you, uh. Wanted. To."

"Sam," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says, and he's red, his face is so fucking red that Dean would almost feel sorry for him if Dean weren't a half-second away from blushing, too.

"Are you asking me to kiss you?" Dean says.

"No!" Sam says, all vehement denial, and then, "I'm saying that if you were to want to, I wouldn't be able to say no. In the interest of research and, um, science."

"Would you want to say no?" Dean asks. He thinks he might be about to make a terrible mistake, but maybe not. Sam's kind of goading him into it, after all, so he can always blame Sam. Sam, or how late it is, it's after midnight and they drove halfway across the country today, they're both exhausted and he didn't even get to finish eating his fries.

Of course, if this is a mistake, he has the feeling that none of that, none of those excuses or reasons, will matter.

The whole world might not matter. The fate of the whole world is going to be decided in the next thirty seconds, he thinks.

"Uh." Sam looks pale. "I think prior knowledge might taint the results."

"Sam," Dean says, vital and desperate and deadly.

"Dean," Sam says, and the expression on his face is striking, killer combination of fear and dread and annoyance and this thing Dean finally recognizes, so fucking belatedly, as need, as desire, so Dean doesn't really have any choice.

This time, Sam kisses him back. Open-mouthed and his tongue in Dean's mouth and Dean's breathing hard when they break apart, Dean's having trouble breathing at all when they break apart, like he's already adapted to having Sam, to breathing Sam, to letting Sam breathe for both of them or maybe to not worrying about breathing at all, because when he has Sam, has Sam like this, Sam is everything, who the fuck needs air, needs oxygen or sustenance, needs blood, even, blood to keep his heart pumping, keep him alive.

All he'll need for the rest of his life is Sam and that's not such a revelation, that's not anything he didn't know before. It just seems more literal, somehow, more immediate.

Sam's hand on the side of Dean's neck, still, as though to keep Dean together, as though to keep Sam himself together, as though he's frightened of what would happen if he were to let Dean go right now, if he were to let go of Dean at all. How unfathomable the motel room, roadmaps and bitter black coffee, the textures of their lives, the whole goddamn world, would suddenly seem.

"Was that, uh, the same result?" Sam says. Dean can see his pulse pounding in his throat, can see how scared he is even though his voice is something like normal, something like cavalier, but Dean knows him so well, has known him his whole life, Sam's never been able to put one over on Dean, not unless Dean was feeling generous at the time.

Dean looks up, away from Sam's throat, meets his eyes.

This time, they meet in the middle. Sam's hand on Dean's neck and Dean's thumb against Sam's cheek and both of them breathless, shaking.

Sam tears Dean's shirt, trying to pull it off, but that's only fair because Dean pops four of the buttons on Sam’s when he stops trying to undo them and yanks it open, and why does Sam wear so many shirts anyway, and why do so many of them have fucking buttons.

"How long," Dean says, the flat of his teeth against the side of Sam's neck. Sam moans, muffles a curse into Dean's hair, his breath hot against Dean's skin, slipping across Dean's forehead. "How long, Sammy."

"Years," Sam says. "You?"

"Years," Dean says. "Fuck, Sam, you shoulda."

"You shoulda," Sam says, and he bites at Dean's shoulder, his hands slipping down, down, down.

Dean swallows. There's the couch, but it's hideous even to look at, paisley and that godawful shade of orange worse than anything he's ever seen. It's even worse to sit on, springs like fucking beartraps, and that's why he was on the now-wrecked bed in the first place, but maybe they're not gonna have a choice, maybe he's gonna do what he has to, because there's no way he's not, no way he's not gonna get Sam to keep making that noise, no way he's not gonna know what it's like to have Sam's hands all over him, and he's already aching in his jeans, the mere thought making him so fucking irrational. He would do anything right now, anything to make this work, to let this happen, to let it keep happening.

He looks at the remaining bed. The remaining bed, Sam's bed or maybe his bed, he doesn't remember who won that one.

"We're not gonna fit," he says. Challenges, his hand sliding down the back of Sam's jeans, Sam pressed up hot against him.

"We'll fit," Sam says. Arguing, always arguing, trying to prove Dean wrong, but Dean's willing to let him be right on this one, willing to let him win this time. He's suddenly feeling so fucking generous, Sam could have anything he wanted, anything he wanted at all, he wouldn't even have to ask.

As it turns out, Sam's right.

Dean almost falls, once, almost falls off the edge of the mattress (that mattress so goddamn small, so goddamn narrow), but Sam catches him, Sam's legs entwined around his and Sam's mouth opening to draw him back, draw him in. Sam's mouth better than French fries, better than road noise, taking him down deep and exhilarating, Sam's mouth, like Sam himself, better than everything, but Dean doesn't have to choose; he can have all of this, all of this, forever.

--

end