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SpN: Impossible Things part 3
Title: Impossible Things
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters:Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 (naughty words, allusions to drug use)
Word Count:3525
Spoilers: very vague spoilery reference for the end of season 5, but it veers off into AUness pretty quick
Summary: What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to
PART I
PART 2
"So, I guess we need to talk…unh, okay…I get that I behaved like an asshole and then worse by running away. I get that you're pissed off…anyway. I'm sorry. I…I'm not sure what's going on. I don't know why I did. Y’know, that. And I don’t have anyone to talk to but you and you're the problem. I mean, I don’t mean problem, I mean—you know. Shit. This is why I don't like talking about shit." Dean's voice dropped lower, though Sam was willing to bet he was in the middle of a desert, in a deep well, with no one around him for a million miles—"yeah, so, um. I. Love you, you know. And unh. We'll talk. Oh yeah, and sorry for, y'know. Yeah."
There was a click, and an empty buzz. Sam saw he'd called from Bobby's kitchen and sighed. Wonderful. Awesome. A fresh new chapter in the book of Sammy Goes to Hell. Again. opens. Great. He'd bid bon voyage to the old job and again, had to do it alone. Sam sighed, but at least he had the pleasure of having escaped. Leaving that place—it'd been hard not to invite Dave, his shift manager, to kiss his whole ass as he walked out the door of Book Nightmare for the last time. Sam would never have believed it was possible, but yes, sometimes even being surrounded by books was not the heaven it should have been. If all the job had entailed was him sitting stretched out in one of those ridiculous chairs with a book all day than, yeah, it would have been sweet. More than. But no, it turned out that a bookstore shopper could be just as big an asshole as a grocery shopper. Plus Evil Fucking Cat Lady had followed him, her with her reek of antiquity and evil, incontinent feline.
He really needed to talk to Dean about that woman….
Now here he was with a new job, a degree finished to absolutely no fanfare seeing as how Dean was gone on one of Bobby’s mysterious 'hunting trips', like Sam couldn't see the guilt lingering under his thousand watt smile and warm hand kneading the back of Sam’s neck, sending spiky little shivers into his gut….
Sam shook his head. He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees and waited for the bus, glad that for the moment, he was alone in the bus shelter, just him and his frustration and the persistent odor of piss. He shifted his messenger bag between his feet and watched stray candy wrappers twist themselves up into tiny little tornadoes before collapsing into teeny piles of ash at his feet. Fuck. Sam hadn't gotten to know a damn soul from the bookstore well enough for any of them to care, and no way had he been about to call Jerome, because that way led to madness and surprise hand jobs, which at any other time in his life would have been more than welcome but now, just left him feeling edgy and sad.
The bus shuddered to a stop, and Sam concentrated on getting to the back without knocking anyone unconscious with bag or elbow, settled next to an elderly lady who eyed him askance. He remembered a time when every one, including old ladies, had looked at him like he was a favored son….
Sam wrapped arms around his bag and hugged it to his chest. Dean was gone, and Sam wanted to mark the change of his life in some sort of way, and that called up the Winchester Way. Indulge in massive amounts of alcohol and pretend like everything was A-fucking-okay. Yeah, and so what if Oz had cornered him in the elevator, and in the course of the fifty years it took for the damn car to hack and wheeze its way to the lobby, had managed to pry his secrets out of him?
Maybe not so much pry as stand there helplessly while Sam maligned Dean's parentage because it was obvious the damn bastard was no brother of his. Or something like that—Sam still wasn't sure if the maligning came before or after the vats of alcohol. It wasn't like the evening had changed anything. It wasn't like they were friends or would ever be friends. That took more than someone buying you a drink or two dozen, and smiling at you like you'd hit the lottery—wasn't as if some—some stranger understood what finishing meant to him. Sam coughed hard, shrugged off the feeling of vague embarrassment and faint sadness so hard that the person next to him got up and switched seats with a glare. Someone was dropping crazy cooties all over the bus, the look said.
So.
Here he was, getting used to the new job. He was now a clerk in a small law office down town, two steps up from indentured servitude, wearing a suit jacket and a clean button-down everyday, and surprisingly, he liked it. It was a good bit farther out than the last two jobs he had. He took a bus, and transferred, and then walked a block more. Everyday, he rode past a section of the city that was coming back to life…there were rows of skinny, warm, brick-faced houses with big bright windows looking out on roads shaded with big old trees whose roots pushed up the pavement, people walked their happily peeing dogs and joyfully screaming little kids chased their parents up and down the sidewalks on bright plastic trikes and Sam envied it all so hard his ribs ached.
"Lucy, I'm home—"
"One thousandth time and it's still not funny."
"Aw, c'mon, is too, a little bit…"
"Dean, anything you ever thought was at least a little bit funny, really never was. So. How was the trip?"
"Well. Bobby's got some bizarre idea of a Hunter Hogwarts or something. I spent most of the time trying to get babies to shoot at targets and not each other." Dean dropped his bag in next to the door and headed into the kitchen, detouring to ruffle Sam's hair painfully. It was a typical dick move and Sam hid his smile behind a thrown elbow.
Dean dug around in the fridge, pulled back out with a smirk of triumph and a beer. "So, yeah…I don’t know. Talk about this later. How are you doing, Mr. Graduate? Thought maybe we could go out and celebrate." Dean popped the top off on the counter edge, adding another chip to the vintage formica and cocked an eyebrow as he sucked down the beer.
Yeah, that was typical Dean, too. Figured that Sam had nothing better to do when he was out of town than to hide out in the apartment like a monk. Not. Mostly. "Yeah, Oz already helped me celebrate graduation…but you can help me celebrate the new job." He stopped at the odd flash of hurt that swept over Dean's face—or maybe he hadn't really seen it, because Dean was grinning like a cat and saying, "Oz? Isn't he like, your arch-nemesis or something?"
"Yeah--eat me. No, better yet, feed me."
Den grinned and set the bottle down. "Lemme shower'n' shit and then we can go—your pick. But no salad place."
“How is it my pick if I don’t get to choose where I eat?”
Dean just grinned and sauntered away. Cocky ass, bow-legged sonofa bitch. God, he hated how easy it was to imagine himself with those legs wrapped around his waist….
Dean smiled at Sam the whole time he talked about the new job, sympathized when Sam complained about the long ride, nodded when Sam talked about the neighborhood he rode through daily, and how it looked like a diverse neighborhood and not in that "we have a very nice colored gentleman who lives at the end of the block, waaaay at the end," sort of diversity, how quiet and comfortable and lived-in the neighborhood looked. Looked like the kind of place that'd make a good home. Dean was a surprisingly good listener when they weren't talking about him. He nodded and hmmed, lifting an eyebrow from time to time, and occasionally actually looked thoughtful. He asked good questions about the neighborhood, the kind that made Sam's heart squeeze, made him cautiously hopeful. It wasn’t that the apartment was crappy or anything, it wasn’t. It was just…it'd be nice to finally have their own home. They deserved their own place, for all that had happened, for what they'd done, the world fucking owed them….
Dean worked through his steak and told Sam more about the last job at Bobby's, how Bobby figured that after "the troubles", a lot of hunters hadn't made it and mostly because they learned their craft on the fly. And most of them just weren't as good as John Winchester had been, or had the instructor that Sam and Dean'd had.
"So…" Dean smiled at Sam and shrugged. "It's just in the thinking stages and who knows? After Bobby sobers up, it might just turn out to be nothing but a fever dream." Dean's eyes roamed all over the place, not meeting Sam's, roamed over a dark-haired, skinny chick who was all red lips and tits, standing alone in a corner.
Sam chewed on his own lip, suddenly found his glass fascinating. "Yeah, well. Sounds interesting. He thinking of doing this in the yard?"
Dean grunted. "No. He's talking about moving operations farther out. I'm not crazy about the site—an old camp grounds…" Dean made a face. "A place you've never been, not in this life."
Sam looked down into his nearly empty glass, which continued to be utterly fascinating. "Oh. So…you coming back with me or staying here?"
Dean looked at Sam like he'd suddenly spun his head on his shoulders. "Ah, thought I was coming back with you? Why? You need me out of the place?” And only Dean could take a few simple words and make it sound like Sam was planning on stripping naked and clubbing baby seals in the bathroom.
“No!” Sam fought to smooth out the pinched lines of his mouth and the ridge in his forehead that he knew were there. “I mean, no, I just didn't want to get in your way. Y'know." And he arched eyebrows and tilted his head towards the slut in the corner—damn it. Sam wanted to smack himself for being so fucking possessive and having no reason and she was probably a real nice girl…he glanced at her…but he kinda doubted that.
"Sam. I would like it very much if you came home with me, right as soon as you pay the bill because I think you're making more than me now."
"Hey! I thought this was my graduation present."
"Bitch, Oz gave you that. This was your 'new job' dinner and that means you pay up."
“Do you know how cheap you are?” Sam growled and stood. And froze when Dean was suddenly at his back, a long wash of heat, more heat when his lips moved almost against Sam's jaw and he whispered, "I'll make it up to you later."
Sam was still frozen over the table as Dean walked away, hips swinging, hands jammed into his pockets, pulling his jeans tight over an ass so hot Sam had had dreams about it since he was fourteen years old and denying they meant anything. His ear burned, throbbing from the heat that had curled up the shell and filled all the nooks and crannies, and refused to cool. He rubbed his ear, touched it, determined to commit the feel to memory when it hit him--just now Dean had been stone cold sober and out-and-out flirting with him--fuck, he'd practically been groping him, in public—
Sam gasped. His hand trembled as he traced the shell of his ear and said, "Oh…my god…"
If Dean was possessed, Sam was going to fucking kill him, he thought and ran out after him.
Dean pushed Sam into the apartment, and Sam stumbled in like he'd never been in the place before. Now that please, finally, maybe they were going to look at this thing…he was oddly reluctant. If he was reading Dean wrong and he'd just been fucking with him, it was going to kill him. And if he was right, and they did do this and it fucked them up, how the hell was he going to live?
"Now is not the time to think, okay? We want to do this, right? I mean, it's not just me, right? I know it's not—fuck." Dean sighed, stepped up, grabbed the back of Sam's neck and pulled Sam right into his mouth. Sam flailed all over Dean's body, hands flying from shoulders to waist to face, he pressed and humped and moaned and shivered and in general behaved like a kid getting his first kiss with a promise of possibly some under the shirt action.
He grabbed Sam's wrists and pushed him back with a laugh. "Oh my god, tell me you're not that smooth all the time!"
"Fuck you," Sam said and felt queasy with embarrassment. "I should have known better." He tried to pull free of Dean's hands but Dean stopped him.
"No, don't—I'm stupid; you know how I get when I'm. You know." He blushed and holy shit, Sam was defenseless against the sight of Dean, blushing, his hands loose circles around Sam's wrists. He was looking away from Sam, lashes sweeping his cheeks and his teeth pressed into his full lower lip and anyone who couldn't see that his brother was beautiful was blind or an idiot or both.
"God. Sorry, but…I've thought about this—too many times. Tried to throw it away so many times but now I know, there's no one. No one left, just. You. You're all I have." Sam swallowed, and tried to force himself to say it out loud but it was too scary to say…you're all I want.
Dean's eyes widened, his chin jerked up and for a moment his eyes were as bleak as they'd been—before. Sam tugged a little on his wrists and Dean smiled, shaky at first and then, true to form, that smirk Sam had come to love slid into place. "I know, Sam, I know. But it's going to get better, promise you."
Sam couldn't imagine it getting better than this but if Dean thought it could—wow. He grinned, and he felt blood rushing to his face. "Yeah? You promise?"
Dean smirked a little wider, grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bedroom.
The man knew how to give a blowjob. Like, really knew.
one guy my asssss....Sam was half crazy, from how fucking good it was and how far down Dean's throat he got, and from jealousy. It was distracting bouncing from 'fuck, does he have a gag reflex?', to 'whoever the fuck who taught him that, gonna hunt'em down an' kill 'em good God right there fuuuuuck….'
He wasn't all that surprised that after sucking him down like a Hoover, Dean knee-walked up his chest, licked his lips as though he'd just eaten the best thing ever and proceeded to jerk off onto Sam's chest. All in all, Sam had to say, it'd been a great date. He liked the lying in bed, and licking Dean's hot swollen mouth totally clean of any flavor but Dean. Sure, Dean gave unbelievable head, but Sam knew kissing was something he was damn good at. Dean blowing his load all over his leg about twenty minutes later was pretty much proof of that… maybe in the morning he'd show Dean what else he was good at.
* * * *
The next morning Dean was gone and Sam…Sam got up, got dressed and went to work. Dean being gone didn't surprise him, it almost didn't disappoint him. This was Dean after all, a guy who thought emotions were something to be wrestled to the ground, salted, burned and buried as deep as was humanly possible. Wasn't like Sam didn't know what he was getting into. And fuck it, it was worth it. Really, it was. Dean walking out without a word? Whatever. It didn't make him feel like he was one of Dean's 'dates', either. Because this? Was about what he'd expected.
So when he got text after text from Dean that day, it was like Christmas every thirty minutes. Jokes--stupid, dirty, goofy jokes that only Dean thought were funny. Hilariously bitchy observations on the milling herd of humanity infesting wherever he was. What he was eating for lunch—
Every text felt like everything Dean hadn't said last night, or this morning. Sam was very well versed in the language of Dean, and Dean was telling him that this time they really were okay. More than okay. It didn't matter so much now that Dean was miles and miles away because Sam was obviously still very much first on his mind.
Work flew by in a Dean-tinted haze.
Sam was still feeling generous with all the world that evening, so he let Oz in when he knocked.
They were comfortable on the couch, Oz with a little half smile gracing his face. He was Oz-like as usual, sort of cynically amused, but not in an unkind way. Sam snitched the joint from Oz's fingers, noticed that he actually had his nails painted a dark blue. Was that supposed to be ironic, or was it a fashion statement? He also noticed that some of what he'd thought were tattoos were painted on. Oz smiled at Sam, noticed what Sam was noticing. He idly stroked the bracelets that ran up his arm. It made Sam notice too what a lot of lapis and turquoise and jade Oz wore….
Sam coughed out a bit of smoke and said, "I'm…surprised that you decided to visit. Since Dean's not here, y'know."
"I thought you might want some body to talk to." Implying that Sam had some reason to want to talk, but about what, Sam wondered, and what made Oz think he'd to talk him? Sharing some drunken rambling about what a dick Dean was--oh, god—what exactly had he said to Oz that night? Maybe he knew? No, no—so what, it was none of his damn business. And he had a real nerve implying it was. So what if he probably had the strength of ten men in that tiny little cursed body, Sam had some reserves to call on too and—
Oz and he watched the coffee table shift about five inches to the left and the joint went up in a little flare of smoke and ash and the ice and water in their glasses boiled into vapor.
Oz raised an eyebrow and even though he wasn't looking at Sam, it was clearly a 'We need to talk' eyebrow.
Sam glared at him, finally sighed and said, "How do you do it? How do you control your…your thing?"
Oz shrugged, as if the subject of him being a werewolf was something they'd chatted about at length. It was possible…"Meditation, some minor spells, tattoos and a few wards—" he gestured at the painted symbols Sam had taken for tattoos at first glance. "Some of the tats are locks, the henna changes with what I need at the time, but mostly, it's…putting all that stuff together and using your will to control it." He looked at Sam and even if his voice kept its Oz-like cool, there was a thousand yard stare in his eye that Sam knew too well. "Don’t get me wrong, I worked hard at it, and screwed up pretty severely first couple of tries…but eventually, it , you know…clicked."
"How is it Dean didn't blow a hole in you? There's no way he doesn't know—"
"Damien smoothed the way, by the time Dean danced around the subject, he was half on board with it. Still…gotta tell ya, nothing says fun like sitting in a parking lot, watching the moon rise and having a gun trained on you the whole time." His mouth quirked in what was almost a fond smile. "Interesting evening. I think though what's really going on here is that you're jealous and afraid I'm getting between you and your brother and I'm not. Dean's all over you and there's not much room to get in between the two of you. You gotta know, he's all yours."
"What? My—no. What, what do you, 'cause I. We--what?"
"Hey, whatever. You're not hurting anyone. You're not frightening the horses." Oz shrugged. "Both of you could benefit from speaking actual words to each other…"
"What? Horses?" Sam blinked, kind of stuck on the image of horses for some reason—"I talk! He doesn't talk."
"Look, your business is your business. But if I were you, I'd let Dean know that you don't plan on going anywhere he isn't. He's not getting that yet. He…has his issues."
"That's putting it mildly," Sam muttered.
"Well." Oz said. "Think we could get something to drink that won't explode into steam?"
NEXT PART
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters:Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13 (naughty words, allusions to drug use)
Word Count:3525
Spoilers: very vague spoilery reference for the end of season 5, but it veers off into AUness pretty quick
Summary: What happens when you survive a thing you never expected to
PART I
PART 2
"So, I guess we need to talk…unh, okay…I get that I behaved like an asshole and then worse by running away. I get that you're pissed off…anyway. I'm sorry. I…I'm not sure what's going on. I don't know why I did. Y’know, that. And I don’t have anyone to talk to but you and you're the problem. I mean, I don’t mean problem, I mean—you know. Shit. This is why I don't like talking about shit." Dean's voice dropped lower, though Sam was willing to bet he was in the middle of a desert, in a deep well, with no one around him for a million miles—"yeah, so, um. I. Love you, you know. And unh. We'll talk. Oh yeah, and sorry for, y'know. Yeah."
There was a click, and an empty buzz. Sam saw he'd called from Bobby's kitchen and sighed. Wonderful. Awesome. A fresh new chapter in the book of Sammy Goes to Hell. Again. opens. Great. He'd bid bon voyage to the old job and again, had to do it alone. Sam sighed, but at least he had the pleasure of having escaped. Leaving that place—it'd been hard not to invite Dave, his shift manager, to kiss his whole ass as he walked out the door of Book Nightmare for the last time. Sam would never have believed it was possible, but yes, sometimes even being surrounded by books was not the heaven it should have been. If all the job had entailed was him sitting stretched out in one of those ridiculous chairs with a book all day than, yeah, it would have been sweet. More than. But no, it turned out that a bookstore shopper could be just as big an asshole as a grocery shopper. Plus Evil Fucking Cat Lady had followed him, her with her reek of antiquity and evil, incontinent feline.
He really needed to talk to Dean about that woman….
Now here he was with a new job, a degree finished to absolutely no fanfare seeing as how Dean was gone on one of Bobby’s mysterious 'hunting trips', like Sam couldn't see the guilt lingering under his thousand watt smile and warm hand kneading the back of Sam’s neck, sending spiky little shivers into his gut….
Sam shook his head. He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees and waited for the bus, glad that for the moment, he was alone in the bus shelter, just him and his frustration and the persistent odor of piss. He shifted his messenger bag between his feet and watched stray candy wrappers twist themselves up into tiny little tornadoes before collapsing into teeny piles of ash at his feet. Fuck. Sam hadn't gotten to know a damn soul from the bookstore well enough for any of them to care, and no way had he been about to call Jerome, because that way led to madness and surprise hand jobs, which at any other time in his life would have been more than welcome but now, just left him feeling edgy and sad.
The bus shuddered to a stop, and Sam concentrated on getting to the back without knocking anyone unconscious with bag or elbow, settled next to an elderly lady who eyed him askance. He remembered a time when every one, including old ladies, had looked at him like he was a favored son….
Sam wrapped arms around his bag and hugged it to his chest. Dean was gone, and Sam wanted to mark the change of his life in some sort of way, and that called up the Winchester Way. Indulge in massive amounts of alcohol and pretend like everything was A-fucking-okay. Yeah, and so what if Oz had cornered him in the elevator, and in the course of the fifty years it took for the damn car to hack and wheeze its way to the lobby, had managed to pry his secrets out of him?
Maybe not so much pry as stand there helplessly while Sam maligned Dean's parentage because it was obvious the damn bastard was no brother of his. Or something like that—Sam still wasn't sure if the maligning came before or after the vats of alcohol. It wasn't like the evening had changed anything. It wasn't like they were friends or would ever be friends. That took more than someone buying you a drink or two dozen, and smiling at you like you'd hit the lottery—wasn't as if some—some stranger understood what finishing meant to him. Sam coughed hard, shrugged off the feeling of vague embarrassment and faint sadness so hard that the person next to him got up and switched seats with a glare. Someone was dropping crazy cooties all over the bus, the look said.
So.
Here he was, getting used to the new job. He was now a clerk in a small law office down town, two steps up from indentured servitude, wearing a suit jacket and a clean button-down everyday, and surprisingly, he liked it. It was a good bit farther out than the last two jobs he had. He took a bus, and transferred, and then walked a block more. Everyday, he rode past a section of the city that was coming back to life…there were rows of skinny, warm, brick-faced houses with big bright windows looking out on roads shaded with big old trees whose roots pushed up the pavement, people walked their happily peeing dogs and joyfully screaming little kids chased their parents up and down the sidewalks on bright plastic trikes and Sam envied it all so hard his ribs ached.
"Lucy, I'm home—"
"One thousandth time and it's still not funny."
"Aw, c'mon, is too, a little bit…"
"Dean, anything you ever thought was at least a little bit funny, really never was. So. How was the trip?"
"Well. Bobby's got some bizarre idea of a Hunter Hogwarts or something. I spent most of the time trying to get babies to shoot at targets and not each other." Dean dropped his bag in next to the door and headed into the kitchen, detouring to ruffle Sam's hair painfully. It was a typical dick move and Sam hid his smile behind a thrown elbow.
Dean dug around in the fridge, pulled back out with a smirk of triumph and a beer. "So, yeah…I don’t know. Talk about this later. How are you doing, Mr. Graduate? Thought maybe we could go out and celebrate." Dean popped the top off on the counter edge, adding another chip to the vintage formica and cocked an eyebrow as he sucked down the beer.
Yeah, that was typical Dean, too. Figured that Sam had nothing better to do when he was out of town than to hide out in the apartment like a monk. Not. Mostly. "Yeah, Oz already helped me celebrate graduation…but you can help me celebrate the new job." He stopped at the odd flash of hurt that swept over Dean's face—or maybe he hadn't really seen it, because Dean was grinning like a cat and saying, "Oz? Isn't he like, your arch-nemesis or something?"
"Yeah--eat me. No, better yet, feed me."
Den grinned and set the bottle down. "Lemme shower'n' shit and then we can go—your pick. But no salad place."
“How is it my pick if I don’t get to choose where I eat?”
Dean just grinned and sauntered away. Cocky ass, bow-legged sonofa bitch. God, he hated how easy it was to imagine himself with those legs wrapped around his waist….
Dean smiled at Sam the whole time he talked about the new job, sympathized when Sam complained about the long ride, nodded when Sam talked about the neighborhood he rode through daily, and how it looked like a diverse neighborhood and not in that "we have a very nice colored gentleman who lives at the end of the block, waaaay at the end," sort of diversity, how quiet and comfortable and lived-in the neighborhood looked. Looked like the kind of place that'd make a good home. Dean was a surprisingly good listener when they weren't talking about him. He nodded and hmmed, lifting an eyebrow from time to time, and occasionally actually looked thoughtful. He asked good questions about the neighborhood, the kind that made Sam's heart squeeze, made him cautiously hopeful. It wasn’t that the apartment was crappy or anything, it wasn’t. It was just…it'd be nice to finally have their own home. They deserved their own place, for all that had happened, for what they'd done, the world fucking owed them….
Dean worked through his steak and told Sam more about the last job at Bobby's, how Bobby figured that after "the troubles", a lot of hunters hadn't made it and mostly because they learned their craft on the fly. And most of them just weren't as good as John Winchester had been, or had the instructor that Sam and Dean'd had.
"So…" Dean smiled at Sam and shrugged. "It's just in the thinking stages and who knows? After Bobby sobers up, it might just turn out to be nothing but a fever dream." Dean's eyes roamed all over the place, not meeting Sam's, roamed over a dark-haired, skinny chick who was all red lips and tits, standing alone in a corner.
Sam chewed on his own lip, suddenly found his glass fascinating. "Yeah, well. Sounds interesting. He thinking of doing this in the yard?"
Dean grunted. "No. He's talking about moving operations farther out. I'm not crazy about the site—an old camp grounds…" Dean made a face. "A place you've never been, not in this life."
Sam looked down into his nearly empty glass, which continued to be utterly fascinating. "Oh. So…you coming back with me or staying here?"
Dean looked at Sam like he'd suddenly spun his head on his shoulders. "Ah, thought I was coming back with you? Why? You need me out of the place?” And only Dean could take a few simple words and make it sound like Sam was planning on stripping naked and clubbing baby seals in the bathroom.
“No!” Sam fought to smooth out the pinched lines of his mouth and the ridge in his forehead that he knew were there. “I mean, no, I just didn't want to get in your way. Y'know." And he arched eyebrows and tilted his head towards the slut in the corner—damn it. Sam wanted to smack himself for being so fucking possessive and having no reason and she was probably a real nice girl…he glanced at her…but he kinda doubted that.
"Sam. I would like it very much if you came home with me, right as soon as you pay the bill because I think you're making more than me now."
"Hey! I thought this was my graduation present."
"Bitch, Oz gave you that. This was your 'new job' dinner and that means you pay up."
“Do you know how cheap you are?” Sam growled and stood. And froze when Dean was suddenly at his back, a long wash of heat, more heat when his lips moved almost against Sam's jaw and he whispered, "I'll make it up to you later."
Sam was still frozen over the table as Dean walked away, hips swinging, hands jammed into his pockets, pulling his jeans tight over an ass so hot Sam had had dreams about it since he was fourteen years old and denying they meant anything. His ear burned, throbbing from the heat that had curled up the shell and filled all the nooks and crannies, and refused to cool. He rubbed his ear, touched it, determined to commit the feel to memory when it hit him--just now Dean had been stone cold sober and out-and-out flirting with him--fuck, he'd practically been groping him, in public—
Sam gasped. His hand trembled as he traced the shell of his ear and said, "Oh…my god…"
If Dean was possessed, Sam was going to fucking kill him, he thought and ran out after him.
Dean pushed Sam into the apartment, and Sam stumbled in like he'd never been in the place before. Now that please, finally, maybe they were going to look at this thing…he was oddly reluctant. If he was reading Dean wrong and he'd just been fucking with him, it was going to kill him. And if he was right, and they did do this and it fucked them up, how the hell was he going to live?
"Now is not the time to think, okay? We want to do this, right? I mean, it's not just me, right? I know it's not—fuck." Dean sighed, stepped up, grabbed the back of Sam's neck and pulled Sam right into his mouth. Sam flailed all over Dean's body, hands flying from shoulders to waist to face, he pressed and humped and moaned and shivered and in general behaved like a kid getting his first kiss with a promise of possibly some under the shirt action.
He grabbed Sam's wrists and pushed him back with a laugh. "Oh my god, tell me you're not that smooth all the time!"
"Fuck you," Sam said and felt queasy with embarrassment. "I should have known better." He tried to pull free of Dean's hands but Dean stopped him.
"No, don't—I'm stupid; you know how I get when I'm. You know." He blushed and holy shit, Sam was defenseless against the sight of Dean, blushing, his hands loose circles around Sam's wrists. He was looking away from Sam, lashes sweeping his cheeks and his teeth pressed into his full lower lip and anyone who couldn't see that his brother was beautiful was blind or an idiot or both.
"God. Sorry, but…I've thought about this—too many times. Tried to throw it away so many times but now I know, there's no one. No one left, just. You. You're all I have." Sam swallowed, and tried to force himself to say it out loud but it was too scary to say…you're all I want.
Dean's eyes widened, his chin jerked up and for a moment his eyes were as bleak as they'd been—before. Sam tugged a little on his wrists and Dean smiled, shaky at first and then, true to form, that smirk Sam had come to love slid into place. "I know, Sam, I know. But it's going to get better, promise you."
Sam couldn't imagine it getting better than this but if Dean thought it could—wow. He grinned, and he felt blood rushing to his face. "Yeah? You promise?"
Dean smirked a little wider, grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bedroom.
The man knew how to give a blowjob. Like, really knew.
one guy my asssss....Sam was half crazy, from how fucking good it was and how far down Dean's throat he got, and from jealousy. It was distracting bouncing from 'fuck, does he have a gag reflex?', to 'whoever the fuck who taught him that, gonna hunt'em down an' kill 'em good God right there fuuuuuck….'
He wasn't all that surprised that after sucking him down like a Hoover, Dean knee-walked up his chest, licked his lips as though he'd just eaten the best thing ever and proceeded to jerk off onto Sam's chest. All in all, Sam had to say, it'd been a great date. He liked the lying in bed, and licking Dean's hot swollen mouth totally clean of any flavor but Dean. Sure, Dean gave unbelievable head, but Sam knew kissing was something he was damn good at. Dean blowing his load all over his leg about twenty minutes later was pretty much proof of that… maybe in the morning he'd show Dean what else he was good at.
The next morning Dean was gone and Sam…Sam got up, got dressed and went to work. Dean being gone didn't surprise him, it almost didn't disappoint him. This was Dean after all, a guy who thought emotions were something to be wrestled to the ground, salted, burned and buried as deep as was humanly possible. Wasn't like Sam didn't know what he was getting into. And fuck it, it was worth it. Really, it was. Dean walking out without a word? Whatever. It didn't make him feel like he was one of Dean's 'dates', either. Because this? Was about what he'd expected.
So when he got text after text from Dean that day, it was like Christmas every thirty minutes. Jokes--stupid, dirty, goofy jokes that only Dean thought were funny. Hilariously bitchy observations on the milling herd of humanity infesting wherever he was. What he was eating for lunch—
Every text felt like everything Dean hadn't said last night, or this morning. Sam was very well versed in the language of Dean, and Dean was telling him that this time they really were okay. More than okay. It didn't matter so much now that Dean was miles and miles away because Sam was obviously still very much first on his mind.
Work flew by in a Dean-tinted haze.
Sam was still feeling generous with all the world that evening, so he let Oz in when he knocked.
They were comfortable on the couch, Oz with a little half smile gracing his face. He was Oz-like as usual, sort of cynically amused, but not in an unkind way. Sam snitched the joint from Oz's fingers, noticed that he actually had his nails painted a dark blue. Was that supposed to be ironic, or was it a fashion statement? He also noticed that some of what he'd thought were tattoos were painted on. Oz smiled at Sam, noticed what Sam was noticing. He idly stroked the bracelets that ran up his arm. It made Sam notice too what a lot of lapis and turquoise and jade Oz wore….
Sam coughed out a bit of smoke and said, "I'm…surprised that you decided to visit. Since Dean's not here, y'know."
"I thought you might want some body to talk to." Implying that Sam had some reason to want to talk, but about what, Sam wondered, and what made Oz think he'd to talk him? Sharing some drunken rambling about what a dick Dean was--oh, god—what exactly had he said to Oz that night? Maybe he knew? No, no—so what, it was none of his damn business. And he had a real nerve implying it was. So what if he probably had the strength of ten men in that tiny little cursed body, Sam had some reserves to call on too and—
Oz and he watched the coffee table shift about five inches to the left and the joint went up in a little flare of smoke and ash and the ice and water in their glasses boiled into vapor.
Oz raised an eyebrow and even though he wasn't looking at Sam, it was clearly a 'We need to talk' eyebrow.
Sam glared at him, finally sighed and said, "How do you do it? How do you control your…your thing?"
Oz shrugged, as if the subject of him being a werewolf was something they'd chatted about at length. It was possible…"Meditation, some minor spells, tattoos and a few wards—" he gestured at the painted symbols Sam had taken for tattoos at first glance. "Some of the tats are locks, the henna changes with what I need at the time, but mostly, it's…putting all that stuff together and using your will to control it." He looked at Sam and even if his voice kept its Oz-like cool, there was a thousand yard stare in his eye that Sam knew too well. "Don’t get me wrong, I worked hard at it, and screwed up pretty severely first couple of tries…but eventually, it , you know…clicked."
"How is it Dean didn't blow a hole in you? There's no way he doesn't know—"
"Damien smoothed the way, by the time Dean danced around the subject, he was half on board with it. Still…gotta tell ya, nothing says fun like sitting in a parking lot, watching the moon rise and having a gun trained on you the whole time." His mouth quirked in what was almost a fond smile. "Interesting evening. I think though what's really going on here is that you're jealous and afraid I'm getting between you and your brother and I'm not. Dean's all over you and there's not much room to get in between the two of you. You gotta know, he's all yours."
"What? My—no. What, what do you, 'cause I. We--what?"
"Hey, whatever. You're not hurting anyone. You're not frightening the horses." Oz shrugged. "Both of you could benefit from speaking actual words to each other…"
"What? Horses?" Sam blinked, kind of stuck on the image of horses for some reason—"I talk! He doesn't talk."
"Look, your business is your business. But if I were you, I'd let Dean know that you don't plan on going anywhere he isn't. He's not getting that yet. He…has his issues."
"That's putting it mildly," Sam muttered.
"Well." Oz said. "Think we could get something to drink that won't explode into steam?"
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