SpN: Two by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roxymissrose
2/20/09 08:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Two
Author: roxy
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: hard R
Word count: 5318
Summary: Sam's angry and hurting and Dean gets that, he does...but come on….
for the Twisting The Twilight Zone Challenge
About twenty-three hours after he'd picked Sam up, reeking of smoke, hard faced and teetering on the edge of nuts, he cracked. Quiet, and inside, so Sam couldn’t hear but he'd had enough. Couldn't take it anymore, Sam sitting there, rigid, barely breathing—trying to keep the smell of smoke and burning flesh out of his nose. Sure, Dean knew all about that, and knew it wasn't working because the smell wasn't on Sam's skin, the smell was stamped all over his brain, and how much worse must it be since it was the love of his life, not some evil thing or ragged, long dead, bag of bones….
Dean took a deep breath, and rewrapped both hands around the wheel. He'd been about to pat Sam on the leg, but the last time he'd tried to touch him, he'd had to duck a weak punch. Didn't hurt, it was just embarrassing. For Sam. Punched like a girl.
******
They were in a diner outside of Grand Junction. It was a wet, drizzly, gray sort of spring afternoon. The rain had that clinging kind of quality to it, that 'never going to stop' sort of feeling. The cold radiated off the big window next to his shoulder, aggravating various aches and pains that someone his age shouldn't be feeling in joints and shit…it was pissing him off—that, and the huge wall of glowering silence in front of him.
"So. What are you getting, Sunshine?"
"Don't know. Coffee. Burger." Fucking hell, like the boy had to pay by the motherfucking syllable.
"Jeez, can ya stop yakking for one second?" It was *supposed* to have been funny, but he never expected the glare of pure venomous *hatred* burning out of Sam's eyes. "Whoa, I'm trying to make a joke—trying to lighten the atmosphere a little, shit."
"Lighten? Lighten what, Dean? Oh, right. Death. I'll wait in the car."
Fuck, fuck, *fucking* hell. Bitch had just spit out more fucking words then he'd spoken all week, and it was just to drive the knife in deeper. Typical fuckin' Sammy.
When the waitress came, he smiled wide and asked her in a pleading tone of voice if they could have their order to go, 'cause his brother wasn't feeling well. She was cool about it, and he ordered Sam something he figured maybe a college geek—guy—would want.
He pushed through the glass doors with a stack of Styrofoam in his hands, stomped down the concrete steps. He couldn’t even pull his collar up against the chill because his hands were full of this stupid shit and—Sam was probably going to bitch about hurting the environment or some such crap….
He *was* sorry his brother was hurting so much. He felt like a fucking loser not being able to help. What could he say? What in the hell could he do to ease that pain Sam had all locked in? He was shit for talking and sharing. He did the only thing he could do, the only thing he felt comfortable doing.
"Here. I got you and me burgers." He dropped the plastic box in Sam's lap. "There's a—a salad on the side." Dean dropped a smaller box on top of the large box already in Sam's lap, ignored him and started the car. About five miles down the road Sam spoke.
"Thanks. Sorry."
"Uh-hm." Dean shoved a tape in the deck, and turned it up. Loud.
******
It was a quick stop on the way in to Grand Junction—a weird little blip that had popped up, so odd, it'd called their attention. It didn't take Sam long to figure out what was eating the family pets in Summerville. It didn't take Dean long to roust the rather small troll out of its hiding place and roast it. He kind of loved flame throwers. He turned to Sam with a huge smile—"Cool, hunh?" and nearly swallowed his heart at the look on Sam's face. He was watching the little twisted figure writhe and pop in the flames but his soul was hundreds of miles away.
"Sam…Sammy…"
"I'll be in the car."
Dean wiped the back of his wrist across his face, smearing sweat and soot in streaks across his cheekbones. He blinked, and thumbed soot into the creases of his eyelids. God damn it, how the hell did he manage to be such a fuck-up all the time?
It was quiet all the way to the motel. Sam got out, pulled the larger of the duffels from the back seat and his messenger bag from under the front seat. He waited silently while Dean fished the key out of his pocket and the smaller bag from the under the driver's side. Dean was trying not to be pissed that Sam had grabbed the bigger, and pushed his way in front of him to open the door.
Okay. So far, so good. The door was open and everyone was still alive, Dean thought, even though Sam was looking at him like he wished he was dead. Instead, a tiny voice in the back of his mind said, and Dean almost laughed. Yeah, sometimes he could see Sam's mouth about to shape the words. Wondered if it'd make things better if he just said it out loud for Sam, get it out and over with, but knowing him, he'd just bitch and bitch some more. Fucking ungrateful.
Sam dropped the bags on the floor. "Go take a shower, Dean."
Dean didn't even question. Just marched into the bathroom, stripped off. Scrubbed off the smell of grease and charred meat, and wondered, what the hell he was going to do with Sam?
******
"Hey, you know if you wanna talk…I…"
"You what, you're here for me?" Sam laughed, kind of bitter and Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Now was not the time to get pissed off, he reminded himself—and swallowed against the taste of blood.
"Because that would be a first," Sam went on. "I remember how 'here for me' you were the last time."
"Hey, we did it the way you wanted it. You started the fight with Dad; you were the one who ran out. Me, I took you to the bus station—gave you money I could barely afford to hand over—"
"Yeah, I *know*. I know you couldn't afford it. And guess what, I left it on the bus. I didn’t want anything from you, man. Nothing."
Sam got up and stomped off to the bathroom. He slammed the door so hard that the painting screwed into the wall bounced and showered the carpet with plaster dust. Dean stared at the faint dusting of white on the green carpet and figured that was probably the cleanest thing that had ever fallen on it. He glared at the shut door and the total silence behind it. Fuck him, he thought, and slumped.
Well. That hadn't turned out exactly like he'd hoped. He pulled a bottle out of the bag near the door. He'd brought beer and chips and everything, just so they could talk about…stuff. Shit. He yanked the little bag of gummi whatya-callits and threw them at Sam's bed. He popped the bottle's cap on the edge of the night stand and took a long pull, frowned. Pretty fucking quiet in that bathroom.
Fuck.
******
"I didn't mean it about the money," Sam said the next morning. "I don’t know why I said that."
"Yes you do," Dean said. "You wanted to be a bastard, and guess what, it worked. But Sam…I guess it's part of grieving, you know? I'm the one who's here, so I get the fallout, I get that. It's all right."
Sam sighed and leaned against the window. "Wake me when we get…somewhere."
Dean stared straight ahead, watched the road unfold and muttered, "I wish someone would wake me the fuck up."
******
Dinner was quiet, strained as fuck. Some kind of sandwich on a roll, stuffed with chopped salad and cold-cuts, and enough mayo to make it all slide down your throat without chewing, but when Dean pointed that out to Sam, with a grin, Sam just sighed and told Dean he was disgusting.
"Your face is disgusting," Dean muttered. Sam just looked at him and tossed the sandwich.
"I'm taking a shower."
Dean stared at the closed bathroom door. If someone fuckin' asked him to describe his brother, he'd probably say he was a big tall rectangular guy, with a round brass thing sticking out of one side of his ass.
"Excuse me--what?" Sam was looking at him like he was crazy, and he felt his cheeks go warm.
"Nothing." Damn it. He *was* going crazy if he was thinking out loud like that. Sam's fault. Sam, damn it. He should kick his ass. If nothing else it'd give the bitch something to think about, at least it'd be worth a laugh. Dean said, "I bought some desert too, if you want it. In the bag. In the cardboard boxes. The small ones…"
Sam just kept staring at him and staring at him, like he'd offered him live kittens to eat. Fuck him.
Dean stared at the TV and wondered why he couldn't do anything right.
******
"Dean, I'm trying to sleep. Do you mind turning the TV down some?"
"Tell you what, Samantha, why don’t you reach in your makeup bag and pull out some earplugs and your sleep mask—watch, don’t break a nail while you're doing it
"Why are you such a dick?"
Dean sighed, deep down inside. He did a lot of stuff inside. Why am I such a dick? I don't know, why are you such a whiney little self-centered bastard? Cry if you need to, scream if you need to, take a mother fucking punch—just stop acting like nothing's wrong. Stop acting like the only thing making you miserable is me.
******
Sam seemed a little easier today. He was a little more…relaxed, not sitting so stiff and pointedly full of hate. Must have been the wendigo. Maybe…he got to let a little something out. Maybe it was about those ancient, long ago brothers. Maybe…Dean shrugged. Fuck. He didn’t know what was going on in his brother's mind. But at least he was reasonably sure Sam wasn't going to come roaring across the room and eat him now. Dean grinned a little, until he replayed that last thought. Glanced over at Sam and thank fuck he was sleeping, 'cause Dean could feel how hot his cheeks were. Fucking hell. Right now, he could use a cigarette, a beer, a half dozen shots and some stranger's hand.
******
"*Dean*!"
Dean shot upright in the dark, nearly stabbing his pillow, trying to yank the knife out from under it and move at the same time—
"Sammy?" He got a snore in response, and exhaled. Fuck. He's been so freaked out by Sam's behavior lately, that he was waking up all wrong. He wiped his sweat wet forehead and laid the knife back in its waiting place. He shook like a horse twitching flies away, and leaned over the bed, hands knotted between his spread knees.
Sammy was going to kill him, pure and simple. Dean figured, what with being wrecked from lack of sleep, and dealing with Sam's moods, something was going to hamstring him and eat him, all because his brother insisted on warring with Dean like they were fucking strangers—like hostile enemy soldiers in some war flick—forced to fight together by circumstance, instead of the team they could be. Should be.
His head dropped between his hands and his fingers tried to pull up the short hairs on the back of his neck…what the FUCK did Sammy want from him?
Right on cue, Sammy snorted and said, "Dean", only this time, he sounded pissed off *and* scared. Shit.
Dean was at Sam's bed side. "Hey. Sam. Wake up. Hey come on, it's just a dream, promise…." He rubbed Sam's back, like he used to when they were kids, rubbed his shoulder and finally stopped with his hand cupped over it. Hunh. The curve of Sam's shoulder fit perfectly in his palm, like two puzzle pieces matched up. Sam didn’t wake, even when Dean's fingers tightened, he just turned on his side, pressed his back to Dean's knee and sighed out his name, soft, serene, and still asleep. Dean was frozen on the edge of the bed, with his hand on Sam's shoulders and a rock in his throat. Why couldn’t he do that in the day time? Just put a hand on Sam's shoulder and make it better?
You know why he told himself. Because in the daytime, there was a fucking great wall of Winchester between them, that's why. So, maybe it needed to be there. No one knew that better than he did.
God, why'd he drink all the beer earlier?
It wasn't hard to let go of his brother's shoulder and walk softly back to his own bed. Painful, but not hard.
******
"No no no no…"
Quiet, almost muffled by the pillow Sam was strangling. Dean glanced into the back seat, Sam's long legs trashing against the vinyl. He looked pale, and sweat made his face shine, his eyes were shut so tight, his face was a mess of lines, hard-edged and sharp—fuck, he looked worse than shit, and he was making noises like some dream thing was gutting him. Tears leaked from the wrinkled over corners and he groaned. "Jess, no, no…I can't…can't choose.…"
*Fucking* hell, there he goes again and why won’t he admit that he's suffering that bad? Why won’t he just....
When Sam cried out again, and one of his ridiculously long legs smacked up against the seat back, Dean pulled over. No way did he have to put up with that shit, no way.
"Sam—Sammy!"
He jerked awake, the thin blanket wrapped around his chest, and the pillow still wrapped in his arms. "Dean! Dean—"
I'm right here, guy. Right here." Sam's head shot over the top of the seat. "Sam, you okay? You all right?"-- 'cause he was looking at him like Dean had stomped his puppy—Sam's eyes were still red, and when he blinked his eyes, tears overflowed the corners and he wouldn't stop *staring* and gulping. Dean was beginning to think that maybe what Sam needed was a shot to the head, when his brother blinked, and whatever emotion had yanked him out of sleep, bled away.
"Dean…" he flushed deep red, and looked embarrassed, which was stupid, if anyone had a right to nightmares, it was Sam—and then, he looked away, said, "I'm fine."
Dean snorted. "Hell no, you're not, but fuck, I'm willing to pretend".
A couple of miles down the road Sam said, "You're my brother. I wouldn't trade you for anything."
Dean blinked. "Ooo-kay. Random, but, thanks I guess. I suppose…well, if someone showed up on my doorstep with a new carburetor and a couple of candy bars in exchange for you, I'd have to think real hard about it…."
Sam laughed—a real laugh, short as it was. "You're such a *jerk*!"
Dean had to fight real hard not to grin…he felt like a sun was trying to get out of his chest.
******
Which lasted a whole five hours.
One hundred and fifty miles, just hitting Nebraska, and it all blew up. Again.
Dean was crouched on the Impala's hood, killing time in the parking lot of one of the fucking ugliest motels he'd ever stayed at and that was including the ones Dad picked, and Dad kind of had an affinity for toxic dumps.
Inside, Sam waited for him. Well, more than waited…it was like knowing there was a fucking crazy gator lurking in the water and you had to jump in anyway. Can always hope for the best. Sure. He sighed, and launched off the hood of the car, let his boots hit the blacktop hard enough to make his teeth click. "Well fuck me, it's fun-time." He muttered. "Woo-hoo."
He let himself in the room and Sam scowled up at him and carefully shut the laptop. He jerked around on the chair until he was facing Dean, giving him the full and total death-glare. It was bad—he was pissed of with a capital piss. That little muscle in his jaw was working, and Dean tried not to watch it. God, he tried hard not to watch it.
"Roy."
"Hunh?" Dean blinked. Roy—where did that come from? What the fuck did that mean? "Roy what? He was a dick. I mean, I'm sorry he died, no one deserves that. But he was—"
"You kept looking at him. You let him push you around—and you kept looking at him."
"Well *yeah*—he was a dick. I wanted to keep him in sight. You know." Dean fidgeted. That was all. Roy was a fucking know-it-all—big, pushy, in your face kind of fucking guy with an attitude a mile wide and a smirk begging to be wiped off his face. Dean was sorry he was dead…like he'd told Sam; no one deserved a death like that. He was a jerk, but there was this light in his eyes…shouldna been put out. Just wrong.
******
Dean figured that subject had been put to bed but he underestimated Sam—again, and always.
He'd just been about to slide between sheets that should have been soft, they were so worn, and smelled of bleach, lots and lots of bleach…anyway, just about to climb in and he heard Sam from across the room.
"He kept looking at you."
He looked over, but Sam…Dean was pretty sure he was sound asleep. Sam's face was smooth, his mouth open a little, and the sheet fluttered with his breath. Dean rubbed his face, kept on rubbing until his hands were on the back of his neck…motherfuck, he *was* going crazy, he was.
******
The tape deck banging out Sabbath went practically unnoticed, Dean's head was reeling with all kind of unwelcome thoughts and speculation and self-examination, not his favorite sport. Dean was willing to admit, part of wanting Sam to stay was because he was lonely, the kind of lonely that Dad couldn't fill, the kind of lonely that anonymous hook-ups didn't fill. Sam was…Dean didn't want to think he was more family than Dad was family, but he was. And he crammed that thought deep, deep into the murky bottom of his psyche, along with lots of other uncomfortable thoughts….
Hit a bump in the road and Sam's head went flying, smacked into Dean's shoulder and flung him into wakefulness.
"Hunh? Damn it, Dean—"
"I didn't do it!" Fuck—now they were pre-teens squabbling in the back seat again. "Sorry, I hit a pothole."
"Yeah…okay." He slid upright, and now he was plastered against Dean's side, and yawning, leaning into Dean's side a little before rolling casually back towards the passenger's side. "Want me to drive a little? You can catch a nap…"
Dean rubbed at burning eyes. "Yeah. Sounds good. Just for a couple of hours. Check that map, when's the next stop coming up?
Sam looked over the map. "Looks like a medium sized town coming up. And there's a rest stop coming up in a couple of miles—we can trade there."
******
"The Brown Derby." They were in another non-descript motel, in another non-descript town. There was a lumpy, vaguely hat shaped thing hunched on the roof, made of tar-paper and painted dark brown. Dean eyed it like it was about to leap off the roof and eat them. "What the fuck d'ya think that's supposed to mean?" he nudged Sam and jerked his chin towards the roof.
"Could you please stop staring at that thing and just open the door, Dean." Sam grabbed his bag and duffel and waited with obvious impatience.
Dean barely got the door open before Sam stepped over the threshold, and immediately made that face—the one he made every single time and what the hell, every room in every motel was just about the same, so what the fuck was he looking for? At least no roaches ran out of the narrow rectangle of light the open door let into the fugly brown room, so—points--it wasn’t a complete pit.
Sam stomped into the middle of the room, and Dean noted again, with approval, no roaches went racing, so as far as he was concerned they were way ahead of the game, they could keep food in the room and—
He jumped as Sam dropped both bags with a clank-thud. "Th'fuck, Sam?"
He freaked completely when Sam suddenly turned, and, like in millions of his jerk-off fantasies, grabbed him by the collar and covered his mouth with his own.
Okay--that shit didn’t happen outside of the shower, or cover of darkness, and definitely, not outside of his mind--that meant something was *wrong* with Sam.
So Dean reared back and punched him—hard.
"Dean, what the FUCK!" Sam rocked back, staggered across the scrubby brown carpet until he hit the wall and slapped his hand over his mouth, blood already spreading between his fingers. Those fucking cat-eyes flashed from anger to horror to--fuck—shame.
Dean made a noise like 'nugh', and jumped forward, grabbed Sam by *his* collar and slammed their mouths together so hard, he heard the contact—felt the contact shudder right down to his gut and jab him in the back of the eyes.
Mint and chocolate.
Sam tasted like mint and chocolate—okay, Junior Mints, but—and he tasted like pennies, confusing for the nano-second it took for his brain to tell him they were both bleeding and then…he pushed Sam away…maybe too hard. Probably too hard.
Sam went over like a fucking tree—the floor creaked when he hit, and Dean stood over him, gasping so hard he felt like throwing up, mouth and his knuckles bleeding, and the feeling that he'd fucked up in a major-ass way making him shake.
Sam was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, his swollen lip working as he gulped like a fish…"You know, never in my wildest dreams did I ever think kissing would hurt a fucking lot more than being punched in the mouth…."
"Sam! I don't—you were kissing—and then I thought you were—you know---and then, I had to—have it and then—"
"You freaked and pushed me down like a school girl on the playground."
"Did not! Well, I did, but not like a girl."
Sam was up on one elbow and smiling. "Pretty much like a girl, dude."
"Sam! It's not fucking funny, you hear me, it's not fucking funny."
"I'm not laughing. Why did you let me go?"
"Jesus fuck, are we back on the Stanford thing again? 'Cause I'm sick to death of it."
"Yeah—but look, you knew just what I meant. You knew back then too, and you didn't even try, you didn’t even—"
"I. Did. What. You. Wanted. You were ready—you wanted to go."
"I left because I thought I had nothing. Not Dad, not you, and then--and Jess—and I have *nothing* left now. Nothing."
Sam was standing now, scowling, and Dean whipped towards Sam. Saying it was like spitting out razor blades, but he had to. "You have something. You have me. *I'm* something, you stupid fuck."
Sam stared into Dean's eyes, then dropped his head and nodded. He shrugged and looked up again with a small smile. "Yeah, you're right," he said, and pulled Dean into a rough hug. Of course, Dean was ready for it. There'd be a hug, than a back-slap, once, twice, maybe a shoulder squeeze, and separate quickly--oh God so quickly….
He was thinking so hard, he almost missed the hug, almost missed Sam saying, "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for…you know. I get it." He tried to pull away but Sam's hands were like iron.
"I'm not apologizing for that—I'm apologizing for this." And yanked him the last inch closer, pressed his mouth on Dean's, opened his lips. There was soft and wet, and tongue and heat, oh fuck, *heat*—
I can't—can't think--Holy shit this is wrong, holy shit this is bad, I mean holy shit
Sam was talking again but his mouth was still on Dean's and Dean had to concentrate to understand. "S'why I kept running. Never answered the phone…I was trying to stay away from you, and I'm sorry. I don’t hate you. Never, couldn't. I love you too much."
Dean shuddered. When Sam's hand climbed his neck, he closed his eyes and willed himself not to get hard, not to cry. "Okay," he stuttered, "you don’t hate me. I'm glad."
Sam tried to laugh. "Now you hate *me*, right? I don't blame you, this is fucked up—we're beyond fucked up, aren't we? It can't get worse than this, Dean."
Dean pulled Sam into him. "Oh yeah, it can." He closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around Sam's neck and kissed him, walking him backwards until, thank God, they tumbled onto the bed and not the floor.
What the hell, he'd never had a motherfucking chance, never. It was like…like this thing was burned into his bones, his blood. Like Sam had one of those giant hands fisted in his heart and there was no way, no way to save himself, or Sam.
"Dean." His name shook out, hot and wet against his throat, whispered and licked into his skin, up to his ear. "Dean. We can do this…."
If he told Sam no, would he leave? Punch him—cry? And if he said yes, then what happened? Brothers, they were brothers, he was supposed to help Sam, keep him safe, not break him….
A hot, hard, slide against his dick shattered that line of thought…he knew just what Sam looked like, had seen his dick a million times and had never thought of it like this. Mostly never. There were maybe a few times—he groaned when Sam reached under him, and pulled him closer, ground down a little more confidently—a few times, occasionally, when he didn’t wonder what Sam would look like in the palm of his hand--
"Please. Dean."
His name spun out, low, and broken and endless in the gloom…Dean ripped at his jeans, ripped at Sam's. He needed to feel naked skin against skin, see if it felt as warm and as smooth and…as erotic as touching Sam's safe parts. His arms, his hands…his….
"I need you to fuck me," Sam said, and then gasped and turned the brightest red Dean had ever seen a human being turn. Sam dropped his head. "I can't believe I said that out loud—to you. Shit—I just begged my—"
"Sam, swear to God, we have all the time in the world, *later*, to freak, okay? Right now…" Dean stuttered into silence. Right now, they were laying across a slightly too small, slightly damp bed, in a dark, shit colored room smelling of Clorox and mold, shirts rucked up and pants on the floor, and it was one of his favorite fucking fantasies in all the world. Dean burst into tears. On the inside, so Sam couldn't see and freak out even more.
Sam reared back. "Then fuck me. Right now. Like this."
Dean winced. "It's going to hurt, and you're not going to like it, but you'll do it because you won't want to hurt me, and you'll blame me and blame yourself and feel guilty and you know what? I don't want to be your punishment." He needed to get Sam off of him like right now and the light shove Dean gave him was enough. Sam got right up and walked away, went into the bathroom, and…at least this time, he didn't slam the door.
The cool weight of his arm felt good on his burning eyes, and Dean tried to let out the deep breath of relief that was choking him. Fucking hell, he was glad Sam was smarter than he was. Dean managed to inhale, shaky and rough. Okay. That was settled, finally. Now, all he had to do was…not let Sam touch him ever again in this lifetime.
He was getting to his feet, eyes still closed and feeling the way like a blind man, when a shove between his shoulder blades sent him flying back onto the bed. "Hey!"
Dean opened one eye and Sam was standing in front of him, holding out a…Trojan. "Where d'you think you're go—Dean? Are you all right?" Sam's smirk crumbled in a way that made Dean's heart hurt.
"What? Yes!" Dean scrubbed at his face. "Carpet—mold, makes my, unh. Eyes irritated. Come on—stop it."
"Dean, you're—you're—"
Dean yanked Sam into him, wrapped his arms around him and fell back against the bed. "Awesome."
"Yeah? Yeah…" Sam smiled, "and naked. Beautiful." He scratched his way down from Dean's chin to his navel, and Dean arched trying to keep contact. Sam stopped with his fingers resting at the base of Dean's dick, eyes locked on his. "You want me to—"
"Yeah, please," and Sam's hand engulfed him. Dean marveled at the sight of all that hand covering him. Dark red and wet and gleaming, his dick looked amazing in Sam's hand—he flushed, felt it ride over him like a hot wave. Sam's face hanging over him went red, his neck, his chest. It was fucking hot, watching that tide of red sweep over him. He pulled away again and Dean whined—but Sam just rocked back enough to gather them both up, press their dicks together in one hand, and proceeded to wreck Dean completely. The press and slide of Sam against him, slick hot skin on one side and the warm calloused press of his hand on the other…Sam moaned and worked them and Dean threw his arms out, grabbed handfuls of cheap ravely blanket because the pleasure was so strong it hurt and he was afraid he'd throw Sam off of him. He turned his head to the side to breathe and Sam locked his teeth in his throat—Dean imagined him biting down until his teeth met in the middle of his flesh, and came suddenly and violently.
"Dean, God damn it, damn it—" Sam was hunching over him, and adding to the slippery hot mess between them. "Damn, damn, damn…."
Dean reached up and helped Sam stroke once or twice through the aftershocks, until his hand got slapped away.
Dean smirked, "Oh, sensitive, hunh?" Sam gasped out a little snort, muttered, "Jerk," and dropped flat on the bed, one long leg slung over Dean, his hand curled over Dean's hip.
Dean took a long warm moment to feel…pretty fucking wonderful, right up until the panic wall hit him, head on. Just like that he slid from cozy to full tilt freak-out. Sam was going to take off, Sam was going to lose it--best scenario, Sam was going to freak and beat the shit out of him---
"Oh for fuck's sake—stop it. Just cut it out and sleep."
"No. I close my eyes and you're gone."
Sam shifted and Dean could feel that he was turned to face him. "So…you're never going to sleep again?"
"I've gone without sleep before," he muttered.
Sam laughed. "You're a piece of work. You would wouldn’t you? Try to go without sleep." His hand rubbed Dean's stomach, and Dean slapped at it, but let it lay, with an annoyed huff. "You'd throw yourself in front of a truck for me…there's no one left in the world who'd do that, not for me. Just you."
"Would not," Dean said and felt the red flush climb his neck. "That'd be stupid." Sam's hand tightened for a moment and Dean sighed. "Yes, all right. Hey. We're a damn good team." Which was supposed to mean a ton of things that he didn't want to say out loud, and he hoped Sam got it, but if he needed it, Dean figured he could bring himself to say them out loud…he really hoped he wouldn't have to.
Thank God, Sam was as smart as Dean always claimed him to be.
"We are a good team." Sam kissed him, handed Dean the condom. "Speaking of team work, hold onto this—you're going to need it in a bit…well, maybe later…a lot later. You are kinda getting on--"
"Fuck you!" Dean ended up laughing right into Sam's mouth.
Did he say smart? He meant Sam was a bitch.
FIN
1-23-2009
eta: oy.
Author: roxy
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: hard R
Word count: 5318
Summary: Sam's angry and hurting and Dean gets that, he does...but come on….
for the Twisting The Twilight Zone Challenge
About twenty-three hours after he'd picked Sam up, reeking of smoke, hard faced and teetering on the edge of nuts, he cracked. Quiet, and inside, so Sam couldn’t hear but he'd had enough. Couldn't take it anymore, Sam sitting there, rigid, barely breathing—trying to keep the smell of smoke and burning flesh out of his nose. Sure, Dean knew all about that, and knew it wasn't working because the smell wasn't on Sam's skin, the smell was stamped all over his brain, and how much worse must it be since it was the love of his life, not some evil thing or ragged, long dead, bag of bones….
Dean took a deep breath, and rewrapped both hands around the wheel. He'd been about to pat Sam on the leg, but the last time he'd tried to touch him, he'd had to duck a weak punch. Didn't hurt, it was just embarrassing. For Sam. Punched like a girl.
They were in a diner outside of Grand Junction. It was a wet, drizzly, gray sort of spring afternoon. The rain had that clinging kind of quality to it, that 'never going to stop' sort of feeling. The cold radiated off the big window next to his shoulder, aggravating various aches and pains that someone his age shouldn't be feeling in joints and shit…it was pissing him off—that, and the huge wall of glowering silence in front of him.
"So. What are you getting, Sunshine?"
"Don't know. Coffee. Burger." Fucking hell, like the boy had to pay by the motherfucking syllable.
"Jeez, can ya stop yakking for one second?" It was *supposed* to have been funny, but he never expected the glare of pure venomous *hatred* burning out of Sam's eyes. "Whoa, I'm trying to make a joke—trying to lighten the atmosphere a little, shit."
"Lighten? Lighten what, Dean? Oh, right. Death. I'll wait in the car."
Fuck, fuck, *fucking* hell. Bitch had just spit out more fucking words then he'd spoken all week, and it was just to drive the knife in deeper. Typical fuckin' Sammy.
When the waitress came, he smiled wide and asked her in a pleading tone of voice if they could have their order to go, 'cause his brother wasn't feeling well. She was cool about it, and he ordered Sam something he figured maybe a college geek—guy—would want.
He pushed through the glass doors with a stack of Styrofoam in his hands, stomped down the concrete steps. He couldn’t even pull his collar up against the chill because his hands were full of this stupid shit and—Sam was probably going to bitch about hurting the environment or some such crap….
He *was* sorry his brother was hurting so much. He felt like a fucking loser not being able to help. What could he say? What in the hell could he do to ease that pain Sam had all locked in? He was shit for talking and sharing. He did the only thing he could do, the only thing he felt comfortable doing.
"Here. I got you and me burgers." He dropped the plastic box in Sam's lap. "There's a—a salad on the side." Dean dropped a smaller box on top of the large box already in Sam's lap, ignored him and started the car. About five miles down the road Sam spoke.
"Thanks. Sorry."
"Uh-hm." Dean shoved a tape in the deck, and turned it up. Loud.
It was a quick stop on the way in to Grand Junction—a weird little blip that had popped up, so odd, it'd called their attention. It didn't take Sam long to figure out what was eating the family pets in Summerville. It didn't take Dean long to roust the rather small troll out of its hiding place and roast it. He kind of loved flame throwers. He turned to Sam with a huge smile—"Cool, hunh?" and nearly swallowed his heart at the look on Sam's face. He was watching the little twisted figure writhe and pop in the flames but his soul was hundreds of miles away.
"Sam…Sammy…"
"I'll be in the car."
Dean wiped the back of his wrist across his face, smearing sweat and soot in streaks across his cheekbones. He blinked, and thumbed soot into the creases of his eyelids. God damn it, how the hell did he manage to be such a fuck-up all the time?
It was quiet all the way to the motel. Sam got out, pulled the larger of the duffels from the back seat and his messenger bag from under the front seat. He waited silently while Dean fished the key out of his pocket and the smaller bag from the under the driver's side. Dean was trying not to be pissed that Sam had grabbed the bigger, and pushed his way in front of him to open the door.
Okay. So far, so good. The door was open and everyone was still alive, Dean thought, even though Sam was looking at him like he wished he was dead. Instead, a tiny voice in the back of his mind said, and Dean almost laughed. Yeah, sometimes he could see Sam's mouth about to shape the words. Wondered if it'd make things better if he just said it out loud for Sam, get it out and over with, but knowing him, he'd just bitch and bitch some more. Fucking ungrateful.
Sam dropped the bags on the floor. "Go take a shower, Dean."
Dean didn't even question. Just marched into the bathroom, stripped off. Scrubbed off the smell of grease and charred meat, and wondered, what the hell he was going to do with Sam?
"Hey, you know if you wanna talk…I…"
"You what, you're here for me?" Sam laughed, kind of bitter and Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Now was not the time to get pissed off, he reminded himself—and swallowed against the taste of blood.
"Because that would be a first," Sam went on. "I remember how 'here for me' you were the last time."
"Hey, we did it the way you wanted it. You started the fight with Dad; you were the one who ran out. Me, I took you to the bus station—gave you money I could barely afford to hand over—"
"Yeah, I *know*. I know you couldn't afford it. And guess what, I left it on the bus. I didn’t want anything from you, man. Nothing."
Sam got up and stomped off to the bathroom. He slammed the door so hard that the painting screwed into the wall bounced and showered the carpet with plaster dust. Dean stared at the faint dusting of white on the green carpet and figured that was probably the cleanest thing that had ever fallen on it. He glared at the shut door and the total silence behind it. Fuck him, he thought, and slumped.
Well. That hadn't turned out exactly like he'd hoped. He pulled a bottle out of the bag near the door. He'd brought beer and chips and everything, just so they could talk about…stuff. Shit. He yanked the little bag of gummi whatya-callits and threw them at Sam's bed. He popped the bottle's cap on the edge of the night stand and took a long pull, frowned. Pretty fucking quiet in that bathroom.
Fuck.
"I didn't mean it about the money," Sam said the next morning. "I don’t know why I said that."
"Yes you do," Dean said. "You wanted to be a bastard, and guess what, it worked. But Sam…I guess it's part of grieving, you know? I'm the one who's here, so I get the fallout, I get that. It's all right."
Sam sighed and leaned against the window. "Wake me when we get…somewhere."
Dean stared straight ahead, watched the road unfold and muttered, "I wish someone would wake me the fuck up."
Dinner was quiet, strained as fuck. Some kind of sandwich on a roll, stuffed with chopped salad and cold-cuts, and enough mayo to make it all slide down your throat without chewing, but when Dean pointed that out to Sam, with a grin, Sam just sighed and told Dean he was disgusting.
"Your face is disgusting," Dean muttered. Sam just looked at him and tossed the sandwich.
"I'm taking a shower."
Dean stared at the closed bathroom door. If someone fuckin' asked him to describe his brother, he'd probably say he was a big tall rectangular guy, with a round brass thing sticking out of one side of his ass.
"Excuse me--what?" Sam was looking at him like he was crazy, and he felt his cheeks go warm.
"Nothing." Damn it. He *was* going crazy if he was thinking out loud like that. Sam's fault. Sam, damn it. He should kick his ass. If nothing else it'd give the bitch something to think about, at least it'd be worth a laugh. Dean said, "I bought some desert too, if you want it. In the bag. In the cardboard boxes. The small ones…"
Sam just kept staring at him and staring at him, like he'd offered him live kittens to eat. Fuck him.
Dean stared at the TV and wondered why he couldn't do anything right.
"Dean, I'm trying to sleep. Do you mind turning the TV down some?"
"Tell you what, Samantha, why don’t you reach in your makeup bag and pull out some earplugs and your sleep mask—watch, don’t break a nail while you're doing it
"Why are you such a dick?"
Dean sighed, deep down inside. He did a lot of stuff inside. Why am I such a dick? I don't know, why are you such a whiney little self-centered bastard? Cry if you need to, scream if you need to, take a mother fucking punch—just stop acting like nothing's wrong. Stop acting like the only thing making you miserable is me.
Sam seemed a little easier today. He was a little more…relaxed, not sitting so stiff and pointedly full of hate. Must have been the wendigo. Maybe…he got to let a little something out. Maybe it was about those ancient, long ago brothers. Maybe…Dean shrugged. Fuck. He didn’t know what was going on in his brother's mind. But at least he was reasonably sure Sam wasn't going to come roaring across the room and eat him now. Dean grinned a little, until he replayed that last thought. Glanced over at Sam and thank fuck he was sleeping, 'cause Dean could feel how hot his cheeks were. Fucking hell. Right now, he could use a cigarette, a beer, a half dozen shots and some stranger's hand.
"*Dean*!"
Dean shot upright in the dark, nearly stabbing his pillow, trying to yank the knife out from under it and move at the same time—
"Sammy?" He got a snore in response, and exhaled. Fuck. He's been so freaked out by Sam's behavior lately, that he was waking up all wrong. He wiped his sweat wet forehead and laid the knife back in its waiting place. He shook like a horse twitching flies away, and leaned over the bed, hands knotted between his spread knees.
Sammy was going to kill him, pure and simple. Dean figured, what with being wrecked from lack of sleep, and dealing with Sam's moods, something was going to hamstring him and eat him, all because his brother insisted on warring with Dean like they were fucking strangers—like hostile enemy soldiers in some war flick—forced to fight together by circumstance, instead of the team they could be. Should be.
His head dropped between his hands and his fingers tried to pull up the short hairs on the back of his neck…what the FUCK did Sammy want from him?
Right on cue, Sammy snorted and said, "Dean", only this time, he sounded pissed off *and* scared. Shit.
Dean was at Sam's bed side. "Hey. Sam. Wake up. Hey come on, it's just a dream, promise…." He rubbed Sam's back, like he used to when they were kids, rubbed his shoulder and finally stopped with his hand cupped over it. Hunh. The curve of Sam's shoulder fit perfectly in his palm, like two puzzle pieces matched up. Sam didn’t wake, even when Dean's fingers tightened, he just turned on his side, pressed his back to Dean's knee and sighed out his name, soft, serene, and still asleep. Dean was frozen on the edge of the bed, with his hand on Sam's shoulders and a rock in his throat. Why couldn’t he do that in the day time? Just put a hand on Sam's shoulder and make it better?
You know why he told himself. Because in the daytime, there was a fucking great wall of Winchester between them, that's why. So, maybe it needed to be there. No one knew that better than he did.
God, why'd he drink all the beer earlier?
It wasn't hard to let go of his brother's shoulder and walk softly back to his own bed. Painful, but not hard.
"No no no no…"
Quiet, almost muffled by the pillow Sam was strangling. Dean glanced into the back seat, Sam's long legs trashing against the vinyl. He looked pale, and sweat made his face shine, his eyes were shut so tight, his face was a mess of lines, hard-edged and sharp—fuck, he looked worse than shit, and he was making noises like some dream thing was gutting him. Tears leaked from the wrinkled over corners and he groaned. "Jess, no, no…I can't…can't choose.…"
*Fucking* hell, there he goes again and why won’t he admit that he's suffering that bad? Why won’t he just....
When Sam cried out again, and one of his ridiculously long legs smacked up against the seat back, Dean pulled over. No way did he have to put up with that shit, no way.
"Sam—Sammy!"
He jerked awake, the thin blanket wrapped around his chest, and the pillow still wrapped in his arms. "Dean! Dean—"
I'm right here, guy. Right here." Sam's head shot over the top of the seat. "Sam, you okay? You all right?"-- 'cause he was looking at him like Dean had stomped his puppy—Sam's eyes were still red, and when he blinked his eyes, tears overflowed the corners and he wouldn't stop *staring* and gulping. Dean was beginning to think that maybe what Sam needed was a shot to the head, when his brother blinked, and whatever emotion had yanked him out of sleep, bled away.
"Dean…" he flushed deep red, and looked embarrassed, which was stupid, if anyone had a right to nightmares, it was Sam—and then, he looked away, said, "I'm fine."
Dean snorted. "Hell no, you're not, but fuck, I'm willing to pretend".
A couple of miles down the road Sam said, "You're my brother. I wouldn't trade you for anything."
Dean blinked. "Ooo-kay. Random, but, thanks I guess. I suppose…well, if someone showed up on my doorstep with a new carburetor and a couple of candy bars in exchange for you, I'd have to think real hard about it…."
Sam laughed—a real laugh, short as it was. "You're such a *jerk*!"
Dean had to fight real hard not to grin…he felt like a sun was trying to get out of his chest.
Which lasted a whole five hours.
One hundred and fifty miles, just hitting Nebraska, and it all blew up. Again.
Dean was crouched on the Impala's hood, killing time in the parking lot of one of the fucking ugliest motels he'd ever stayed at and that was including the ones Dad picked, and Dad kind of had an affinity for toxic dumps.
Inside, Sam waited for him. Well, more than waited…it was like knowing there was a fucking crazy gator lurking in the water and you had to jump in anyway. Can always hope for the best. Sure. He sighed, and launched off the hood of the car, let his boots hit the blacktop hard enough to make his teeth click. "Well fuck me, it's fun-time." He muttered. "Woo-hoo."
He let himself in the room and Sam scowled up at him and carefully shut the laptop. He jerked around on the chair until he was facing Dean, giving him the full and total death-glare. It was bad—he was pissed of with a capital piss. That little muscle in his jaw was working, and Dean tried not to watch it. God, he tried hard not to watch it.
"Roy."
"Hunh?" Dean blinked. Roy—where did that come from? What the fuck did that mean? "Roy what? He was a dick. I mean, I'm sorry he died, no one deserves that. But he was—"
"You kept looking at him. You let him push you around—and you kept looking at him."
"Well *yeah*—he was a dick. I wanted to keep him in sight. You know." Dean fidgeted. That was all. Roy was a fucking know-it-all—big, pushy, in your face kind of fucking guy with an attitude a mile wide and a smirk begging to be wiped off his face. Dean was sorry he was dead…like he'd told Sam; no one deserved a death like that. He was a jerk, but there was this light in his eyes…shouldna been put out. Just wrong.
Dean figured that subject had been put to bed but he underestimated Sam—again, and always.
He'd just been about to slide between sheets that should have been soft, they were so worn, and smelled of bleach, lots and lots of bleach…anyway, just about to climb in and he heard Sam from across the room.
"He kept looking at you."
He looked over, but Sam…Dean was pretty sure he was sound asleep. Sam's face was smooth, his mouth open a little, and the sheet fluttered with his breath. Dean rubbed his face, kept on rubbing until his hands were on the back of his neck…motherfuck, he *was* going crazy, he was.
The tape deck banging out Sabbath went practically unnoticed, Dean's head was reeling with all kind of unwelcome thoughts and speculation and self-examination, not his favorite sport. Dean was willing to admit, part of wanting Sam to stay was because he was lonely, the kind of lonely that Dad couldn't fill, the kind of lonely that anonymous hook-ups didn't fill. Sam was…Dean didn't want to think he was more family than Dad was family, but he was. And he crammed that thought deep, deep into the murky bottom of his psyche, along with lots of other uncomfortable thoughts….
Hit a bump in the road and Sam's head went flying, smacked into Dean's shoulder and flung him into wakefulness.
"Hunh? Damn it, Dean—"
"I didn't do it!" Fuck—now they were pre-teens squabbling in the back seat again. "Sorry, I hit a pothole."
"Yeah…okay." He slid upright, and now he was plastered against Dean's side, and yawning, leaning into Dean's side a little before rolling casually back towards the passenger's side. "Want me to drive a little? You can catch a nap…"
Dean rubbed at burning eyes. "Yeah. Sounds good. Just for a couple of hours. Check that map, when's the next stop coming up?
Sam looked over the map. "Looks like a medium sized town coming up. And there's a rest stop coming up in a couple of miles—we can trade there."
"The Brown Derby." They were in another non-descript motel, in another non-descript town. There was a lumpy, vaguely hat shaped thing hunched on the roof, made of tar-paper and painted dark brown. Dean eyed it like it was about to leap off the roof and eat them. "What the fuck d'ya think that's supposed to mean?" he nudged Sam and jerked his chin towards the roof.
"Could you please stop staring at that thing and just open the door, Dean." Sam grabbed his bag and duffel and waited with obvious impatience.
Dean barely got the door open before Sam stepped over the threshold, and immediately made that face—the one he made every single time and what the hell, every room in every motel was just about the same, so what the fuck was he looking for? At least no roaches ran out of the narrow rectangle of light the open door let into the fugly brown room, so—points--it wasn’t a complete pit.
Sam stomped into the middle of the room, and Dean noted again, with approval, no roaches went racing, so as far as he was concerned they were way ahead of the game, they could keep food in the room and—
He jumped as Sam dropped both bags with a clank-thud. "Th'fuck, Sam?"
He freaked completely when Sam suddenly turned, and, like in millions of his jerk-off fantasies, grabbed him by the collar and covered his mouth with his own.
Okay--that shit didn’t happen outside of the shower, or cover of darkness, and definitely, not outside of his mind--that meant something was *wrong* with Sam.
So Dean reared back and punched him—hard.
"Dean, what the FUCK!" Sam rocked back, staggered across the scrubby brown carpet until he hit the wall and slapped his hand over his mouth, blood already spreading between his fingers. Those fucking cat-eyes flashed from anger to horror to--fuck—shame.
Dean made a noise like 'nugh', and jumped forward, grabbed Sam by *his* collar and slammed their mouths together so hard, he heard the contact—felt the contact shudder right down to his gut and jab him in the back of the eyes.
Mint and chocolate.
Sam tasted like mint and chocolate—okay, Junior Mints, but—and he tasted like pennies, confusing for the nano-second it took for his brain to tell him they were both bleeding and then…he pushed Sam away…maybe too hard. Probably too hard.
Sam went over like a fucking tree—the floor creaked when he hit, and Dean stood over him, gasping so hard he felt like throwing up, mouth and his knuckles bleeding, and the feeling that he'd fucked up in a major-ass way making him shake.
Sam was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, his swollen lip working as he gulped like a fish…"You know, never in my wildest dreams did I ever think kissing would hurt a fucking lot more than being punched in the mouth…."
"Sam! I don't—you were kissing—and then I thought you were—you know---and then, I had to—have it and then—"
"You freaked and pushed me down like a school girl on the playground."
"Did not! Well, I did, but not like a girl."
Sam was up on one elbow and smiling. "Pretty much like a girl, dude."
"Sam! It's not fucking funny, you hear me, it's not fucking funny."
"I'm not laughing. Why did you let me go?"
"Jesus fuck, are we back on the Stanford thing again? 'Cause I'm sick to death of it."
"Yeah—but look, you knew just what I meant. You knew back then too, and you didn't even try, you didn’t even—"
"I. Did. What. You. Wanted. You were ready—you wanted to go."
"I left because I thought I had nothing. Not Dad, not you, and then--and Jess—and I have *nothing* left now. Nothing."
Sam was standing now, scowling, and Dean whipped towards Sam. Saying it was like spitting out razor blades, but he had to. "You have something. You have me. *I'm* something, you stupid fuck."
Sam stared into Dean's eyes, then dropped his head and nodded. He shrugged and looked up again with a small smile. "Yeah, you're right," he said, and pulled Dean into a rough hug. Of course, Dean was ready for it. There'd be a hug, than a back-slap, once, twice, maybe a shoulder squeeze, and separate quickly--oh God so quickly….
He was thinking so hard, he almost missed the hug, almost missed Sam saying, "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for…you know. I get it." He tried to pull away but Sam's hands were like iron.
"I'm not apologizing for that—I'm apologizing for this." And yanked him the last inch closer, pressed his mouth on Dean's, opened his lips. There was soft and wet, and tongue and heat, oh fuck, *heat*—
I can't—can't think--Holy shit this is wrong, holy shit this is bad, I mean holy shit
Sam was talking again but his mouth was still on Dean's and Dean had to concentrate to understand. "S'why I kept running. Never answered the phone…I was trying to stay away from you, and I'm sorry. I don’t hate you. Never, couldn't. I love you too much."
Dean shuddered. When Sam's hand climbed his neck, he closed his eyes and willed himself not to get hard, not to cry. "Okay," he stuttered, "you don’t hate me. I'm glad."
Sam tried to laugh. "Now you hate *me*, right? I don't blame you, this is fucked up—we're beyond fucked up, aren't we? It can't get worse than this, Dean."
Dean pulled Sam into him. "Oh yeah, it can." He closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around Sam's neck and kissed him, walking him backwards until, thank God, they tumbled onto the bed and not the floor.
What the hell, he'd never had a motherfucking chance, never. It was like…like this thing was burned into his bones, his blood. Like Sam had one of those giant hands fisted in his heart and there was no way, no way to save himself, or Sam.
"Dean." His name shook out, hot and wet against his throat, whispered and licked into his skin, up to his ear. "Dean. We can do this…."
If he told Sam no, would he leave? Punch him—cry? And if he said yes, then what happened? Brothers, they were brothers, he was supposed to help Sam, keep him safe, not break him….
A hot, hard, slide against his dick shattered that line of thought…he knew just what Sam looked like, had seen his dick a million times and had never thought of it like this. Mostly never. There were maybe a few times—he groaned when Sam reached under him, and pulled him closer, ground down a little more confidently—a few times, occasionally, when he didn’t wonder what Sam would look like in the palm of his hand--
"Please. Dean."
His name spun out, low, and broken and endless in the gloom…Dean ripped at his jeans, ripped at Sam's. He needed to feel naked skin against skin, see if it felt as warm and as smooth and…as erotic as touching Sam's safe parts. His arms, his hands…his….
"I need you to fuck me," Sam said, and then gasped and turned the brightest red Dean had ever seen a human being turn. Sam dropped his head. "I can't believe I said that out loud—to you. Shit—I just begged my—"
"Sam, swear to God, we have all the time in the world, *later*, to freak, okay? Right now…" Dean stuttered into silence. Right now, they were laying across a slightly too small, slightly damp bed, in a dark, shit colored room smelling of Clorox and mold, shirts rucked up and pants on the floor, and it was one of his favorite fucking fantasies in all the world. Dean burst into tears. On the inside, so Sam couldn't see and freak out even more.
Sam reared back. "Then fuck me. Right now. Like this."
Dean winced. "It's going to hurt, and you're not going to like it, but you'll do it because you won't want to hurt me, and you'll blame me and blame yourself and feel guilty and you know what? I don't want to be your punishment." He needed to get Sam off of him like right now and the light shove Dean gave him was enough. Sam got right up and walked away, went into the bathroom, and…at least this time, he didn't slam the door.
The cool weight of his arm felt good on his burning eyes, and Dean tried to let out the deep breath of relief that was choking him. Fucking hell, he was glad Sam was smarter than he was. Dean managed to inhale, shaky and rough. Okay. That was settled, finally. Now, all he had to do was…not let Sam touch him ever again in this lifetime.
He was getting to his feet, eyes still closed and feeling the way like a blind man, when a shove between his shoulder blades sent him flying back onto the bed. "Hey!"
Dean opened one eye and Sam was standing in front of him, holding out a…Trojan. "Where d'you think you're go—Dean? Are you all right?" Sam's smirk crumbled in a way that made Dean's heart hurt.
"What? Yes!" Dean scrubbed at his face. "Carpet—mold, makes my, unh. Eyes irritated. Come on—stop it."
"Dean, you're—you're—"
Dean yanked Sam into him, wrapped his arms around him and fell back against the bed. "Awesome."
"Yeah? Yeah…" Sam smiled, "and naked. Beautiful." He scratched his way down from Dean's chin to his navel, and Dean arched trying to keep contact. Sam stopped with his fingers resting at the base of Dean's dick, eyes locked on his. "You want me to—"
"Yeah, please," and Sam's hand engulfed him. Dean marveled at the sight of all that hand covering him. Dark red and wet and gleaming, his dick looked amazing in Sam's hand—he flushed, felt it ride over him like a hot wave. Sam's face hanging over him went red, his neck, his chest. It was fucking hot, watching that tide of red sweep over him. He pulled away again and Dean whined—but Sam just rocked back enough to gather them both up, press their dicks together in one hand, and proceeded to wreck Dean completely. The press and slide of Sam against him, slick hot skin on one side and the warm calloused press of his hand on the other…Sam moaned and worked them and Dean threw his arms out, grabbed handfuls of cheap ravely blanket because the pleasure was so strong it hurt and he was afraid he'd throw Sam off of him. He turned his head to the side to breathe and Sam locked his teeth in his throat—Dean imagined him biting down until his teeth met in the middle of his flesh, and came suddenly and violently.
"Dean, God damn it, damn it—" Sam was hunching over him, and adding to the slippery hot mess between them. "Damn, damn, damn…."
Dean reached up and helped Sam stroke once or twice through the aftershocks, until his hand got slapped away.
Dean smirked, "Oh, sensitive, hunh?" Sam gasped out a little snort, muttered, "Jerk," and dropped flat on the bed, one long leg slung over Dean, his hand curled over Dean's hip.
Dean took a long warm moment to feel…pretty fucking wonderful, right up until the panic wall hit him, head on. Just like that he slid from cozy to full tilt freak-out. Sam was going to take off, Sam was going to lose it--best scenario, Sam was going to freak and beat the shit out of him---
"Oh for fuck's sake—stop it. Just cut it out and sleep."
"No. I close my eyes and you're gone."
Sam shifted and Dean could feel that he was turned to face him. "So…you're never going to sleep again?"
"I've gone without sleep before," he muttered.
Sam laughed. "You're a piece of work. You would wouldn’t you? Try to go without sleep." His hand rubbed Dean's stomach, and Dean slapped at it, but let it lay, with an annoyed huff. "You'd throw yourself in front of a truck for me…there's no one left in the world who'd do that, not for me. Just you."
"Would not," Dean said and felt the red flush climb his neck. "That'd be stupid." Sam's hand tightened for a moment and Dean sighed. "Yes, all right. Hey. We're a damn good team." Which was supposed to mean a ton of things that he didn't want to say out loud, and he hoped Sam got it, but if he needed it, Dean figured he could bring himself to say them out loud…he really hoped he wouldn't have to.
Thank God, Sam was as smart as Dean always claimed him to be.
"We are a good team." Sam kissed him, handed Dean the condom. "Speaking of team work, hold onto this—you're going to need it in a bit…well, maybe later…a lot later. You are kinda getting on--"
"Fuck you!" Dean ended up laughing right into Sam's mouth.
Did he say smart? He meant Sam was a bitch.
FIN
1-23-2009
eta: oy.