Requestor: anasuede, written for slashfest
Prompt: Dean has a recurring dream that he saves Sam's life, steps in the line of fire, and after several nights he starts to believe that it's some sort of omen, so he panics and doesn't let Sam leave the hotel room for days.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters; no profit is being made.
Spoilers: Post AHBL
Beta: Thanks so much to petiii and leighm.
We Keep Driving
After everything goes down, Sam insists they take some time off, spend a week at Bobby’s regrouping. Sam claims he needs it, but Dean suspects that his brother really means that Dean needs it instead. But Dean’s okay. He’s not sure if he will be later on, but right now he’s still high on killing the demon, and damn if it didn’t feel good to see his dad smile again.
And Sam’s alive.
That’s enough for Dean, even if Sam doesn’t find some kind of loophole to drag his ass out of this. He can live with what he did. He can die with it too.
The four of them hole up at Bobby’s, their shoulders getting less tense and their expressions less guarded as the days pass. Ellen makes nachos, cutting the blocks of cheese directly on Bobby’s countertop. Her mouth gets tight when Jo’s name comes up, but otherwise she smiles while she tells them about the time Ash put Tabasco sauce in all the ketchup bottles.
Bobby digs out every single book he has on demonology while Sam makes lists and notes and graphs, and Dean tinkers with Bobby’s cars and washes their dirty dishes by hand, humming to the radio.
Even with the demon war looming, and his sentence hanging over his head, Dean’s happy.
On Saturday night, Sam says he’s about ready to head out, and he spreads Ash’s map over Bobby’s table again, pointing out the churches. Ellen thinks the churches might contain some clues as to what’s coming, so they plan to split up on Sunday, Bobby and Ellen heading toward the churches on the west part of the map, while Sam and Dean head to the ones on the south.
They’re only forty miles from their first church when they stop at Wal-Mart for supplies.
“I need some new boxers,” Sam says, still visible over the shelf as he walks toward the clothing section.
“Okay, Kathy Lee. I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen.” Dean steps into the shampoo aisle, cursing when a couple is blocking the entire row.
If it was up to Dean, they’d never enter another Wal-Mart, but sometimes they don’t have any choice—it’s often the only store in these godforsaken towns, perched on the edge of a highway, with its dingy brown bricks and cracked sidewalks.
Dean pays for his razors and shampoo, refusing the offered bag and tucks them under his arm. He goes outside to wait, leaning against the Impala, which is parked beside a banged up Eagle Talon. Dean’s scoffing at the plastic bumper when he sees Sam round the corner—Sam’s squinting as he hitches one of the white plastic bags higher on his arm, and Dean’s ready to give him hell for carrying the bag like a goddamned purse when a movement catches his eye.
Dean glances over, frowning, thinking he sees something hiding behind the gutted vending machine on the sidewalk. He puts his razor and shampoo on the hood of the Impala and creeps down the side of the car until he sees the man, crouched between the Pepsi and Coke machine. There’s a gun in his hand.
It’s aimed toward Sam.
Dean sees the tilt of the gun, the flash of gunpowder and yells, diving toward his little brother, shoving him toward the pavement as Sam drops the bags he’s holding. Dean’s just fast enough to shelter Sam, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief as the bullet lodges into his own back.
Dean jerks, reaching out for Sam and catching only a damp sheet in his hands.
“Dean?” Sam is sitting in front of his laptop, peering around it to stare at his brother. “You sick?”
Dream. It was just a dream. Sam is here.
“No,” Dean says, sitting up on Bobby’s couch, untwisting himself from the stale bedding. “I’m fine.”
“You were making an awful lot of noise.”
“Sorry.” Dean rubs his hands over his eyes, willing himself not to remember the man going after Sam in his dream, trying not to think of Sam, lying still and quiet last week in the ghost town.
Sam closes the laptop and slides it under his chair, leaning closer to stare at his brother. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Dean’s really not, but he’s not going to admit that. He can shake this feeling. He always does. Apparently it’s not working so well, because Sam keeps looking at him, not saying anything, but Dean can tell that he wants to.
It’s not even light outside yet, but Dean’s ready to leave. The dream lingers, washing over him as he stuffs his toothbrush down into his bag, and he wants to get as far away from Bobby’s broken down tweed couch as possible. “Let’s get going.”
Sam just nods, picking up his laptop and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, following Dean to the Impala, no arguing.
Dean tries to relax once they’re in the car, but it’s hard. He can’t shake the sight of Sam in his dream, walking toward the car, grinning into the sun, probably ready to tell Dean about the boxers he bought on sale. It’s too close to the truth, too close to the simple, ‘thank god you’re here,’ smile of relief Sam flashed right before Jake rushed forward.
Dean grips the steering wheel, opening and closing the palms of his hand around the worn leather.
Sam shifts in his seat, plucking at his jeans, before resting his hands on his knees and frowning over at Dean. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
Dean sighs. He’s always been shit at hiding anything from his brother, so why should this time be any different? Still, Dean is not ready to discuss this, and that stupid fucking dream didn’t meant anything—nothing other than Dean’s fucked up in the head, which everyone already knows. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Dean.” Sam slides to the right on his seat, wedging himself against the car door so he can face his brother. “Come on, you’re twitchy.”
“I’m twitchy?” Dean cocks his head and cuts his eyes toward Sam for a second. “You’re the one wiggling around over there. It was just a bad dream.”
“You’re still all worked up over a dream?” Sam mashes his lips together, raising his eyebrows. “Must have been pretty bad.”
Dean huffs, exhaling, and shakes his head. “Understatement.”
Sam quits staring at Dean, finally, and picks up a stray straw from under the seat, twirling it between his fingers, “So, what happened?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Sam shrugs, bending the straw in half until it snaps. “Okay. Nightmares suck. Sometimes it helps to talk about it—”
Dean glares over at Sam, relaxing when he sees the corners of his brother’s mouth quirking into a grin.
They find a motel near their designated church, and it’s more grim than usual. Dirtier, more desolate. All the surfaces are covered in a thick layer of grime, and the smell of the dirt reminds Dean of the ghost town. He runs his fingers over the dresser, frowning down at the reddish brown streaks that coat his hand.
“I’m beat,” Sam says, rubbing his hand over his back as he sprawls across one of the beds.
Dean has to bite his tongue to keep from asking Sam how he’s feeling, if his back hurts. He asked over and over the first few days until Sam snapped at him to stop hovering.
“Yeah, me too. You rest, and then we’ll have dinner,” Dean says, picking up the remote and turning on the television, glancing over at Sam, stomach dropping at the sight of his brother lying on his back, hands folded over his stomach, just like he was… Dean stops himself and forces a deep breath, commanding his brain to acknowledge that Sam’s mouth is open, that he’s breathing, and that his chest is moving. That doesn’t stop Dean from inching to the edge of his bed, stealing glances over at Sam every few seconds.
The diner is hot and crowded—Dean wishes they’d paid attention to the sign outside that says ‘we serve buses,’ but they didn’t, and now he’s watching groups of thirteen-year-olds dressed in neon yellow t-shirts bound off of four separate church vans.
The waiter approaches and Dean shifts on the red vinyl seat, watching. Something’s funny about the waiter—his moves are quick and furtive, but Dean can’t detect anything supernatural about him. Dean looks at Sam, making eye contact, but Sam’s face is easy and open as he peels the paper from his straw, and there’s no sign that he’s picked up on anything odd.
There’s a bang and a squeal as one of the teenagers knocks a Coke to the floor, followed by scraping and laughing as the kids scurry back from the sticky mess. Dean ignores the giggling teens and focuses on the waiter as he turns to face the commotion, and Dean catches sight of a large knife in the waiter’s waistband, clearly visible in the spot where his polo meets his apron.
Dean’s on his feet in an instant, hand tapping the tabletop to get his brother’s attention. “Sam. Now. Let’s go.”
Sam opens his mouth, like he’s going to ask, ‘why Dean, why now, what’s wrong,’ but he must catch the panic in Dean’s eyes because he closes his mouth and nods as Dean moves to block Sam from the waiter, block him from the bastard who’s raising his knife, aiming it at Sam’s heart.
Dean wakes up slower this time. He doesn’t jerk or scream, and Sam’s still asleep in the bed next to him.
They spend all day at the church, going over every possible detail, and Dean doesn’t have time to really consider the dream, but it’s right there, pressing, shadowing his thoughts.
After they're done inspecting the church, they both collapse into the car, starving, and Dean decides to splurge. He doesn’t stop at their motel, but keeps driving to the nearest town and pulls into the Outback parking lot, hoping a tall Foster’s and a few cheesy fries will get his mind off that damned dream.
Sam orders first, then watches Dean while he tells their waitress what he wants. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong now?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Dean grins at the waitress, eyes lingering on her cutoffs and the tattoo on her lower back as she leaves their table. “Did you see her thong, Sammy? Leopard print. I’d like to take that off and—”
“Come on, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes, dismissing the waitress and Dean’s interest. He gestures toward the menus, crinkling his forehead. “Why are we here? We never go someplace like this. You always say chains are overrated and too expensive.”
Dean picks up one of the cardboard coasters, tracing his finger over the orange koala bear, feeling the forced smile fade from his face. “They are.”
Sam flattens his lips, pressing them together, and looks away, his eyes flashing with annoyance.
Dean sighs and tosses his coaster against the salt and pepper holder. “I had another dream.”
Sam waits while the waitress sets their beers on the table then leans forward, wrapping his hand around his frosted mug, waiting for Dean to talk.
“Someone tried to kill you.”
Sam’s still leaning forward, unimpressed. “And?”
“That was the dream.”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’ Isn’t that enough?”
Sam pauses as the waitress places the cutting board and bread on the table. “Well, considering what we do, what we’ve done, our whole lives, isn’t it more likely than not that you’d have these types of dreams? In fact, I think it’s odd that you don’t have them more often.”
“Enough.” Dean looks at his watch, tapping his fingers against the table. “They need to hurry up with the cheesy fries.”
“Dean, don’t just cut me off. Is this about me dying?” Sam hesitates for just a second, hunching forward more, grabbing the bread and slicing it with the thick butter knife. “Because when you had the heart attack, I was willing to do anything. Hell, I still don’t care that someone had to die for you to live. I’d do it again, no quest—”
“Sam.” Dean lets go off his beer and holds up his hand, cutting Sam off. “You were dead. Not in the hospital, not in a coma, but dead.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Sam says, nodding, pushing a piece of bread toward his brother.
Dean shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you do. Dead, Sam. Cold, pale, not moving. Nothing. Not the same. Not even close. Okay?” Dean gets up and walks out of the restaurant, uninterested in cheesy fries or steak specials.
They ride back to the motel in silence.
Dean takes a shower, slower than usual, plodding. He doesn’t want to go to sleep.
Sam looks up from one of Bobby’s books, biting his lip when Dean settles into one of the square chairs by the dinette table. “This is seriously freaking you out, isn’t it?”
Dean kicks off the floor, leaning backward and balancing the chair back on its back legs. “No, Sam, I like to dream about someone trying to kill you.”
“Not everything has to be an omen, especially now that the demon’s gone.” Sam closes his book with a pop, his face open and sincere. “Maybe a dream’s just a dream.”
“Sam.” Dean says it firmly, hoping it sounds like a warning.
“You don’t think they might be…” Sam trails off, making a half gesture with his hand, palm facing up.
“What?” Dean rolls his eyes—apparently his warning tone was as effective as always. “Just say it.”
“Visions. Like mine.”
“No,” Dean says, letting the front of the chair thud back onto the floor. He pushes himself up and climbs into the bed closest to the door, gun and knife tucked under his pillow.
Dean doesn’t dream that night because he lies awake, listening to the rustle of sheets from Sam’s bed.
When they arrive at the second church, Dean drives past the turn off. He rubs his free hand against his knee, unsure of how Sam’s going to take this. Actually, he’s pretty sure how he’ll take it—what Dean’s not sure about is how to convince Sam that Dean is right, and he’s still working out possible arguments when Sam thumps him on the shoulder.
“Hey, you just skipped our turn, man. Need me to drive?”
Dean grips the steering wheel with both hands. “No, I wanna find a motel first. I want you to stay there.”
“No way, Dean.” Sam’s voice is soft, his tone making up for the stubbornness of his words, and he puts his hand on Dean’s leg. “I am not letting you do this alone.”
Dean jumps at Sam’s hand on his leg and reminds himself that Sam is trying to be reassuring, but it’s not helping. He takes a deep breath. “I just need more time.”
“Why? You said yourself that these weren’t visions.”
“I am not going to take that chance, Sam. Not with your life.”
“You don’t get to say where I go. We’re partners.”
“You’re still my little brother,” Dean says firmly, adjusting his seat and turning up the radio. “I just need time to figure this out.”
“We have a hunt, Dean,” Sam says emphatically, lines creasing his forehead as he snaps the radio back off. “We have stuff that we need to do. This job has never been safe, I don’t know why you’d think it would start being safe now.”
“This is different, okay? Just calm down. It won’t be forever.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m not insisting that you hide in a motel room.” Sam shakes his head, jaw set, leaning all the way back against the door so he can face his brother. “Listen to me. I am going to the church. That’s final.”
Dean sighs as he pulls up in front of the church, Sam still in the passenger seat. He’s not surprised—Sam’s never responded to orders. And really, Dean could’ve pushed harder, and he’s pretty sure Sam would have given in to him if he’d begged or acted pitiful, but like Sam said, they’re partners.
They go inside and there’s a mural of a gnarled tree on the front wall of the church, old and faded, but still visible. Sam sketches the tree, replicating the cuts in the branches and the way they ooze with what looks like blood, while Dean makes notes in dad’s journal. He’s just described the painting of a man holding a knife, appearing to make slices in the trunk of the tree, when he sways on his feet.
He backs up to one of the pews, reaching out to steady himself, but Sam’s already there, touching his shoulder, bending down to study his face. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you? We should have taken today off.”
Dean just stares at the floor.
“Let’s go,” Sam says, as he pulls Dean from the church. “I’m driving.”
Sam finds a motel and checks them in, then grabs Dean by the arm, leading him to the bed. “Come on. Lie down.”
Dean relaxes onto the bed, scratchy blue comforter under his cheek, and Sam runs his hands through Dean’s hair.
The comforter is stale and reeks of that chemical spray shit that Dean hates, the kind that doesn’t actually clean or cover up, but just mixes in with the odor of cigarettes and cat piss. Dean wiggles until his face is pressed into Sam’s jeans, the grain of the denim rough against his check, but the faint smell of Tide is a much better alternative, and he smiles to himself.
Sam’s hands are steady, and Dean’s lulled, dazed by Sam’s fingers on his head. “You would,” Dean mutters, not realizing he’s spoken out loud.
“I would what?” Sam asks, shifting his leg.
Dean’s voice is muffled into Sam’s jeans. “You’d make me stay in a motel room if you thought it would help.” Sam’s never touched him quite like this, and Dean wonders if he should be alarmed at how good it feels to have Sam’s fingers on his head. His stomach tingles, and he wonders idly if he’d be hard if he weren’t so damn exhausted.
He jerks, alarmed and curious at the same time, and Sam’s hand stills briefly before he starts tracing his fingers across Dean’s scalp again.
Sam sighs. “Yeah. I would.”
Dean wants to tell Sam not to sound so sad, so heavy and resigned, but he can’t form the words. He mumbles and rolls onto his back, snuggling into Sam’s body as Sam moves his hands from Dean’s hair to his cheek.
Dean doesn’t have a specific dream that night, at least not one that’s detailed and tangible. He dreams though, tangled shards of nightmare poking and taunting him, bits and pieces of knives and trees that spill blood when they’re cut, and when he wakes up, Sam’s still next to him, both of them facedown on the bed, his arm wrapped tightly around Dean’s shoulders.
Dean’s startled at the heavy weight of Sam’s body next to him. It’s awkward and weird, but not entirely unpleasant, and Dean stays still, appreciating the drape of Sam’s arm across his back.
The need to pee finally takes over and Dean clears his throat, pushing away from Sam with a stretch of his arms, hoping to god it seems causal, hating that his cheeks turn red so easily, feeling the flush go across his face. He hurries to the bathroom, pees, brushes his teeth and changes into some pajama pants, and by the time he’s done, he’s feeling calmer, at least about the touching thing.
But not about the dreams.
Once Sam's awake, Dean paces by the door, stopping three times to check the bolts and the thick line of salt. “I still want you to stay here.”
Sam is up and coming toward him, eyes sharp, mouth in a firm line. “No.”
When Dean sees the set of Sam’s shoulders, he knows he’s not going to give in. Dean sags against the wall, still worn out. He rubs his hand over his forehead, sighing. “Sam, I don’t have another deal to make. We can’t screw this up.”
“You can’t just—” Sam stops talking, and his mouth opens as he takes in what Dean said. Then he’s backing up, away, and sitting down on the bed with his head in his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, staring at the floor. Dean watches him fixate on his shoes, until finally Sam raises his head. “Look Dean, forget the dreams. We dance around this—this deal—trying to pretend it’s not happening. But we need to be trying to figure out how to fix this instead of chasing second rate demons all over the country.”
Dean gapes for a minute, uncomprehending. “Second rate? Like it matters how far up the Hell-chain they are? Fucking come on, Sammy. That’s our job. There’s a war coming, and we are going to stop it.”
“I don’t care, Dean. Be pissed at me if you want, tell me that Dad would be disappointed, but if you’re dead in a year, then I don’t give a shit about the goddamn demons.”
Dean closes his eyes, Sam’s words ringing in his ears. “I said the same thing,” Dean says, slouching into one of the chairs, speaking so softly that he can barely hear himself over the whine of the air conditioner.
Sam pulls the other chair out, dragging it close so he’s sitting right in front of Dean. “What do you mean?”
“When you were—” Dean still can’t say it, so he swallows hard and keeps talking. “Bobby said the world might end, and I said, ‘Let it end.’ And I meant it.”
“Jesus,” Sam says, moving his chair forward, wooden legs snagging on the worn carpet. He keeps scooting until he can rest his forehead against Dean’s. “What a fucking mess.”
They sit there for a few minutes, both of them breathing hard, Dean aware of each breath that Sam takes.
“I know I’m supposed to care, Dean. I’m supposed to say, ‘This is the right thing to do.’ But without you…” Sam trails off, staring at Dean’s face. Then Sam’s moving, he’s got his hands on Dean’s face, and he’s leaning closer, and Dean can’t take it. He pushes Sam back, and he’s on his feet, heading for the door. He slams the heavy metal door, and leans against it, shaking, considering his options. He steps forward and puts his hands on the hood of the Impala. He could leave, go for a drive, but he didn’t grab the keys.
He shivers. He’s barefoot and the pavement is chillier than he expected. He backs up and leans against the motel, and takes a deep breath, inhaling layers of motor oil on asphalt, trying to figure out when the fuck he started thinking of his little brother like that.
He’s still not past the definition of what exactly ‘that’ is, when the door opens and Sam’s behind him, grabbing his upper arm and yanking Dean back into the motel. He braces himself, ready to fight back, but Sam’s not trying to hit him, not yet.
Sam’s face is flushed, his throat working, as he crowds into Dean, forcing him back against the wall. “Goddammit, Dean. Don’t walk away from me. Not now.”
Dean sets his feet apart and shoves Sam backward, ready for a punch. “What the fuck was that? Huh?”
“I don’t know.”
Dean doesn’t even try to temper the bite in his voice. “You don’t know?”
“I’m not giving you up. Not again,” Sam says, his voice so low that Dean barely hears him.
“You asshole. I wasn’t leaving for good.”
Sam almost snarls, cutting his hands through the air, turning his palms up, questioning. “How was I supposed to know?”
“Because I wouldn’t leave you. You know that.”
“I’d never tried to kiss you before either.”
“Just shut up, Sam.”
“No.” Sam says, sliding his hands up under Dean’s shirt.
Dean hasn't felt the bulge of an erection against his body in a long time, but when Sam’s touches his leg, burning though the fabric of his pants, his stomach flips over, flutters. He grabs Sam’s ass and tugs him closer, feeling the hard line of Sam’s cock under his jeans, so hot that Dean can feel it through his pajama pants.
Sam reaches for Dean’s belt but Dean stops him, and Dean knows he’s got to talk, has to say something to keep this normal, or keep it as normal as its going to be, before he freaks out and completely loses it. He swallows hard, and reminds himself that it’s okay, that this is Sam. His Sam. “Slow down, cowboy. I wanna touch you like this first.”
Sam nods, pushing his hips forward, pressing until Dean’s flat against the wall. “Okay,” Sam breathes out, panting. “I can do that.”
“Damn straight you can,” Dean whispers, stretching his fingers, extending them to cover Sam’s ass and squeezing briefly before moving one hand in between them, tracing his hand up and down the outline of Sam’s cock.
Dean shudders as his stomach rolls again, a pleasant feeling that he hasn’t had in a long time. He rubs his hand up and down, until the friction’s warming the jeans covering Sam’s cock, until Sam’s head is bowed, resting on Dean’s shoulder. Sam moans, over and over, rocking back and forth, up on his toes and back, smashing his entire body up against Dean’s.
Dean pulls back, admiring Sam’s intensity, his closed eyes, the way he chews on his lip. He unbuttons Sam’s jeans, receiving a groan of relief from his brother as he slides Sam’s pants down, standing back up when Sam kicks his jeans all the way off.
Sam moves to push his boxers down too, but Dean grabs his wrist. “What did I say about slowing down?”
“Since when have you ever been patient, Dean?”
“Since right now, Romeo. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right.”
Sam laughs. “Fine.”
Dean keeps his left hand on Sam’s wrist, gripping tighter and runs the fingers of his free hand over Sam’s boxers. He passes over the wet spot, touching where the fabric clings against skin, and Sam jerks his head. Dean rubs down over the thin layer of cotton, the dampness spreading over navy blue stripes.
“Please,” Sam moans, clutching the back of Dean’s t-shirt,
“Shhh.” Dean finally tugs Sam’s boxers down, letting them rest right under his ass. He walks Sam backwards until he hits the mattress and flops onto his back.
“God,” Sam says, huffing out a little breath and closing his eyes when Dean yanks Sam’s boxers all the way off and sprawls on top of him, wrapping his hand around Sam’s cock.
Dean doesn’t stroke yet, just holds it in his palm, feeling the weight of Sam in his hand.
Sam opens his eyes. “I had it all wrong.”
“Had what wrong?” Dean says, letting go of Sam’s cock long enough to pull his t-shirt over his head.
“I figured.” Sam stops and gasps when Dean’s hand moves, trailing down to Sam’s ass and rubs a soft circle around his entrance. He exhales, loud, and tries again. “I thought you’d be all, you know, shove ‘em up against the wall. Quick and dirty. You know.”
Dean smiles, laughing quietly against Sam’s neck. “A regular ‘wham bam thank you ma’am?’” And when Sam nods his head, Dean smiles again. “I usually am.”
Dean gathers the wetness at the tip of Sam’s cock and rubs it all over, twisting his hand and rubbing his palm all over until Sam’s sagging into the bed under him. “Not a problem,” Sam moans, arching up, biting all up and down Dean’s neck. “Want you to fuck me now.”
And just like that, the atmosphere changes, and the reality of what they’re doing hits Dean. Sam’s going to let Dean fuck him, and he’s probably going to fuck Dean, and once that happens, Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop.
And another year of Sam’s life will fade away, lost to this family, to Dean, and then how long after that? How long will Sam mourn and blame himself for not finding the answers? From all the months between Jess and Madison, Sam never slept with another girl. It’s going to be bad enough when Sam loses his brother, his last relative, but he can’t lose another lover, not if he’s ever going to move past this.
Dean squeezes Sam’s forearms, shaking his head. “Sammy. Stop.”
Sam doesn’t stop. He leaves Dean’s hands where they are, grabbing Dean’s hips, rocking up into his brother as his cock makes contact with Dean’s through his pajama pants.
“Sam. No.” Dean pushes himself onto his elbows and tries to crawl off of Sam, but Sam’s fast, and pulls him back.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Sam’s face twists up, little wrinkles appearing across his forehead as he studies Dean’s face. “And Dean, don’t lie to me,” he says, not letting go, wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist.
Dean lets himself fall over onto his side, sliding off Sam completely. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“Don’t try and tell me you think this is wrong.” Sam shifts, turning so that he’s facing Dean, touching his chest. “I can tell that you don’t care.”
“Yeah, I don’t care,” Dean inches backwards, afraid that if he lets Sam keep touching him, that he’ll cave. “I mean, it’s fucked up as hell, but I don’t give a shit about that.”
Sam leans forward, propped up on one elbow, his face right in front of Dean’s. “Then what?”
“I just—” Dean turns away and sits up on the edge of the bed. He grabs his t-shirt from where it landed on the bedside table, unable to be that close to his brother, scared that he’ll change his mind before he can get the words out. “This is a big deal, between us. It’s not a random fuck with someone you’ll never see again.” Dean sighs and pulls his shirt on, standing up and facing his brother again. “And that would be okay, if I weren’t going to d—”
“Don’t say it Dean.” Sam’s shaking his head, kicking at the tangled covers. “I’m going to fix it.”
“What if you don’t? What then? Then I’m another person that you were with, like this, and then I’m gone.”
“You think I’ll go crazy?” Sam shoves the covers off the bed, leaving them in a heap on the floor and gets up off the bed, starting toward Dean. “You know what, maybe I will. But if I lose you, and we didn’t fuck, then the result is the same.” Sam stands right in front of Dean, curling his hands around Dean’s shoulders, fingers digging in. “You’d still be gone.”
Dean doesn’t try to shrug Sam off, but just lets him squeeze, still not moving when his brother’s grip tightens. “Sam, don’t look at it like that, this is your chance—”
“You stupid fucking bastard.” Sam gives Dean a little shake. “I’m not settling. That life I had? It’s over. And I don’t want it back. Not now, not ever.” Sam lets go of Dean’s shoulders, pressing his entire body against his brother, his voice low and rough in Dean’s ear. “I’m not going to roll over and accept this. I’m not going to stand by and let it happen.”
Dean shudders, feeling Sam’s warm breath on his skin and tries to ignore the tingling in his stomach. “They said…” Dean’s voice wavers, not so much at what he’s trying to say as the feel of Sam’s erection against his thigh. “They said if I try to undo it—”
“You aren’t. I am.” Sam pauses, tilting his head and speaking against Dean’s temple, pressing his lips right into Dean’s skin. “This one’s mine, Dean. And you better just get used to it.”
Dean still thinks—no, he knows—this isn’t a good idea, not for Sam, but Sam’s determined, and since when has Dean ever been able to talk Sam out of anything? He’s not sure why he thought sex would be any different. “Okay, but so help me god, if you angst about this, I will haunt your ass.”
“You need a new line,” Sam mutters, and then he’s got his hands on Dean’s face again, and he’s pressing his tongue into Dean’s mouth, sliding it against Dean’s tongue, and Dean lets go.
The room spins, and they’re falling back onto the bed, shedding Dean's clothes and rolling, until the fitted sheet pops off the edge of the mattress and bunches up under them.
Sam throws himself on top of Dean, and at the feel of his bare skin, Dean closes his eyes. Sam smells like Crest, although Dean doesn’t remember him getting up to brush his teeth. He can’t get enough of touching, wanting to feel his brother’s skin under his hands, so he rubs, up and down Sam’s sides, along his ribs, down his backbone, all over his ass.
Sam bucks against him, rocking, and thrusting, nipping and biting again, sharp and stinging, across Dean’s chest and Dean pushes himself up on his knees, moving his finger back down to Sam’s entrance, rubbing over his ass but not pushing in.
“Stop,” Sam says, writhing as Dean moves down to lick precome off the tip of Sam's cock. “Won’t last.”
Dean nods and crawls off the bed, grabbing his bag and finding a condom and KY. He turns off the bathroom light, until the room is almost dark, the only light from the yellow street lamp that shines through the gaps of the musty curtains.
He looks at Sam stretched out on the bed, just enough light to admire long legs and muscles, and he comes back to Sam, covering him with his body. He runs one hand through Sam’s hair, feeling it slide through his fingers before letting go to uncap the lube. He kneels up, looking at Sam on his back, just staring again until Sam blushes, red creeping up his chest and neck, reaching his cheeks.
Dean slicks his fingers as much as he can, uncertain as to whether Sam’s done this before, and when Sam rolls over onto his stomach and Dean kisses down his back, he stops, staring at the smooth white scar. Dean hasn’t seen it since that first night when he made Sam let him look at it, but oddly enough, it doesn’t bother Dean. When he kisses over the pulled skin, it’s a sign that says to him, ‘Sam is alive,’ and that’s what matters.
Sam’s motionless under him for the first time since they got started, seeming to realize what Dean’s looking at, but after Dean touches the mark and moves on, kissing Sam’s hip, Sam’s restless again, and lets out a thick moan when Dean finally pushes one finger inside.
“Don’t have to be gentle,” Sam says, bowing his head and grabbing onto the sheet that’s now completely wadded up under his hands.
Dean nods even though Sam can’t see him, surprised at how free Sam is in bed, how unrestrained, and damn if Dean isn’t enjoying it. “You feel so fucking good, Sammy,” Dean says, the words out of his mouth before he can even think about stopping them.
Sam moans louder at Dean’s words, and Dean adds a second finger, leaning over Sam and wrapping his arm around his waist. He touches Sam’s erection, running his finger through the wetness and licks it off, still fucking Sam with his hand.
“Fuck, Dean.” Sam's got his head turned, twisting, watching Dean over his shoulder. “Do it again.”
And Dean does it again, but first he adds a third finger, pushing against resistance until Sam relaxes and takes him in, then wipes his palm across the precome, licking it off slowly while Sam stares.
“Like that?” Dean asks, licking the back of Sam’s neck where his hair flips up in a curl, inhaling the scent of cheap vanilla motel shampoo.
“Yeah.” Sam exhales. “Now. Now. Can’t last.”
Dean pulls back and slicks his cock, pressing forward slowly, stroking Sam gently at the same time, back and forth. Sam makes a few tiny whining noises, but doesn’t pull away. His cock stays hard, and Dean keeps pushing until he’s finally all the way in, working to keep his knees from slipping on the vinyl covering of the bare mattress.
The air in the room is charged, and Dean waits, jacking Sam in the same slow rhythm, until Sam pushes back against him. Dean groans, biting his lip. Sam’s ass is so tight, holding him in, and he’s never going to last long. He angles his hips, moving them in small circles, trying his best to hit Sam’s prostate.
Sam cries out, throwing his head back and goes down on his elbows, his face pressed flat against the rumpled beige sheet. “More. More,” Sam begs, sweat shining on his back, muscles rippling under his skin.
Dean thrusts with the same rhythm he’s using to stroke Sam, hearing the dull thud of the bed frame tap the wall. He thrusts until he can’t stand it, cursing that he’s only going to last a few minutes. The feel of his brother under him, shaking and moaning and begging, the taste of him as Dean licks across his shoulder blades is too much, and Dean comes, no time to stop himself or warn Sam, jerking against Sam’s back.
Sam rolls with him, not stopping his backward rocking, mumbling under his breath, “More, want it,” until he comes a few minutes later, warm stickiness spurting past Dean’s hand on into the already stained sheet.
“So what about the church? We weren’t finished making notes.” Sam rolls onto his back, making a face as his skin peels off the sticky mattress. “I want to take some pictures of that tree mural too.”
“Yeah,” Dean says absently, his thoughts still hazy.
“Yeah, ‘I’m going to get over this lock you in the motel thing,’ or ‘yeah, shut the fuck up Sam?’”
Dean drags his mind into focus, concentrating on what Sam’s asking. “Yeah as in, I know I can’t keep you locked up forever, but I want to.”
Sam scoots closer, nestling himself into Dean’s side, lifting his head until it’s resting on Dean’s outstretched arm. “I know the feeling.”
Dean smiles, running his fingers up Sam’s arm, through his hair.
“So you gonna let me go with you today?” Sam asks, prodding Dean with his elbow.
“Let you?” Dean kisses Sam’s temple, then gives his shoulder a little shove. “Nope. But since when did you ever let that stop you?”