Chapter Text
The brothers are on their fucking game lately.
They’re closing up hunts like nobody’s business, Bobby’s gruff approving tone inspiring glints like flame in Dean’s eyes and high red points of pride on Sam’s cheeks. He tells them half reproachfully, “Got nothin’ more for you boys. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past those monsters to be holing up somewhere that ain’t nowhere ‘til you two stop dropping bodies like you actually enjoy your job.”
Sam tosses a beer at Dean cheerfully and Dean catches it without even glancing, some Vulcan mind-meld shit, because they haven’t even had to try lately. This streak has blown their old record right out of the water and Sam knows he’s being unaccountably optimistic, but he can’t even remember half the things he and Dean used to fight about.
Dean’s the same, scuffing Sam’s hair twice a day and smiling at Sam properly at least just as much. It’s infectious, feedback loop of smug self-satisfied triumphs, Sam getting drunk on Dean’s bed with Dean, stained motel rooms the prettiest place in the world. They haven’t had a non-case related conversation with anyone else for weeks, and they don’t even care.
That vampire coven is history, fertility deity blown to ash, rugaru the deadest thing ever with smoking shotgun shells in his chest, and in their hunts lately Dean hasn’t even come close to death. They acquire grazes at the worst, some bruises and bumps, and that’s a goddamn field day. Sam wonders if he sold his soul and banished it from his memory for this sit-com feeling, everything is that good.
Dean keeps Sam’s shirt and Sam feels like he wears it a lot, although that might just be in his head. One day when they’re at a laundromat, Sam watches Dean pull that shirt from his clothes basket, half his mouth pulling up in a smile as he throws it in the machine. Sam’s sitting adjacent to Dean on the edge of a rumbling washing machine, a few paces away. He leans back, stretching his arms behind him and holding his weight up with his palms. He feels like being bold.
“Shirt still got your damn smell, huh?”
It’s an old joke by now, but it does the trick. Dean faces Sam halfway, rolling his eyes before leaning down and scooping the shirt back out of the machine. Darkness, thick and inky, is pressing onto the store windows from outside and the store’s florescent lights are dim, ready to be replaced. Sam can hear the hum of air-conditioning, the rolling of the machines around them, his own evenly paced breathing. He wishes the lights would black out so he would have a reason to grab Dean. They’re alone.
“You know, Sammy, if you want the damn thing back you can just tell me.”
Dean’s smiling as he says this, walking up to Sam in such a deliberate way that Sam wonders which of them is the one being bold. Dean stops just short of the machine Sam’s perched on, the shirt clutched in his hand. Sam takes note that he would only have to shift slightly, bring his legs together two inches, for each knee to be touching Dean’s hips. The store is cold and Sam can feel the warmth of Dean’s body trapped just under Dean’s clothing, practically see it leeching out and toward Sam’s skin. There’s a thrumming excitement in his bones, his pulse knocking into a slightly higher gear. Dean lifts the shirt but his gaze is trained on Sam only.
“Well?” Dean says. His head is tilted up to look at Sam, eyes muted and deep, and there’s no way he doesn’t realise he’s practically standing in between Sam’s legs. Do you get it yet, Sam thinks. Do you get it Dean?
Sam changes tactics, feeling like they’re playing a game of chicken where the stakes are ridiculously high and unspoken. He leans forward and brings his hand up, brushes the back of his knuckles down one side of Dean’s neck and across his collarbones. Again, he takes note of how Dean doesn’t move away or shove Sam off even though he could, should. All Dean does is hitch on half a breath, his chest rising, eyes locking onto Sam’s.
“Oh,” Sam says absently, as though something inconsequential had caught his attention. “I didn’t notice these cuts before.” There are some shallow scrapes where he’s touching, nothing serious and nothing warranting the way his fingers are inching beneath the collar of Dean’s shirt. The upward tilt of Dean’s face is kinda devastatingly attractive. His hand holding the shirt has drifted down, now resting on the washing machine an inch away from Sam’s thigh.
Dean lets out a breath.
“Fuck. Uh. Neither did I,” he says, and then he takes a deliberate step back, registering on some level that Sam clearly isn’t going to be the one who relents this time. He gives Sam a look that travels down the full length of his body, seemingly calculating something, and Sam returns it unflinchingly. Dean turns and throws the shirt back into his machine basketball style, and then gives Sam a grin, all but recovered.
“I’m keeping the shirt, sasquatch.” His eyes are sparkling, his countenance buoyant. Sam flexes all of his limbs, one after the other, to make sure they’re still in working order. He flushes with pleasure and a little smugness. “Learn to live with it.”
*
They’re at a bar tonight, earning some hard honest cash through the wonders of pool game hustles, classic John Winchester style. The place is dusty like a roadhouse and full of a similar crowd, all burly white dudes and an assortment of chicks that look like they could hold their own against any one of these guys in a fight. There’s a steady distant clatter of rain on the tin roof that presses the four walls of the joint closer, everything seedier and everyone nearer.
Sam’s at the pool table, fumbling drunkenly on his cue and it’s mostly an act, three drinks down the hatch because it’s really hard not to celebrate. The fluorescent lights are dimmed and wash everything faintly golden, the curve of the pool balls, Dean’s shiny ring chinking against his beer bottle. There’s the rolling murmur of voices and jukebox music, the tinny static of the old box television high up on the far wall.
Sam pushes his hair out of his face. Dean’s just finished handing his ass to him in a game and Sam’s complaining loudly to whoever will listen, maybe overselling his drunkenness, but it’s not like anyone else is sober enough to notice. He catches Dean’s smile across the table and swallows back his initial grin, instead spitting bitterly, “Damn cheap player is what you are.” Jerks his chin up, kind of hollering, “I c’n whip anyone here, fuckin’ bring it. Let’s go again.”
“Alright now kid,” Dean says, and he always puts on this drawl when they hustle, like he can’t help but pretend he’s straight out of some old western movie. Sam’s lips twitch and he hides it, taking another swig. “At this point I just feel bad takin’ your money. I ain’t goin’ again, then I will be a dirty player an’ that just don’t sit right with me.”
There’s a guy at a bar stool listening to them, gauging just how easy a mark Sam is. They’re very close to nailing him and Dean’s got this wicked curve to his mouth, meeting Sam’s eyes and winking with his tongue caught between his teeth. Sam’s unsurprised to experience this astounding bolt of heat rip quick through his body, his spine stiffening. He gets the sensation this murky no-name bar is witnessing history.
Sam pulls a wad of fifties from his pocket and slaps them to the shining wood of the pool table. He says fast and loud, “Double or nothing,” and then drags the rest of his beer, licking his bottom lip. He actually has a decent buzz on and that’s slightly irresponsible, but the guy has stood up and is picking his way toward them so who really cares. Dean flashes a grin at Sam extremely fast.
“Ain’t no way I’m doin’ that, too damn easy kid, and that’s no fun.”
“I’ll go.”
The guy has gotten caught up in the narrative perfectly, standing next to Dean wide as a barn doorway and with a scraggly black beard, itching scar hooked down from his bald head. He meets Sam’s eyes head on, very nearly Sam’s size and definitely intimidating as far as civilians go. Sam feels a twisted coil in his muscles, lizard-brain predator surrounding prey kinda thing.
“Oh yeah?” Sam says with a neat smile, and then directs it toward Dean, tilting his head. They’re both having fun, Sam can see it in Dean’s eyes and the repressed smirk of his mouth, something hot scratching in his head at pretending to be a perfect stranger to Dean. He says, “Here’s someone who knows how the game works. Bet I’ll beat him too.”
That may have been overly cocky, though, so Sam shifts his weight and then stumbles, hitches himself up on his pool cue at the last second and waves down a waitress for another beer. Dean raises one arm and steps forward.
“Hey, hey, man, kid’s shakier than a turkey on Thanksgiving mornin’,” Dean says and Sam snorts immediately, covering his laugh in some drunken hitches. He feels Dean staring at him and presses his lips together, glances up to see Dean’s eyes muted and green as hell in the bar light, burning into him over the pool table. One corner of his mouth pulls up, you like that Sammy, and he says without shifting his eyes one millimetre, “Look at him, he’s probably jus’ tryna save up for some college. Somewhere fancy, like Stanford, am I right?”
That’s not part of the script and Dean’s freestyling, performing for his sole audience of Sam. Sam swallows heavily, watching Dean. He continues, directing it toward their new companion, “You’ll be takin’ an idiot’s money. You okay with that?”
The guy looks at Dean slowly, unreadable expression behind that unkempt beard, and his leather covered shoulders rise and fill out. He says forcefully, “Ain’t my damn problem. I’ll take money where ever I damn well please.” He tilts his head at Sam. “Kid’s offerin’, and I think you should get outta my way so we can get a game going. Ya hearing me?”
Dean takes a step back and raises his hands, going for nonchalant, easy going smile forming. His composure’s dropped a little at the guy’s demeanour, however, tiny hooks of worry in the skin around his mouth and Sam can see it as Dean shoots a glance at Sam. Sam meets it, widens his eyes the tiniest bit. Everything’s cool, Dean.
Dean turns back to the guy and tosses out a laugh. “Hey, now, what’s it to me? Have fun, guys.” He spins and makes his way around the back of Sam, checks out the rest of the bar for a searching second before picking a round table to Sam’s left and settling himself on the stool. At least three women flick filled out, pierced eyebrows at each other and give him the once over. Dean doesn’t notice, fixes his gaze casually on the pool balls, what does he care, he’s an innocent bystander merely watching a game between strangers about to start.
Sam smirks, faces his opponent. “Winner takes five hundred.”
“How about seven.” It’s clear the guy is making a statement, not asking for Sam’s opinion.
Dean whistles low. Sam paints a drunken smile on his face. Man, they’ve played this guy so hard.
“Done.”
It goes about how Sam expects. He’s incredibly conscious of Dean watching him, immovable warm weight on the back of his neck as he bends low, lining up the shot, sending three balls home at the same time with the crack of contact vibrating in his arm. He’s using moves Dean taught him and that means this guy was screwed from the first break. Dean keeps smiling into his beer. Sam’s downed three more of his own.
When Sam sinks the last ball the biker curses a stream like a sailor, smacking his cue onto the table edge. A couple people who had gathered let out some impartial comments and begin milling away, back toward where the alcohol is. Sam tries not to smile too much, testing a stupefied, drunk expression at his miraculous victory.
“Ah hell kid.” The guy scratches his shiny head and starts pulling damp rolls of money from his chest pocket, flicking them Sam’s way across the table. “You got an arm on you, that’s for sure. Don’t need no college with them skills up your sleeve.”
Sam shrugs and collects the money, pretends to fuck up on his counting of the bills and starts again for authenticity. He’s so freaking lit, lights swimming golden, unbelievably impressed with their haul and intolerably impatient to see Dean’s grin.
Sam feels Dean’s gaze on his back and says, “Yeah, well, I’m thinking I might take to the road with my brother,” because he’s untouchable tonight. Dean makes a noise only Sam can hear, surprised breath mixed with a kind of fondness. Sam leans forward. “He’s an adrenaline junkie, see, he’ll kill himself if I’m not around. And between you and me,” Sam holds his hand to his mouth conspiratorially, “I think he likes having me around even more than I like being around him.”
Dean makes another noise at that, startled low thing in his throat that condenses Sam’s chest hotly.
The biker’s not terribly interested in Sam’s anecdote, eyeing his money folded up in Sam’s hands like he’s suddenly not sure of something, as though Sam’s exceedingly unbeatable tactics appearing out of nowhere had been a tad suspicious. Sam can recognise the moment for what it is.
They need to make an exit, now, and Sam chooses his very favourite method.
Sam tosses back his head to finish off his beer and takes a few blind steps, swaying and bumping into Dean’s table. When he brings his hand back down he swings again and stumbles all out, knocking over Dean’s drink and rocking the table onto two legs with a loud clatter, falling into Dean’s shoulder. He lets out some drunk snorting laughter, unintelligible apologies lost in Dean’s jacket as Dean heaves Sam up, using the stool for balance. Sam can’t see but he imagines the biker is distracted by the show for the moment.
“Christ almighty, kid, you sure are wasted.” Dean’s voice is rumbling on Sam’s cheek, up-keeping the twang, and Sam brings his head up with one arm tight across Dean’s back. The way he oscillates is not entirely acted. Sam can smell the booze on Dean’s breath and thinks happily that they’re both drunk and that’s awesome.
Dean gestures helplessly with his free arm and tells whoever is paying attention, “I’m gonna go call this guy a cab. Damn kid, gettin’ high off victory, huh?”
Sam slings his head lazily into Dean’s neck, says so only Dean can hear it, “Damn right.” He takes distinct note of Dean’s shiver.
They make their way to the door, kind of genuinely holding onto one another so they don’t tumble, and they’re just one pair of drunk dudes leaving a bar amid dozens and dozens. Sam gets that making-of-history feeling again.
Sam slams open one of the swinging double doors and it rocks all the way, smacking onto the outside wall of the building. They step out into the rain which has turned to fine mist, instantaneous layer of damp coating their jackets and curling Sam’s hair, slicking Dean’s neck. There are three intermittent yellow road lamps around the gravel parking lot and baby’s stationed beneath the last one, sleek and shining, really just gorgeous. Dean’s a ghost beneath Sam’s arm, smudge of a coat and his wide green eyes, pale skin. Sam wants to push at Dean’s hair and then, because he can do no wrong tonight, he does, shaping soft spikes between his fingers.
“Nice accent, John Wayne.”
Dean smirks and instantly drawls, “Thanksgiving mornin’,” and Sam busts out laughing. He pulls them along the wall of the building until they reach the corner, swings around it so they’re hidden from the road. There’s no real reason for it but Sam pretty much just doesn’t want to shrug Dean off him and get in the car quite yet. He can’t totally get his head about him, something distantly dizzying about the millions of stars and the alcohol and Dean.
“Just, the worst,” Sam says between gasps and chortles, grinning hugely. He knows Dean’s staring at him. “It’s not even believable, that kinda shit.”
Dean’s laughing too now and they’re falling into each other so Sam pushes Dean on the shoulder, hitches him up against the wooden planks of the building. There’s a spill of weak golden light over his face, the shadows of his nose and neck elongated and deeply black but his eyes glowing tremendously. Sam feels like a millionaire, fatalistically drunk.
Reading Sam’s mind, Dean says, “Seven hundred, Sammy, seven! That’s my boy! Man, played that guy like a champ.” He gets his hands twisted in the front of Sam’s shirts, pulling at him stupidly with this incredible grin on his face, and that’s what Sam has been waiting for.
“Like, like a metaphor,” Sam says and Dean tilts his head quizzically, tugs Sam closer because he clearly didn’t hear him right. Sam tries again, “Tonight, tonight’s like, a freaking metaphor for our lives lately man, damn untouchable is what we are. How often does that happen?”
Dean’s nodding, agreeable in the way that only alcohol and a happy Sam make him. He says, his mouth soft, “When we’re good Sammy we’re good, good like saving an innocent or my favourite song on the radio or morning sex, that good,” and Sam can’t even convey to Dean how much he agrees.
He shuffles closer, kicking dust and smearing it between their boots, his palms on Dean’s shoulders with thumbs resting in the hollow of Dean’s collarbones. Dean’s knuckles are against his ribs and Dean just tilts his head back, accommodating Sam all up in his space for no good reason. Sam feels like there’s a hook in his lower back jerking him forward.
“How, how drunk are you?” Sam asks, because he needs to know, needs to see what sorts of things are available to him as an excuse for his actions. Dean’s staring up at him as though looking away hasn’t ever crossed his mind.
“What?” Dean shakes his head, shrugging, smooth shift of muscle beneath Sam’s hands. “Like not, really, I’m just. Just feel like a freaking millionaire right now Sammy.” He grins wide. “Are you drunk?”
It’s something about the wet inhale of the air, about how the pale yellow spotlight makes it feel like they’re the last two people on earth. Something in the scrape up his spine at the sight of Dean’s damp neck, his eyes sticking compulsively, the scammed money burning hot in Sam’s breast pocket. Sam thinks that he could merely answer yes or no, inoffensive, harmless answer that won’t define the rest of the night, the rest of their lives. He thinks about how that would be the sensible thing to do.
“I feel like a million bucks,” Sam says and kisses Dean.
It’s astounding, that simple action, the low noise it drags from Dean and how little it takes to go from kissing Dean to flattening him against the wall. Sam palms over Dean’s jaw and fits their mouths together seamlessly, the rain-slick drag and catch of their lips together doing revolutionary things to his body, to the world. Dean pushes his wet hands underneath Sam’s jacket and then reconsiders, slips them underneath Sam’s shirt altogether, skittering hot touches that leave raindrops on Sam’s skin.
It’s hard to tell how long they’re like that. Sam’s mouth is hot, kind of swollen, numb, went numb a long while ago but the pull of Dean’s lips is too good to give up for things like words or air. He’s got one leg between Dean’s and Dean keeps tugging at his hair, scratching his lower back, panting heavily.
“Fuck,” Dean says, and he’s so dumbstruck with his wide eyes and parted lips that Sam laughs and kisses him again, covering one cheek with his palm. Dean opens his mouth and licks Sam’s teeth, hissing and pulling Sam’s hair like he can’t help it.
“Fuck,” he repeats. His mouth is wet and incredibly hot and snagging on the side of Sam’s throat, puffing condensation. Sam’s better intentions are blown all to hell and he couldn’t stop if the sky collapsed on top of them right where they stand. Dean flexes into him and Sam makes a low noise in his throat, strain that sounds like his brother’s name. “Fuck, Sammy, how, how did you know?”
Sam doesn’t laugh because he’s pretty sure Dean would punch him, but it’s a near thing. Stars burst behind his eyes at the sentence, how did you know, the undeniable realness and reciprocity out there for anyone to see, words he can see inking themselves onto his hip bone. He sucks a mark on the underside of Dean’s jaw and licks the rain from his collarbone, hands on Dean’s hips. They’ve started up a rhythm, terrible push and give where they’re locked together against the rough walled building and Dean is groaning from the back of his throat, one hand beneath Sam’s shirt and pressing hard into Sam’s lower back.
“How did you not know?” and that earns Sam a firm bite to his lower lip, grin nearly splitting skin as Dean kisses him again and again and again.
“Smartass,” Dean says into Sam’s mouth and it’s destructively familiar, that brotherly abuse. Sam’s pushing Dean’s jacket off, shoving it from his shoulders and catching it before it touches the wet ground. Dean moans, “Impala. Fuck, Sammy, Impala.”
It’s the dirtiest thing Sam’s ever heard and he pulls back, removing his hands from Dean through unimaginable will, breathing hard. He feels like he’s been struck by an anvil, the bruised colour of Dean’s mouth, their rumpled damp clothes. His skin aches. Dean’s eyes are fixed to him, the prettiest green on this here earth, really all of Dean just so unfairly pretty.
“Holy shit,” Sam breathes, taking a second. He grabs Dean’s hand. Somehow that’s the worst and best of what they’ve done, palm against palm and their fingers tangling as Sam makes for the Impala. It sends shocks through the bones of Sam’s arm. Dean’s shivering in his t-shirt, the barely present rain clinging to him.
Dean shoves Sam up against the car door the instant they’re close enough and Sam knocks his head on the black metal, sees stars. He lets Dean hold him there and kiss him for a while, days or weeks. He covers the back of Dean’s head with one hand and Dean leans right up into him, letting Sam tilt his head back. It’s bizarre, insanely hot, the heavy weight of his brother’s body and their mouths moving together. Sam slides his other hand down Dean’s side, feels the firm muscle and the notches of his ribs. He can already feel himself becoming addicted to the shudder of Dean’s body beneath his hands.
Then Sam gets one hand on Dean’s hip, thumb tucked into the hollow of the bone there and twists them, hard press of their bodies from shoulder to knee, pinning Dean as he unlocks the backdoor and opens it. He steers Dean, pushes him inside the Impala and follows right after, slamming the door shut.
They squeak against the vinyl upholstery, Dean falling clumsily onto his back and he laughs, seeks Sam’s mouth out in the darkness. Sam kneels between Dean’s legs and Dean pushes up onto his elbows, the most appealing thing Sam’s ever seen. Sam tosses Dean’s jacket to the foot well and pulls off his own, giving it the same treatment. Dean’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, eyes the size of dimes, and he manages, “What the fuck are we doing?”
It’s not horrified the way it is in Sam’s nightmares, no. It’s more like that time they were teenagers and waited until midnight to sneak into Sea World, and they were breathless with excitement, adrenaline overload as Dean laughed and said, Sammy, what the fuck are we doing?
It’s like that, and Sam has the exact same answer, huge grin stretching his mouth as he stares down at Dean and says, “The best thing ever.”
Dean laughs, high and disbelieving, and then Sam ducks and tugs his shirt over his head with one hand gripping the collar, balling it up and tossing it somewhere, anywhere. Dean’s not laughing anymore, eyes kind of glazed as he lifts his hands and puts them deliberately on Sam’s stomach, trails them up Sam’s sternum silently, slow drag that has Sam’s hips hitching forward. Sam grunts, bunches the hem of Dean’s shirt in his fists and hauls it off.
It’s sin incarnate but Sam already knew that, Dean sprawled and shirtless in the backseat of his car. His pale skin is a shocking contrast to the black leather.
Dean’s clearly not used to spreading his legs during this kinda thing so Sam does it for him, pushing Dean’s knees apart and getting in that space, putting a hand on Dean’s bare chest. Their breathing is noisy and harsh and Sam can’t really think, wanting to touch all of Dean so badly it’s kind of alarming how entirely it’s taken over his mind, but he has to ask, has to make sure, “Dean, is this, this is okay, right?”
Dean arcs up and catches Sam’s mouth in a bruising kiss, whispering yes yes yes as his hands undo Sam’s jean buttons and zipper. Sam groans into Dean’s mouth, pushing him back down and laying over him, skin to skin.
They make out again for a while, a sort of time lapse that Sam suspects he’ll never get control of. For all their injuries, Dean is touching places he’s never touched before and it makes Sam crazy, makes him bite down on the firm muscle of Dean’s bicep as he drags the jeans from Dean’s hips. When Sam gets back to a space of coherent thought, he’s got both of their dicks in one hand and Dean is sucking hard on the point of his pulse, making these completely catastrophic noises, hissing, “fuck, yes, exactly,” against the skin of Sam’s throat. Sam knows they’re both done for very soon and meets Dean’s mouth desperately, a crucial kiss as he tightens his grip.
*
Afterward.
Afterward they’re lying in a heap. Sam loves the heavy warm feel of Dean beneath him, breathing slow and smooth. His face is against Dean’s chest and his hand is absently tracing Dean’s ribs, unable to stop touching. Dean shivers slightly every time Sam finds a ticklish spot and Sam keeps at it until Dean twitches the fist he has in Sam’s hair, tugging bitchily at the strands. Both their jeans are tugged open and sitting awry on their hips. They’re not cuddling, but it’s a close thing.
“You’re. Um.” Sam’s throat feels tender and his voice rasps. He clears it and tries again. “You’re good with this.” His tone is half concerned, half cat-got-the-cream smug, and Dean pulls his hair again.
“You need to stop being so confident about this whole thing,” he says, but he loses his momentum halfway through when Sam starts mouthing at the centre of his chest. “It’s- not decent, that kind of arrogance.” Dean rubs his fingers against the back of Sam’s neck. “Why, uh, why are you so okay with this?”
Sam’s pretty efficiently distracted. “What?”
“I feel like you’re going to say I told you so any second, which doesn’t make any sense. Unless. I mean.” His voice kind of jams, by turns scared and hopeful, and Sam smooths an open palm up over his brother’s chest.
“It’s been a really long time,” he says on a sigh. The slight tension that had gathered mostly leaves Dean. Sam twists his neck so his chin is resting on Dean’s skin, looking up at his face, and Dean meets his eyes instinctively. “For me. And I knew you- felt it, too, without you even knowing it. And I just. I guess I wanted you to figure it out first, before anything- happened.”
Dean laughs once. “You call attacking me outside a bar in the rain waiting for me to figure it out?”
“You didn’t see yourself-” and Dean is kissing Sam, carding his compulsive hand through Sam’s hair as he pushes his hips up slow. Sam feels like a light-headed teenager, fumbling excitedly and rebounding so fast it leaves him dizzy.
“Well, Sammy,” Dean says, and he’s speaking against Sam’s lips, and that should be illegal in some way or another. Sam surges forward, parting Dean’s legs again and feeling so giddy his chest might explode. Dean grips Sam’s lower back with his other hand, blunt press of Dean’s nails shooting to one of the top ten best things Sam’s ever felt. “If you have any more earth-shattering revelations that lead to the best sex of my life, feel free to tell me right off the bat.”
“Motel,” Sam interrupts immediately, gripping Dean’s still clothed thigh and pulling, dragging his brother’s leg up the side of his body until it brackets his hip. “Motel room. Could, could allow for some pretty great sex.”
Dean grins and pauses, pushes a hand against Sam’s chest so he tilts backward. “That right there is what I’m talking about, Sammy. Great job, sensational.”
*
It takes them a while to get going. It’s stupid, but Sam has this idea that if they break contact with each other for too long then whatever ridiculous spell they’re under will shatter and they’ll both get to overthinking it, moralising it, trying to quantify the word incest in ways that don’t feel taboo, say it in ways that don’t sound like a hiss. They get their shirts on and pile into the front and Sam extends an arm along the top of the seat, sets his fingers in neat lines on the back of Dean’s neck, gripping loosely. Dean shivers as he pulls out of the parking lot, driving a touch recklessly.
Sam stares at him because scenery has never been less important and Dean keeps glancing back, knee jiggling and jaw clenching like he’s kind of going out of his mind. They’re really only a block away from the motel but he likes the way Dean looks right now, like he’s dying and it’s worth it. Sam flexes his fingers on his brother’s neck, just really liking the way his hand fits there. Liking everything.
“Fuck,” Dean says eventually, just as the name of the motel they’re staying at appears on the next corner. Sam’s fascinated, watching Dean jitter, wanting to lick his scratchy jaw.
“What?”
They pull into the parking area in record time and Dean kills the engine, twists to face Sam with his fingers tightening around the wheel. He licks his lips, hesitates, and then says almost angrily, “You’re so fucking hot Sam.” It’s at once hilarious and unthinkingly sexy, arousing in a way that might just kill Sam. Sam laughs and pulls Dean toward him by the neck until Dean’s hand on his chest stops him.
“If you keep laughing,” he says seriously, “I’m going to punch you in the nose.”
Sam nods, his lips twitching into a smile. “Fair call.”
Dean hits him on the shoulder anyway and then abruptly turns away, gets out of the car. Sam follows suit, trails a foot behind Dean to their motel room, enjoying the view and still feeling like a giddy teenager, fatally in over his head and too jumped up to care. There’s a distant voice in the back of his head telling him that right about now would be a good time to freak out, start talking this rapid change in their relationship to death.
Sam tells the voice to shut the fuck up and darts forward, gets an arm around Dean’s waist just as he opens the door to their room, hurries him in through. He slams the door shut behind them and pushes Dean against it.
“Jesus Sammy,” Dean huffs, but he’s smiling. He makes to move, give himself some more room and Sam shoves him right back against the wood with some force behind it this time, working at keeping Dean there. He attaches his mouth to Dean’s throat before he can complain, high as a fucking kite, feeling trembly and inexperienced. His arms thrum dully with exertion.
Dean brings a hand up to tangle in Sam’s hair encouragingly, head falling back even as he still wriggles around, and then his fingers curl and tug Sam’s head backward.
“Dude, would you-” Dean tugs again and pushes where his other hand is on Sam’s shoulder. He’s staring at Sam with eyes that are vividly green, a small red mark forming where Sam’s mouth has been. Sam knows he has this thing where the more revved up he gets, the more he likes to throw around whoever he is with, so he honestly can’t help the low noise that comes from his throat or the way he pushes forward again, wanting to pin Dean down and bite all of him so badly it’s freaking him out. His heart is galloping, hands shaky and a sheen of sweat over his skin.
Sam leans in, breathes hot over Dean’s jaw, “God, Dean, I, I need you. Feel like I’m going insane here.”
Dean’s body arcs out from the door at that as he groans, and Sam puts a hand heavily on Dean’s hip, hitches it up and plans on getting Dean’s legs around his waist any freaking minute now, if Dean would just stop moving. Dean apparently has other plans.
“Enough with the shoving, alpha male.” He pushes Sam back, really heaving his weight into it so Sam is properly detached, stumbling back the few steps it takes for the backs of his knees to meet one of their beds. “Jesus,” Dean says, but his smile is huge, unhinged even from this infectious feeling between them, and he wastes no time getting the hem of his shirt in his hands and whipping it over his head.
It’s not like Sam hasn’t seen Dean shirtless before, hell, not like they haven’t seen each other naked before. But it’s never been like this.
Sam drags his gaze up from Dean’s chest, slightly paler than his own and his shoulders dotted with freckles, meets Dean’s eyes headily as he undoes his own shirt buttons. Dean pulls his bottom lip into his mouth seemingly involuntarily, moves forward to help Sam pull it off and then pushes him onto the bed.
“Fucking hell Sammy,” Dean says as Sam shuffles backwards until he’s resting on pillows. His eyes are so heavily lidded he looks drunk.
“C’mere Dean,” Sam says quietly.
Dean’s there instantly, one knee up against Sam’s hip and the other swinging across his lap, Dean straddling his brother neat and efficient. He’s blushing furiously all over, still grinning hugely as he palms over the skin of Sam’s chest, gaining his balance. Dean leans down, unused to this position, hovers just above Sam and whispers, “Kiss me.”
Sam surges up onto his elbows, almost tipping Dean backward until Dean tightens his grip, and then they’re kissing. Sam readjusts and sits up further, gets both arms tight around Dean’s torso, and then there’s very little talking for a while.
*
“God, Dean, we should’ve been doing this for so much more of our lives.”
They’re lying together on one motel bed and it’s a little cramped. At least, that’s what Dean said when he pushed his left side up against Sam’s right side. The thump of Dean’s pulse is in tandem with Sam’s, murmuring in conversation through the hot touch of their skin. They’re flat on their backs with their legs criss-crossing, sides touching from shoulder to hip. The blanket is on the ground and the sheets are piled over them because the aftermath of this time left them naked, and yeah, it’s kind of weird.
Dean laughs once and Sam marvels at the gentle rumble of it against his ribcage. “Sure,” Dean snorts, “because that definitely wouldn’t have alarmed any of the kids we went to school with.”
Sam holds back a frown and waits for Dean to elaborate, because this is one of those jokes Dean makes to hide thinly veiled panic. It’s hard to know what will happen if they don’t tread carefully through this conversation. Sam doesn’t want to know. All his nerve endings are ratcheted up to eleven and Sam’s so in over his head that he can’t even think of the potentially bad outcomes for fear of drowning in them. He and Dean have had this, this incredible, unbelievable thing, for so little time.
“I mean, shit, Sammy. This-” Dean gestures roughly between them but then, after a moment’s hesitation, smooths his hand over Sam’s chest. His voice is small, and he won’t meet Sam’s gaze. “It isn’t exactly normal.”
Sam thinks half desperately, that isn’t a rejection, and his lips pull up halfway in a meagre smile, trying to make the crease between Dean’s brows smooth out despite Dean not looking at him. “Since when is anything we ever do normal? We can, you know, just add this to the list.”
Dean clicks his tongue in a disappointed, dismissive sound and Sam’s stomach rolls, his whole world tilts sickeningly as in a split second he envisions Dean getting out of bed and walking away, maybe forever. He shifts onto his side to face Dean, wants to put a hand on Dean’s cheek but chickens out.
“No, god that- that sounded stupid, I’m sorry.”
Sam searches Dean’s face and, when Dean finally turns toward him, he finds a dizzying openness, sees in the wideness of Dean’s eyes and the sincere, almost child-like set of his mouth how desperately Dean wants Sam to convince him that they’re okay. It jams something warm into Sam’s chest, gets his heart thumping again in hope and relief.
Sam’s voice comes out a little frantic. “But I mean it, Dean. For fuck’s sake, look at us! We’ve never been better, and this is what came from it. And it- I mean.” Sam fumbles and drops his eyes, unable to continue while looking into Dean’s earnest gaze. His cheeks pool with warmth, a fluttery, intense reaction that feels ridiculous but sincere, after everything they’ve done tonight. “Dean, I don’t- I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel so good I can’t breathe. You make me feel that. Us.”
Sam lifts his hand to Dean’s amulet, warm and smooth from the years against Dean’s skin. Sam wraps his fingers around it and Dean’s breath hitches.
“I don’t give a shit about normal,” Sam whispers, and as he does so, he feels the undeniable, ancient truth of it click into place, like the cells of his body have finally shifted into their correct position after being off-kilter his entire life. It should freak him out how everything he and Dean do feels enormous and planetary, like they’re creating an entire orbit just for themselves. It doesn’t, though.
“I care about us,” Sam says. “If you’re okay then I’m okay.”
He’s scared to look up at Dean. The one who started and pushed for all of this, Sam’s suddenly crippled by the idea that he put Dean in a situation that he doesn’t want, or doesn’t know how to deal with.
Dean touches his chin, and Sam looks up. Dean drops his hand to curl it around Sam’s own, the amulet locked inside their entwined fists, seeming to almost pulse with a heart of its own.
“It’s weird, Sammy, I won’t lie to you,” he says, and his eyes are gentle, steady. “But if you’re okay, I’m okay.”
*
They sleep in different beds for the rest of the night because it’s hot and, again, even though they’ve boned, it still feels a little weird. It takes Sam forever to fall asleep, cripplingly aware of Dean’s breathing, of the space between their beds, of the gentle ache on his hipbone from the forming hickey, each pulse an aching caress. Every creak of wood and rustle of fabric sends lightning up Sam’s spine, all of his senses zeroed into the possibility of Dean climbing into bed with him, and how delightfully odd the sensation is.
Sam must’ve fallen asleep eventually, because he wakes to sunlight shattering across his vision, temporarily blinding him. He blinks rapidly as the room reappears in slices, gathering the sunlit day, his clothes still on the floor from last night, Dean stepping into a fresh pair of jeans.
“What, no pretending to be asleep?” Dean says, grinning, and Sam just stares at him, a bone deep warmth surging through him as the events of the last twenty four hours all come back to his mind. Sam’s dishevelled, he can feel it, hair rumpled, all twisted up in his blankets, the imprint of the pillow on his cheek, the marks Dean left on his body blooming scarlet and violet.
Just as Sam thinks he’s figured out how to speak again, Dean says, “Boy, you sure are quite the morning sight,” and his voice is low and rumbly from their night of drinking. There’s a bruise on his chest, just under his anti-possession tattoo. Sam’s speechless.
Except for all the ways that it isn’t, the morning is alarmingly normal, right down to the grime Sam now feels on his body, the stuffiness of their cheap motel room, the now remembered delight of the stolen money. He watches Dean wander into the kitchenette, still shirtless, and then makes for the bathroom to shower.
Afterward, Sam’s standing at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth and remembering the sharp, sweet pinch of Dean’s nails pressing into his lower back, or holding onto his shoulders. Dean walks in, toothbrush sticking out between his lips and, without hesitation, slides his hand into Sam’s back pocket, leaning around Sam’s shoulder to meet his eyes in the mirror. He grins, foam-white mouth, and says, “Mornin’ Sammy,” before spitting, rinsing, and tilting back up. “We got no food here, let’s head out for breakfast.” Dean smacks Sam on the ass and laughs before leaving the room. Sam is pretty sure he’s blushing again, giddy and embarrassed and delighted.
There’s a diner down the road that fulfils their needs. As they walk in Sam can’t believe how ordinary it must all look, when in reality, he feels as though he is inhabiting a strange, brand new world. Where before it seemed he viewed things through a peephole, his vision always obscured and cloudy, Sam now almost squints his eyes at the intensity and downright loveliness of everything around him. The sticky muck on the linoleum floor, the impatient honking of cars on the motorway outside, even the way Dean deliberately stands on the back of his shoes to try make him trip – it all feels sparkling, earthly and necessary, as though the sun rose that morning specifically for these brothers to walk into this diner. Dean burns the brightest of all, of course, the hardest thing to look at and also the only thing Sam has any interest in looking at for maybe the rest of all time.
On second thought, Sam thinks, maybe he’s always been in this world and this is simply the first time he’s had a map to make sense of it all. Or maybe, and here a warm certainty steals through his body like fireworks and hot chocolate in one, maybe there can simply be no metaphor to truly capture the knowledge that you are with the person who will love you for all of eternity in every single way possible.
Once they’re seated, Dean orders two servings of pancakes as well as a beef burger just for himself. Sam snorts, calls him a walking cholesterol scare in a moment of instinct as ingrained as the action of breathing.
“We’ll take a breakfast salad to go with that,” Sam says to the waitress, who smiles warmly and writes the order neat and quick, leaving Sam and Dean to squabble by themselves.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat, jabbing at Sam’s ribs.
“You’re a goddamn warrior on a rabbit’s diet, dude. You’re lucky you eat enough to even sustain all of this.” He grabs Sam’s bicep and squeezes just hard enough to give Sam goosebumps. It’s another blinding moment of dual alienness and utter familiarity. Sam can tell, when his eyes meet Dean’s, that Dean is right there with him, delighting in the strange, addictive loveliness of this seemingly new terrain. Sam jumps when their order clatters onto the table and Dean lets out a laugh at him, the line of their boots pressing together.
They tuck into their food, still high on their lucky streak and the scammed money and each other. Dean mutters, “Rabbit,” again and Sam throws a piece of lettuce at his face while he’s not looking, grins and says, “Me? We need an on-hand doctor for your blood sugar levels-”
Dean leans over the short distance between them and kisses Sam, simple and sweet, his lips parted in a laugh. The future before them expands behind Sam’s closed eyes and he wonders how he could be lucky enough to have two lifetimes with Dean, the one started when he was born and the one starting now; lucky enough to experience every first time in the world twice over with Dean.
The kiss is a new addition to their usual routine, Sam thinks, but he can feel it sinking into his bones, as simple and permanent as the sun, as gravity, as the laws of the known universe. The earth goes on spinning, and he can kiss Dean whenever he feels like it. Sam smiles back at Dean, laughs into their kiss, tasting the sweet syrup from Dean’s mouth, and thinks, Yeah. We’re gonna be okay.