Sledgehammers and the Fourth Wall (4/4)
Mar. 8th, 2013 01:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Sledgehammers and the Fourth Wall (4/4)
Wordcount: 7,078
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam, implied Jensen/OFC and Jared/Alona
Notes: This is the result of both an argument I saw on Youtube, and one I had in real life.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Supernatural, and Jared and Jensen are real people and certainly not the ones found here.
Summary: When the Winchesters go at the Fourth Wall they go at it hard.
Previous part
They finish off the troll with minor injuries and one more fight. Dean still thinks that a direct slam into the beast is the best option, and that nets him a concussion and a bruised rib. Sam’s plan to use fables to their advantage only works slightly better, and while he’s checking Dean’s mental faculties his brother is trying to bandage a deep gash in Sam’s side.
Louisiana rolls away behind them, and they do two more hunts in Arizona and Montana before Sam breaks somewhere over the Missouri border. He tries not to. Tries to hold it in and stay sane, but Dean is getting tighter and more distant as time rolls on. The simple synchronicity they had in the cemetery in the other world is gone, and it’s resulting in the two of them getting hurt more than they should be. Sam’s nursing a broken thumb at the moment, and he kind of wants to hit Dean. He doesn’t though, because he’s an awesome and understanding man. Instead he waits until they’re eating pizza in front of a Dr. Sexy M.D. rerun to break the ice.
“What did she say to you?”
“Who? The pizza delivery girl? ‘Thanks for the tip dude.’ I think she was high.” His brother takes a big bite of his slice and narrows his eyes at the TV. “Do you think Dr. Sexy ever questions his life choices?”
Sam bites his lip hard and then takes a deep breath. “I would if I was him. How often does he get slapped, and yet he still hangs around these women? That would drive any man mad. Hell, I almost lost it when it happened the second time to me, and he gets it five or six times an episode. I mean really Dean, how many times is a man expected to get hit in the face?”
“I get hit in the face all the time Sam, and I’m perfectly sane.”
“That’s up for debate.”
Dean’s eyebrow arches upwards before he rubs it with greasy fingertips. “Oh? You gonna make a case for me being crazy? Well let’s hear it Counselor.”
For a moment Sam remembers when Dean had Yellow Fever, and how insistent he was that Sam understand just how out of touch they were for putting themselves into danger. Once upon a time Sam would have agreed with his brother, would have nodded in a consolatory manner and simply enjoyed hearing Dean say the very thing he was always thinking. That was a different time though, and a different Sam. That was a Sam that thought running away from the only thing that had ever meant anything to him was a good idea. That was a Sam that didn’t know just how deep in his system Dean was, how non-biological that call actually was. Sure, genetically speaking Dean was in his blood, but in a totally flowery and romantic way Dean was in his blood.
How many nights had he lain awake simply staring at the ceiling of his crappy dorm room and wondering why he was aching? How many times had he looked over in the bed and seen Jess lying there, sleeping with those long lashes drifting over her cheeks and her plush lips slightly parted, and wondered why it seemed so familiar and simple? How long did it take him to understand what was happening and why?
“Ok, state’s evidence exhibit A; Dean Winchester has a habit of putting himself into danger on a regular basis without any consideration for his own health. He does this in the interest of taking care of strangers, but also to save his little brother pain and anguish.”
Dean stuffs the entire crust into his mouth and grumbles around it. “That makes me a good hunter and a good brother Sam. Not crazy.”
“State’s evidence exhibit B; Dean Winchester sleeps with anything with two legs and an attractive face. Risking any number of angry significant others and STDs he continues this reckless behavior with no biological imperative to procreate.”
For a second Sam is afraid Dean will choke to death on the crust when he starts laughing, but then his brother gets control of himself and looks over. His eyes sparkle merrily, and the lines at the corners of them are cut deep and vivid. When the laughter is controlled Dean points a finger at him. “Objection. That makes Dean Winchester a healthy, red-blooded, American male instead of a prude.”
Sam hates when Dean calls him a prude. Thinks of the way he moaned like a whore when Dean was buried balls-deep in him, and how Dean kept saying, so sexy Sammy, so hot for me baby, but he doesn’t bring that up to counter Dean’s objection. It would kill the surprise attack he’s planning.
“The prosecution will withhold its opinion on that until closing statements.” Dean’s eyes twinkle a little more, and damn if Sam can’t help but smile in response. “State’s evidence exhibit C; Dean Winchester is capable of knowing and seeing reason, and yet deludes himself into believing in false conclusions contrary to all logical evidence.”
Dean points a finger with the hand that’s holding his beer and there’s a dangerous glint building in his eye. “Explain.”
“For example, all evidence points to Dr. Sexy M.D. being a piece of pointless fluffy drama created for women, and while Mr. Winchester must be fully aware of this he watches the show continuously. He insists that it is for the plot, and spankable material, but his eyes tear up at the emotionally exploitative moments and he never masturbates after the show is over.”
“Sammy how would you-I definitely masturbate. I masturbate regularly. I refer back to the American male argument.”
“Dean, we’re stuck in tiny motel rooms with paper thin walls. I can hear you, all the time, and I’m telling you there’s never been a single episode of this show that ended with you masturbating.”
“Well I-Jesus Sam I give it time. I mean I use it when it’s necessary. That’s why it gets stored away, for later use.”
“Ok. Then tell me, what was the best moment of the show? Ever?”
His brother gives him a disgusted look, and his mouth starts moving long before his brain catches up. Sam loves these moments. “When Dr. Ellen Piccolo, the sexy yet earnest doctor, told Dr. Wang that she wouldn’t let her operate on a young boy just to prove a point. By saving the young boy’s life she saved Dr. Sexy, who was spiraling into despair because of the boy’s illness and-then they got naked.” Dean guzzles his beer and glares at the smile splitting Sam’s face. “Then lesbians.”
“I’ve been watching this show on and off with you for years Dean. There were no lesbians in that episode.”
“How would you know?” It’s almost a growl, but Sam can see Dean’s defenses fall down as his brother relaxes back into the headboard. “Anyway, you cried during Legends of the Fall.”
Sam was willing to play along for a moment. “Yeah. Everybody cried during that movie Dean. That move is designed by the universe to break people.”
Dean nods and then tilts his head and grins broadly. “So all your evidence is proving is that I’m an emotionally and sexually healthy man. With good taste in television shows.”
“No I’m sure that last point hasn’t come up. But you concede right? To all the evidence?”
His brother sighs once before rolling his eyes. “Yeah Sammy, sure. I concede. You got a point, or you just talking to hear yourself talk?”
“Alright, prosecution will make its closing statement. Dean Winchester structures his life around the ideals of pleasure and protection. He’d do anything to save his little brother pain, and kill anyone who hurt him-“
“Damn straight.” Dean’s eyes are fiery, and Sam thinks his brother might be just the right side of tipsy for this conversation.
“-and is insistent to that point. Yet knowing all of that logically Mr. Winchester refuses to admit to himself or his brother that he’s in love with Sam. That he wants to be with Sam, sexually, emotionally, and fraternally. Instead Dean deludes himself into thinking that what’s best for Sam is-“
Dean pushes up from the bed like a rocket and points a finger. “None of this! I thought we were over this! I thought you’d gotten your shit straight on this one!”
“-to have his brother give in to what makes them both happy. They know for a fact that life is-“
“Sam, please, I’m fucking begging you man. Stop. Please stop.”
“-short and that they rarely ever get any happiness. It would take a mad man-“
“I won’t listen to this. I’m fucking done Sam. You hear me? I’m done.”
“-to deny them the one thing that makes them whole and happy. It would take a mad man to look the only person he loves in the whole damn world in the eye and destroy them in an effort to fit in with society’s rules. The prosecution rests.”
And Dean leaves.
----
So maybe it’s childish.
No, definitely childish, but Sam waits until six in the morning and then he collects his bag and heads out the motel room door. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the nearest grocery store, and he watches the employees file in and start the process of opening the place. Once he’s sure they’re in business he picks a Honda and hotwires it.
He doesn’t really have anywhere to go, but he leaves and heads out anyway. Anywhere is better than here. Sam’s done the best he can, has put up with all of it, but this is a step too far. Sure, someday in the near future he’ll break down and go back. They’ll have a stilted conversation that does everything but apologies and understandings, and go back to this half-life Dean has condemned them to. Sam will smile and put up with it, Dean will bury it deep, and that will be the end of it.
Except Sam’s not sure about that. He ends up in Northern Michigan, tending bar in a small town and renting a room upstairs. He gets to know the locals well, and he likes a good deal of them. The owner of the bar reminds him a lot of Bobby, and that’s bitterly sweet. The routine becomes a part of him, and Sam manages to find that soothing. He’s been there a little over a month when Patrick breaks protocol and asks a personal question. Sam’s wiping down the bar after a particularly quiet night when it happens.
“So what are you running from?”
His first reaction is to bristle, but he doesn’t. He holds it in, because Patrick has no way of knowing what’s going on in Sam’s head. No way of understanding how close to the core his question cuts.
“What if I’m running towards something? Like the future, or a career in politics?”
Patrick’s laugh is low and thick, and he stacks glasses and sends a sly look Sam’s way. “From Kaleva, Michigan? You’re shooting fairly low there boy.”
“Small seeds and all that. We’re running low on Jack.”
His boss nods thoughtfully and then puts the last glass up before turning off the neon sign behind the bar. “Is it a woman or a man?”
“Patrick I’m not-“
“Because if some jealous ex is going to show up in my bar and start trouble I want to be ready to know if I’m supposed to pull old Betsy out, or just call the law.”
Sam thinks of Dean then, eyes dark and full of lust, pressing him against the wall. Lips begging entry even as his hands demanded it.
“There won’t be anyone Patrick. Believe me. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Man then.” Patrick writes down the Jack on the clipboard and then stows it under the register before wiping his hands off on a rag and hanging that up too. “Well, good to know I was right.”
And that makes Sam wonder. It’s not that he and Dean haven’t had the assumption made about them more than once, but he’s never been able to really ask about it. Too busy arguing against the possibility of incest. “You guessed I was gay? Why did you guess that?”
“You’re fastidious and clean.” Patrick’s eyes twinkle as he reaches for his jacket and zips it up. He grunts once at Sam’s expression and then shrugs expansively enough that Sam can see it under the weight of his parka. “I didn’t guess you were gay boy. I guessed there was a man. Big difference. Nellie wants you to come to dinner tomorrow. Don’t tell her no, or she’ll be up here during business hours with a home-cooked meal reminding my patrons how bad Remy’s chicken fingers are.”
----
It’s rare that there’s an issue in Patrick’s bar. With a population below 500 it’s rare that the patrons don’t know each other, and removing that tension goes a long way toward lowering violent incidents. On the other hand, that means almost everybody has known the man or woman beside them since childhood. That sort of familiarity allows for older grudges, and when it’s as cold as tonight is that sort of thing tends to flare up.
Sam knows from personal experience that a fight with long building personal tension, with history, is the worst kind of fight. It’s the kind that ends on the ground, that gets bloody, and he’s had enough of them with Dean to know the signs are brewing in between two of the patrons. He tries to get Patrick’s attention, but the old man is fighting bronchitis and has been moving slowly and surely towards the backroom.
So, he’s ready for it when it happens, but maybe not ready enough. Henry rears up first, slams his fist into Larry’s face, and then the fight is on. Sam’s tall, agile, and waiting for it, so jumping the bar and wading into the fight to break up the flying fists seems totally logical. What Sam’s not taking into account as he reaches for Henry’s arm is that Henry has friends. Sam may be well-liked by the majority of the patrons, but he’s still an outsider. A stranger.
There aren’t many lessons Sam forgets. He gave up being anything other than an outsider to the majority of the world a long time ago, but something about the weekly dinners at Patrick’s house with his apple-faced wife and her delicious cooking, or the way Melanie pinches his cheek before over-tipping him, or maybe just all the smiles has eased his usual wariness and lulled him into a false sense of complacency. Whatever it is, Sam isn’t ready for Henry’s friend slamming his beer bottle into Sam’s skull.
Hundreds of movies feature this moment, the bottle smashing into little pieces and the person getting hit either reeling or going down automatically. It’s not like that in real life. In real life beer bottles are made to be durable, to survive impact, and Sam’s skull takes the hit with a dull and meaty thunk. He’s thrown forwards, thighs crashing into the table and someone screaming in the distance. Or maybe that’s the ringing in his poor battered skull, Sam can’t quite tell, but everything goes fuzzy and indistinct. Big hands grab him, and then he’s being lowered into a chair as someone waves the others off.
In the distance Sam thinks he can hear something meaty and rhythmic, like someone getting beaten, and maybe there’s arguing about that, or a high-pitched voice begging someone to stop. Sam’s not sure because his vision keeps doubling and tripling.
He’s already in the local clinic when things get less hazy and the doc, a regular patron and someone Sam has served three draft beers to tonight, is shining a light in his eyes as he asks Sam pertinent questions. His vision still won’t clear totally, and there’s something dripping down the back of his neck that makes him uncomfortable. He hears Patrick clear as a bell. “Doc there’s a lot of blood.”
“Head wounds bleed like that Patrick. Stop acting like an old lady.” The doctor’s weathered old hands tilt Sam’s face one way and then another before he steps behind Sam and begins to mess with what turns out to be Sam’s previously undiscovered lava storage bin. The burning that spreads out from the spot the doctor is prodding makes his vision go worse, and Sam doesn’t have time to warn them that he’s going to throw up. It becomes irrelevant when a trash bin is lifted in front of his face just in time, and Sam boots everything he’s eaten that day, and maybe the day before as well.
“Good timing.” Patrick’s voice off to his right. If Patrick is there, and the doctor is melting into Sam’s brain, then who the hell is holding the bin?
“He’s going to need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. Short naps are ok, but wake him constantly. You need to ask a few questions to make sure his brain is functioning normally, and if any of those symptoms we discussed come back you need to call me immediately. We don’t have a full hospital here, but there’s one nearby. Can you take care of him?”
And then Sam’s world sways dangerously, because the voice that comes back is too familiar and powerful. “I always have before.”
Patrick sounds odd, hesitant, and Sam tries to figure out which of the blurry shapes is the right blurry shape. “Sam didn’t exactly tell me about you. I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving him with you.”
“Sir, with all due respect, Sam and I have a long history together. I promise you taking care of him has been a priority of mine most of my life.”
Sam can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes his throat and shakes all the burning pain loose again. The doctor curses lowly and then says, “Hold his head still. I have another couple stitches left to put in.”
When it’s over, when they’re done manhandling his head and talking around him, the doctor gives him a shot that makes him float far away from the pain. Sam recognizes it as Morphine, and he’s a little surprised the doctor would do something so drastic. It seems like the first response would have been Tylenol. Sam’s not hurting, why would they give him something so strong?
Rough, familiar hands lead him outside into the cold and then tuck him into the bench seat of the Impala. The engine, loud and comforting, rumbles to life and then magically transports them back to the bar. Sam is led up the stairs and lowered onto the couch Patrick had there when Sam moved in.
Cold glass brushes his lips and Sam opens his mouth on reflex and takes long drinks of the water being offered to him. It’s the best water Sam has ever had. When it’s gone there’s a clunk and then he’s being lifted again and moved. His clothes are stripped off, and the drafty little apartment is too cold for that. He wants to complain, but then he’s led to the bed and settled down into blankets accentuated by the warm body wrapping around him. Sam almost argues, almost talks, but he finds that the silence is more soothing.
Talking only leads to arguing, and arguing only leads to leaving. Sam can’t leave again. He’s out of places to go. The voice rumbles from somewhere in the vicinity of his neck, and Sam wonders what he’s done to the universe to make it so vindictive. His family history, the demon blood, being the vessel for Lucifer, and now this. There’s no escape, and it was supposed to wait until he gave in. He promised Patrick.
“Stupid bastard thought the bottle would break.”
If Sam could make his tongue work he’d tell Dean that he thought that too. How common the misconception is, and why everybody seems to think that when they can clunk their bottles on a table or drop them short distances and not have them shatter is beyond him. Plus, Sam is fairly certain Mythbusters did an episode, and doesn’t everybody watch Mythbusters?
“Yeah Sammy. Lotta people watch those two dorks blow shit up. Good times.”
Oh shit. He’s talking aloud, but he’s thinking. Or Dean’s gained telepathy since they split up. It’s the sort of thing Dean would do just to spite him. Did he think that or say it? Dean gives him no indication, only huffs behind him and disturbs the fine hairs on the back of his neck.
“You’re gonna be pissed off when you’re back to yourself little brother. Doc had to shave some hair up there to see where the stitches needed to go. You look like one of them monks with the little spot. What was it for again?” Dean sounds almost sly, and Sam recognizes that his brother is checking his functions without making it obvious. As if Sam has any dignity left to preserve.
“God touched. God touches. Spots for God’s finger.” That sounds…not right but close? Or is it just that his tongue is thick and tripping over itself as Sam tries to make it clear what he’s thinking and why. Dean huffs again and Sam swears lips brush over the base of his neck.
“Fucker hit you hard Sammy. You’re damn lucky he had an awkward angle or that could have been worse. A lot worse. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to duck?”
Yeah, Dean taught him to duck. Dean taught him everything. Dean taught him to move fast and low, Dean showed him how to be silent and swift, and Dean taught him to be vicious and decisive. His brother taught him how to read, and potty-trained him, and Dean taught Sam how to ties his shoes and make a grilled cheese sandwich. How to take a shot, and how to change oil in a car, and how to be in love. Dean taught him how to be loyal and honest, and how to make mistakes, and how to own up to them. Dean taught him everything. He’s gotta be talking aloud, because at the end of his thought process Dean takes a long and shaky breath before the arms around him tighten briefly.
“Morgan was talking to me that first full day. Said she and her hubby used to watch the show, and every season you’d take off. Ray used to say, ‘Sam’s got sand in his clit again.’”
If Sam wasn’t so relaxed, so warm and spaced out, he would take offense. He’d mention that Dean knows from personal experience that Sam doesn’t have a clit, and that most of those times Sam left because there seemed to be no other options. Sure, sometimes, maybe Sam could have stayed. Maybe he was being overdramatic, but Sam had lived a lifetime in a world where the tiniest thing could get you killed. Overdramatic seemed to be the way of things in the Winchester lifestyle.
“I laughed when Morgan told me that, but she didn’t. So when we were putting her to bed that last night you know what she said to me?” Dean pauses but Sam doesn’t know if he’s supposed to guess or not. How should he know? They barely know the woman, and she lives in far away Never-Never land. She lives in a place where Sam and Dean Winchester only exist on TV, and any time things get too heavy or painful they can simply be paused or turned off. Morgan doesn’t understand what this is like, or how bad it feels to be so close to a thing you can’t have. So close to a thing that was given to you and then turned you away.
“She said, ‘I used to laugh too, but then I watched. I watched closely, and realized that every time Sam walked away you pushed him there. One day Dean you’re going to push him, and Sam won’t come back. No one’s going to laugh then.’”
Morgan was an incredible woman with insights beyond all reckoning. Morgan was goddess among women. Morgan was a saint.
“I wouldn’t go that far Sammy, but she knew a little bit of what she was talking about. She knew for instance that the only thing that would make me stop for a second and take things in was the possibility that this really wasn’t something we could stop without breaking apart forever. I know what happened, and I know what I said, and I’m sorry Sam. I really am. I was an asshole, and you deserved better. You always deserve better. I’m willing to try to be better but you gotta go slow with me sweetheart. You gotta understand it ain’t gonna come all at once, and I can’t just change my spots overnight. I’m gonna keep pushing, but you gotta stay this time. I can’t do this again. Can’t watch you walk away again without just breaking apart, so you go slow with me, and I promise you I’ll give you everything I can. You can answer tomorrow when you ain’t high as a kite.”
Sam wants to answer now, wants to say yes, because yes. He knows though that Dean means it, and his head isn’t in a place where he’s good to make decisions. So he settles into Dean’s warm and strong embrace, and submits to Dean recounting every season of Dr. Sexy M.D. with the occasional questioning to test if Sam is awake and aware of where he is and who he is.
But how could he forget? He’s in Dean’s arms, and he’s Dean’s, and that’s not something you forget.
----
When Sam wakes up from a mini-nap Dean is leaning against the headboard, eyes shot with red and heavily bagged, and knocking his knee with his fist none too gently. It’s an old trick Dean’s used since he was in school to keep himself awake, and Sam’s a little surprised to see it. Not as surprised as he is to realize that last night was not a concussion related hallucination. Dean is here, Dean came for him, and Dean gave in. Dean surrendered. Sam wants to get up and cheer, to dance, to do something properly celebratory, but when he shifts the headache sets in so vicious and thick that Sam is being led over the edge of the bed and dry-heaving into a tub Dean had ready for this very moment.
Sam’s grateful.
-----
At the end of the week the doctor checks him out and pronounces that Sam seems back to speed. The headaches have lessened, Sam can keep food down, and his vision is back to normal. He doesn’t press charges on Henry’s friend, and Henry assures them that in return when his friend gets out of the hospital bed Dean put him in he won’t press charges either. It’s good enough.
Patrick is more than understanding about Dean staying until they can find a replacement for Sam. When Sam apologizes for leaving Patrick shakes his head and smiles warmly. “I expected you to be gone weeks ago boy. Saw that look in your eye and just knew you were temporary. Nellie’s gonna miss you like crazy, but as long as you remember to call every now and then it’ll be ok.”
Dean sits in a booth most nights as Sam pours drinks and washes glasses. Every now and then his brother will haul supplies from the stockroom or join in a game of pool. Sam’s pleased when Dean doesn’t hustle the locals for money, but he’s more than a little amused at the way Dean openly flirts with him. It’s strange, it’s new, and Sam likes it a lot.
No one knows them here. Not beyond Sam the drifter and Dean his boyfriend. They’re just people, members of the community temporarily, and Sam’s given a glimpse of a life they can have. Not permanently, not always, there are still people around that know them for who they really are and they’ll always have to be careful where those people are involved, but it’s something they can have in places like this. They can be Sam and Dean the couple instead of Sam and Dean the dysfunctional brothers. They can be together.
On his last night as bartender Sam’s mixing a Flaming Dr. Pepper when Dean reaches out and casually brushes Sam’s hand. The lighter jerks once, and then he gets it under control and makes sure that the 151 is burning merrily before he slides it to Grace and watches her put out the flames and chug the mix. When he turns back Dean’s smiling at him, this weird little possessive quirk of his lips, and fingers reach out to tangle with Sam’s.
They close up on time, the last stragglers singing some country song as they swagger out the door, and after all the lights are off and the doors are locked Sam reaches for Dean and his brother comes easily.
There’s none of the last encounter in this. No crying, no begging, and no desperation. It’s a slow build, tongues tangling and hands moving lazily as Dean and Sam stumble their way up the narrow stairs and into Sam’s apartment. He’s glad Patrick took the night off, glad it’s just them, because he’s pretty sure if it hadn’t been Dean wouldn’t have been comfortable doing this. There’s something symbolic in the act of Dean taking him upstairs, leading him to the little bedroom and lowering him onto the lumpy mattress Sam has called his own for almost two months now.
The first time this part was almost violent. Sam begging Dean to touch him, to admit he loved him, all while Dean ripped at Sam’s clothes and growled out words while marking him with his teeth. This time Dean undoes each button of Sam’s shirt one by one while he murmurs soft phrases along Sam’s skin. Simple platitudes about the way Sam moves, the grace of his fingers, how hot it’s been to watch him all night.
When Dean is scraping teeth along Sam’s ribs he realizes his brother’s shirt is still on, and he struggles his way up to his elbows so that he can jerk on the collar and remind Dean that this is a two-way street and they both need to be naked.
Dean doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight, just disconnects his mouth long enough to grab the shoulders of his shirt and pull it up and over his head. He comes out it looking ruffled, alive, and there’s a spark in his eyes that Sam wants to capture on film. Something to remember this by.
Even that little reminder is enough to set Sam to shaking, how much Dean wanted it last time and what it did afterwards. Dean’s eyes darken, and he shakes his head once before his hands start to undo the buckle of his belt. “No. No Sam. Not this time.”
Then he’s gripping Sam’s hands, kissing the wrists and the palms before he leads them up to grip the bars of the headboard. Sam holds on like he’s instructed to, obeys, and Dean uses his belt to secure Sam to the rusty metal bars. It’s not what Sam was expecting, not what he would have asked for, but there’s something about being held down and vulnerable under Dean’s hot gaze that sets him off.
Bondage, for obvious reasons, has never been Sam’s thing. Then again, neither have men, but it seems that Sam has a Dean thing, and everything works when it comes to his brother. He watches as Dean opens the fly of his jeans and then licks along his hipbone and over the v of his lower abdominals. The fingers of Dean’s left hand stray up, flick his nipple, tweak it once, and Sam moans in the back of his throat while his brother pulls the waistband down and exposes more flesh for his questing tongue.
He has to break off the torture long enough to sit up and unlace Sam’s boots, pull them and the socks off, and then he goes back to slowly peeling Sam’s jeans down. He mouths over the cotton of Sam’s boxer briefs, down to Sam’s exposed thighs, and then slowly over his knees. Dean’s tongue nestles in the sensitive curve of Sam’s right knee, and he lets out an embarrassing keening noise. At least it should be embarrassing, but Dean’s body jerks like he just got hit with electricity and he presses the palm of his hand against his cock hard before looking up the length of Sam’s body and locking eyes with him. “Goddamn Sammy. Goddamn.”
Dean keeps going, tongue and lips questing along Sam’s calves and down over his ankles, but there’s an urgency now that wasn’t there before. Exploration has given way to need, and Sam can’t complain about that. When the jeans are thrown across the room Dean gets up on his knees long enough to unzip and unbutton, and then shucks his own pants before his mouth returns to Sam’s legs. The tongue hits the same spot on his left knee and Sam makes that noise again. Dean’s response is a low growl and a gentle nip, before hot wet muscle is moving up the inside of his thigh.
His boxer briefs get pulled off much less gently than his pants, and then Dean is nuzzling the crease where his thigh meets his hip, inhaling deeply, before his tongue ghosts along the side of Sam’s cock.
It’s too hot, too sensual, and Sam has to close his eyes because if he keeps looking at the way Dean’s tongue peeks out of those pink lips, the long lashes framing smoldering green eyes, or the ridiculously agile fingers that have returned to his nipples Sam is going to finish way too soon. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek and holds still, resists the urge to thrust his hips up while Dean’s tongue taunts and teases along his shaft, the vein on the underside, and the flare of his cockhead. Dean tastes along his slit, tip of the tongue poking in briefly, and Sam can’t help the cry that escapes him or the way he moves underneath Dean. He grips the bars so hard he thinks he hears a creak, and then there’s the snick of a lube bottle and liquid dripping.
If Sam notices that no wet fingers breach his entrance then his brain can’t keep the information front and center. Instead Dean’s mouth engulfs the head and starts up a steady suction while one hand disappears from Sam’s chest and doesn’t return. The other hand drifts down, palms Sam’s heavy balls, and then moves lower to stroke a thumb rhythmically over his perineum.
Sam’s making that keening noise again, whole body straining upwards in a desperate attempt for more contact with Dean’s mouth, more friction, more something. Unfortunately it appears that Dean’s a cocktease, and Sam’s gonna return the goddamn favor as soon as he can-
The mouth is gone, cold air breezing against his slick skin, and Sam’s just about the open his eyes when he feels Dean’s knees brush against his thighs. He’s not prepared, not stretched, but it doesn’t seem to matter because whatever Dean is doing the knees are on the outside of Sam’s thighs. He opens his eyes then, and does so just in time to slam them shut again when Dean grips his dick and lines him up.
Nothing, nothing in the goddamn universe could prepare Sam for this moment. Dean’s eyes are open, and did Sam think he felt vulnerable? He understands why Dean secured him to the bed at the beginning. He gets it now. Dean’s eyes are wide, open, and they shine with love and fear. Tenderness. Dean winces once when the head of Sam’s cock brushes hard against his rim, and then Dean gets a better grip and bears down.
Sam can’t help it. “Dean!” escapes him, and then he’s partially buried in the tight slick heat of his brother’s ass as Dean’s hand lands on his chest for balance. Dean’s breathing hard, eyes half shut, and Sam wants to say something more. Wants to be poetic, because this seems like a moment for poetics, but he’s got nothing. No words of love or kindness, just the aching, primal, urgent need to thrust upward and the dim civilized understanding that he cannot do that under any circumstances.
Dean circles his hips once, twice, tender little movements, and then the long lashes sweep downwards as Dean slides all the way home. Sam’s in deep, deeper than he thought he could go, and Dean’s so tight that it’s a little frightening. Did Dean prepare himself? Sam hopes to God Dean did, because he’s long past the point of being able to argue for Dean’s health.
They stay like that for an eternity, Sam buried inside of Dean and his brother impaled on him and trembling. When Dean seems to have control, when his eyes have re-opened and still show Sam more than he’s ever seen before, Dean begins to move. At first it’s tiny, hesitant, but his brother gets bolder with every slow rise and fall.
Eventually Dean is riding him, body twisting sinuously and tight channel flexing around Sam’s cock as Dean uses his thighs and the leverage on Sam’s chest to move. Then Dean leans forward for a kiss, Sam thrusts upwards, and he knows from the shocked cry that punches out of Dean that he’s hit his brother’s prostate. Dean stays leaning forward, lips pressed against Sam’s but not kissing as he moves again and again to chase that sensation.
Sam can’t blame him, it’s a great moment, but he shifts his legs up and plants his feet against the bed so he can thrust in earnest. So he can show Dean how incredible this can be, and why they should do it every night for the rest of their damn lives. Dean’s bucking on his cock, mouth moving and breathing out Sam’s name with every thrust, and then Sam manages to get a glimpse of Dean’s rock-hard leaking erection trapped between them.
That can’t happen, it won’t do, and Sam can feel his own orgasm building. Dean needs this, and Sam plans on helping. Except his damn hands are tied to the headboard, and Dean doesn’t seem interested in freeing Sam to get real friction on his cock. Brushing against Sam’s abs can’t be enough, and Sam fights against the belt before he begins to beg. “Dean, Dean please you gotta-untie-untie me Dean-I need-oh shit please-I need to touch you.”
“I got it Sam. I got it. S’all ok Sammy. Come for me baby. Come for me.”
And Sam obeys.
When the orgasm is done, when he’s lying there wrung out and Dean still hard and over him he watches as his brother slides off slowly, hesitantly, and then Dean is down between his thighs with the lube bottle again. Sam would protest but he doesn’t have any brain cells left. Dean stretches him open gently, reverently, kisses placed against his sweaty and shaking thighs. Then he’s lifting Sam’s legs into his arms and spreading Sam open before he slides into the hilt.
It burns, burns and stretches, and Sam’s exhausted cock gives an interested twitch and valiantly tries to rejoin the fun even as Sam groans and moans under Dean’s administrations. Dean’s moaning above him, thrusting deep, and then shortly afterwards filling Sam up before he collapses downwards. “Love you Sammy.”
“Y’too.”
When enough time has passed for Sam to get his breath and his brain back he twitches and then mouths along the shell of Dean’s ear. “Hey. Hey Dean my-you gotta untie me man. Shoulders.”
Without looking up Dean reaches to Sam’s hands, unbuckles the belt, and then rolls off and out. They lay side by side, breathing heavily and covered in sweat, spit, and come until the cold air starts to affect them. Sam manages to manhandle Dean up and into the shower where they platonically wash each other before collapsing under the covers and passing out into what Sam will swear for the rest of his life is the best sleep anyone has ever had.
Sam wakes the next morning to Dean sprawled out on the bed beside him, naked and eating a Bear Claw. Sam would complain about crumbs, but Dean got him one two, and he knows from personal experience that these are fresh and irresistible. Dean gestures once, and Sam gets the motion and opens his mouth.
He really shouldn’t be surprised when Dean smashes the Bear Claw into his face. He really shouldn’t laugh. He does both anyway, because no matter what shittiness Dean has to dole out this morning his brother’s eyes are bright and there’s a smile on his face that Sam can’t remember ever seeing before. Something like pure joy. And Sam? Yeah he’ll do anything to keep it there. Fight anything, kill anything, give up anything to protect his brother’s fragile joy.
It’s after his goodbye to Patrick, after Nellie presses a bag of food in his hands and kisses both his cheeks, that Sam finds himself in the passenger seat of the Impala watching the little time he spent away fade into the distance. Dean breaks the silence with the weirdest non sequitur Sam’s ever heard.
“She was wrong about that too.”
“Who was wrong about what too?” Sam almost doesn’t ask. Almost lets it slide.
“Morgan. She said there’d be two more fights and then I’d be the bottom to apologize.”
Sam squints against the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow and then looks over to see how big Dean is grinning. He hates to argue, but this is a point he can’t quite avoid. “Dean you did bottom to apologize.”
“At first, but I’m man enough I topped from it. So technically, you bottomed twice last night.”
He’d say something smart, he really would, but he’s too busy laughing so hard the window has to prop him up. Dean manages to look offended, but there’s still that light in his eyes, and Sam’s ok with that.
Sam’s ok with all of it.
Wordcount: 7,078
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam, implied Jensen/OFC and Jared/Alona
Notes: This is the result of both an argument I saw on Youtube, and one I had in real life.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Supernatural, and Jared and Jensen are real people and certainly not the ones found here.
Summary: When the Winchesters go at the Fourth Wall they go at it hard.
Previous part
They finish off the troll with minor injuries and one more fight. Dean still thinks that a direct slam into the beast is the best option, and that nets him a concussion and a bruised rib. Sam’s plan to use fables to their advantage only works slightly better, and while he’s checking Dean’s mental faculties his brother is trying to bandage a deep gash in Sam’s side.
Louisiana rolls away behind them, and they do two more hunts in Arizona and Montana before Sam breaks somewhere over the Missouri border. He tries not to. Tries to hold it in and stay sane, but Dean is getting tighter and more distant as time rolls on. The simple synchronicity they had in the cemetery in the other world is gone, and it’s resulting in the two of them getting hurt more than they should be. Sam’s nursing a broken thumb at the moment, and he kind of wants to hit Dean. He doesn’t though, because he’s an awesome and understanding man. Instead he waits until they’re eating pizza in front of a Dr. Sexy M.D. rerun to break the ice.
“What did she say to you?”
“Who? The pizza delivery girl? ‘Thanks for the tip dude.’ I think she was high.” His brother takes a big bite of his slice and narrows his eyes at the TV. “Do you think Dr. Sexy ever questions his life choices?”
Sam bites his lip hard and then takes a deep breath. “I would if I was him. How often does he get slapped, and yet he still hangs around these women? That would drive any man mad. Hell, I almost lost it when it happened the second time to me, and he gets it five or six times an episode. I mean really Dean, how many times is a man expected to get hit in the face?”
“I get hit in the face all the time Sam, and I’m perfectly sane.”
“That’s up for debate.”
Dean’s eyebrow arches upwards before he rubs it with greasy fingertips. “Oh? You gonna make a case for me being crazy? Well let’s hear it Counselor.”
For a moment Sam remembers when Dean had Yellow Fever, and how insistent he was that Sam understand just how out of touch they were for putting themselves into danger. Once upon a time Sam would have agreed with his brother, would have nodded in a consolatory manner and simply enjoyed hearing Dean say the very thing he was always thinking. That was a different time though, and a different Sam. That was a Sam that thought running away from the only thing that had ever meant anything to him was a good idea. That was a Sam that didn’t know just how deep in his system Dean was, how non-biological that call actually was. Sure, genetically speaking Dean was in his blood, but in a totally flowery and romantic way Dean was in his blood.
How many nights had he lain awake simply staring at the ceiling of his crappy dorm room and wondering why he was aching? How many times had he looked over in the bed and seen Jess lying there, sleeping with those long lashes drifting over her cheeks and her plush lips slightly parted, and wondered why it seemed so familiar and simple? How long did it take him to understand what was happening and why?
“Ok, state’s evidence exhibit A; Dean Winchester has a habit of putting himself into danger on a regular basis without any consideration for his own health. He does this in the interest of taking care of strangers, but also to save his little brother pain and anguish.”
Dean stuffs the entire crust into his mouth and grumbles around it. “That makes me a good hunter and a good brother Sam. Not crazy.”
“State’s evidence exhibit B; Dean Winchester sleeps with anything with two legs and an attractive face. Risking any number of angry significant others and STDs he continues this reckless behavior with no biological imperative to procreate.”
For a second Sam is afraid Dean will choke to death on the crust when he starts laughing, but then his brother gets control of himself and looks over. His eyes sparkle merrily, and the lines at the corners of them are cut deep and vivid. When the laughter is controlled Dean points a finger at him. “Objection. That makes Dean Winchester a healthy, red-blooded, American male instead of a prude.”
Sam hates when Dean calls him a prude. Thinks of the way he moaned like a whore when Dean was buried balls-deep in him, and how Dean kept saying, so sexy Sammy, so hot for me baby, but he doesn’t bring that up to counter Dean’s objection. It would kill the surprise attack he’s planning.
“The prosecution will withhold its opinion on that until closing statements.” Dean’s eyes twinkle a little more, and damn if Sam can’t help but smile in response. “State’s evidence exhibit C; Dean Winchester is capable of knowing and seeing reason, and yet deludes himself into believing in false conclusions contrary to all logical evidence.”
Dean points a finger with the hand that’s holding his beer and there’s a dangerous glint building in his eye. “Explain.”
“For example, all evidence points to Dr. Sexy M.D. being a piece of pointless fluffy drama created for women, and while Mr. Winchester must be fully aware of this he watches the show continuously. He insists that it is for the plot, and spankable material, but his eyes tear up at the emotionally exploitative moments and he never masturbates after the show is over.”
“Sammy how would you-I definitely masturbate. I masturbate regularly. I refer back to the American male argument.”
“Dean, we’re stuck in tiny motel rooms with paper thin walls. I can hear you, all the time, and I’m telling you there’s never been a single episode of this show that ended with you masturbating.”
“Well I-Jesus Sam I give it time. I mean I use it when it’s necessary. That’s why it gets stored away, for later use.”
“Ok. Then tell me, what was the best moment of the show? Ever?”
His brother gives him a disgusted look, and his mouth starts moving long before his brain catches up. Sam loves these moments. “When Dr. Ellen Piccolo, the sexy yet earnest doctor, told Dr. Wang that she wouldn’t let her operate on a young boy just to prove a point. By saving the young boy’s life she saved Dr. Sexy, who was spiraling into despair because of the boy’s illness and-then they got naked.” Dean guzzles his beer and glares at the smile splitting Sam’s face. “Then lesbians.”
“I’ve been watching this show on and off with you for years Dean. There were no lesbians in that episode.”
“How would you know?” It’s almost a growl, but Sam can see Dean’s defenses fall down as his brother relaxes back into the headboard. “Anyway, you cried during Legends of the Fall.”
Sam was willing to play along for a moment. “Yeah. Everybody cried during that movie Dean. That move is designed by the universe to break people.”
Dean nods and then tilts his head and grins broadly. “So all your evidence is proving is that I’m an emotionally and sexually healthy man. With good taste in television shows.”
“No I’m sure that last point hasn’t come up. But you concede right? To all the evidence?”
His brother sighs once before rolling his eyes. “Yeah Sammy, sure. I concede. You got a point, or you just talking to hear yourself talk?”
“Alright, prosecution will make its closing statement. Dean Winchester structures his life around the ideals of pleasure and protection. He’d do anything to save his little brother pain, and kill anyone who hurt him-“
“Damn straight.” Dean’s eyes are fiery, and Sam thinks his brother might be just the right side of tipsy for this conversation.
“-and is insistent to that point. Yet knowing all of that logically Mr. Winchester refuses to admit to himself or his brother that he’s in love with Sam. That he wants to be with Sam, sexually, emotionally, and fraternally. Instead Dean deludes himself into thinking that what’s best for Sam is-“
Dean pushes up from the bed like a rocket and points a finger. “None of this! I thought we were over this! I thought you’d gotten your shit straight on this one!”
“-to have his brother give in to what makes them both happy. They know for a fact that life is-“
“Sam, please, I’m fucking begging you man. Stop. Please stop.”
“-short and that they rarely ever get any happiness. It would take a mad man-“
“I won’t listen to this. I’m fucking done Sam. You hear me? I’m done.”
“-to deny them the one thing that makes them whole and happy. It would take a mad man to look the only person he loves in the whole damn world in the eye and destroy them in an effort to fit in with society’s rules. The prosecution rests.”
And Dean leaves.
----
So maybe it’s childish.
No, definitely childish, but Sam waits until six in the morning and then he collects his bag and heads out the motel room door. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the nearest grocery store, and he watches the employees file in and start the process of opening the place. Once he’s sure they’re in business he picks a Honda and hotwires it.
He doesn’t really have anywhere to go, but he leaves and heads out anyway. Anywhere is better than here. Sam’s done the best he can, has put up with all of it, but this is a step too far. Sure, someday in the near future he’ll break down and go back. They’ll have a stilted conversation that does everything but apologies and understandings, and go back to this half-life Dean has condemned them to. Sam will smile and put up with it, Dean will bury it deep, and that will be the end of it.
Except Sam’s not sure about that. He ends up in Northern Michigan, tending bar in a small town and renting a room upstairs. He gets to know the locals well, and he likes a good deal of them. The owner of the bar reminds him a lot of Bobby, and that’s bitterly sweet. The routine becomes a part of him, and Sam manages to find that soothing. He’s been there a little over a month when Patrick breaks protocol and asks a personal question. Sam’s wiping down the bar after a particularly quiet night when it happens.
“So what are you running from?”
His first reaction is to bristle, but he doesn’t. He holds it in, because Patrick has no way of knowing what’s going on in Sam’s head. No way of understanding how close to the core his question cuts.
“What if I’m running towards something? Like the future, or a career in politics?”
Patrick’s laugh is low and thick, and he stacks glasses and sends a sly look Sam’s way. “From Kaleva, Michigan? You’re shooting fairly low there boy.”
“Small seeds and all that. We’re running low on Jack.”
His boss nods thoughtfully and then puts the last glass up before turning off the neon sign behind the bar. “Is it a woman or a man?”
“Patrick I’m not-“
“Because if some jealous ex is going to show up in my bar and start trouble I want to be ready to know if I’m supposed to pull old Betsy out, or just call the law.”
Sam thinks of Dean then, eyes dark and full of lust, pressing him against the wall. Lips begging entry even as his hands demanded it.
“There won’t be anyone Patrick. Believe me. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Man then.” Patrick writes down the Jack on the clipboard and then stows it under the register before wiping his hands off on a rag and hanging that up too. “Well, good to know I was right.”
And that makes Sam wonder. It’s not that he and Dean haven’t had the assumption made about them more than once, but he’s never been able to really ask about it. Too busy arguing against the possibility of incest. “You guessed I was gay? Why did you guess that?”
“You’re fastidious and clean.” Patrick’s eyes twinkle as he reaches for his jacket and zips it up. He grunts once at Sam’s expression and then shrugs expansively enough that Sam can see it under the weight of his parka. “I didn’t guess you were gay boy. I guessed there was a man. Big difference. Nellie wants you to come to dinner tomorrow. Don’t tell her no, or she’ll be up here during business hours with a home-cooked meal reminding my patrons how bad Remy’s chicken fingers are.”
----
It’s rare that there’s an issue in Patrick’s bar. With a population below 500 it’s rare that the patrons don’t know each other, and removing that tension goes a long way toward lowering violent incidents. On the other hand, that means almost everybody has known the man or woman beside them since childhood. That sort of familiarity allows for older grudges, and when it’s as cold as tonight is that sort of thing tends to flare up.
Sam knows from personal experience that a fight with long building personal tension, with history, is the worst kind of fight. It’s the kind that ends on the ground, that gets bloody, and he’s had enough of them with Dean to know the signs are brewing in between two of the patrons. He tries to get Patrick’s attention, but the old man is fighting bronchitis and has been moving slowly and surely towards the backroom.
So, he’s ready for it when it happens, but maybe not ready enough. Henry rears up first, slams his fist into Larry’s face, and then the fight is on. Sam’s tall, agile, and waiting for it, so jumping the bar and wading into the fight to break up the flying fists seems totally logical. What Sam’s not taking into account as he reaches for Henry’s arm is that Henry has friends. Sam may be well-liked by the majority of the patrons, but he’s still an outsider. A stranger.
There aren’t many lessons Sam forgets. He gave up being anything other than an outsider to the majority of the world a long time ago, but something about the weekly dinners at Patrick’s house with his apple-faced wife and her delicious cooking, or the way Melanie pinches his cheek before over-tipping him, or maybe just all the smiles has eased his usual wariness and lulled him into a false sense of complacency. Whatever it is, Sam isn’t ready for Henry’s friend slamming his beer bottle into Sam’s skull.
Hundreds of movies feature this moment, the bottle smashing into little pieces and the person getting hit either reeling or going down automatically. It’s not like that in real life. In real life beer bottles are made to be durable, to survive impact, and Sam’s skull takes the hit with a dull and meaty thunk. He’s thrown forwards, thighs crashing into the table and someone screaming in the distance. Or maybe that’s the ringing in his poor battered skull, Sam can’t quite tell, but everything goes fuzzy and indistinct. Big hands grab him, and then he’s being lowered into a chair as someone waves the others off.
In the distance Sam thinks he can hear something meaty and rhythmic, like someone getting beaten, and maybe there’s arguing about that, or a high-pitched voice begging someone to stop. Sam’s not sure because his vision keeps doubling and tripling.
He’s already in the local clinic when things get less hazy and the doc, a regular patron and someone Sam has served three draft beers to tonight, is shining a light in his eyes as he asks Sam pertinent questions. His vision still won’t clear totally, and there’s something dripping down the back of his neck that makes him uncomfortable. He hears Patrick clear as a bell. “Doc there’s a lot of blood.”
“Head wounds bleed like that Patrick. Stop acting like an old lady.” The doctor’s weathered old hands tilt Sam’s face one way and then another before he steps behind Sam and begins to mess with what turns out to be Sam’s previously undiscovered lava storage bin. The burning that spreads out from the spot the doctor is prodding makes his vision go worse, and Sam doesn’t have time to warn them that he’s going to throw up. It becomes irrelevant when a trash bin is lifted in front of his face just in time, and Sam boots everything he’s eaten that day, and maybe the day before as well.
“Good timing.” Patrick’s voice off to his right. If Patrick is there, and the doctor is melting into Sam’s brain, then who the hell is holding the bin?
“He’s going to need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. Short naps are ok, but wake him constantly. You need to ask a few questions to make sure his brain is functioning normally, and if any of those symptoms we discussed come back you need to call me immediately. We don’t have a full hospital here, but there’s one nearby. Can you take care of him?”
And then Sam’s world sways dangerously, because the voice that comes back is too familiar and powerful. “I always have before.”
Patrick sounds odd, hesitant, and Sam tries to figure out which of the blurry shapes is the right blurry shape. “Sam didn’t exactly tell me about you. I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving him with you.”
“Sir, with all due respect, Sam and I have a long history together. I promise you taking care of him has been a priority of mine most of my life.”
Sam can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes his throat and shakes all the burning pain loose again. The doctor curses lowly and then says, “Hold his head still. I have another couple stitches left to put in.”
When it’s over, when they’re done manhandling his head and talking around him, the doctor gives him a shot that makes him float far away from the pain. Sam recognizes it as Morphine, and he’s a little surprised the doctor would do something so drastic. It seems like the first response would have been Tylenol. Sam’s not hurting, why would they give him something so strong?
Rough, familiar hands lead him outside into the cold and then tuck him into the bench seat of the Impala. The engine, loud and comforting, rumbles to life and then magically transports them back to the bar. Sam is led up the stairs and lowered onto the couch Patrick had there when Sam moved in.
Cold glass brushes his lips and Sam opens his mouth on reflex and takes long drinks of the water being offered to him. It’s the best water Sam has ever had. When it’s gone there’s a clunk and then he’s being lifted again and moved. His clothes are stripped off, and the drafty little apartment is too cold for that. He wants to complain, but then he’s led to the bed and settled down into blankets accentuated by the warm body wrapping around him. Sam almost argues, almost talks, but he finds that the silence is more soothing.
Talking only leads to arguing, and arguing only leads to leaving. Sam can’t leave again. He’s out of places to go. The voice rumbles from somewhere in the vicinity of his neck, and Sam wonders what he’s done to the universe to make it so vindictive. His family history, the demon blood, being the vessel for Lucifer, and now this. There’s no escape, and it was supposed to wait until he gave in. He promised Patrick.
“Stupid bastard thought the bottle would break.”
If Sam could make his tongue work he’d tell Dean that he thought that too. How common the misconception is, and why everybody seems to think that when they can clunk their bottles on a table or drop them short distances and not have them shatter is beyond him. Plus, Sam is fairly certain Mythbusters did an episode, and doesn’t everybody watch Mythbusters?
“Yeah Sammy. Lotta people watch those two dorks blow shit up. Good times.”
Oh shit. He’s talking aloud, but he’s thinking. Or Dean’s gained telepathy since they split up. It’s the sort of thing Dean would do just to spite him. Did he think that or say it? Dean gives him no indication, only huffs behind him and disturbs the fine hairs on the back of his neck.
“You’re gonna be pissed off when you’re back to yourself little brother. Doc had to shave some hair up there to see where the stitches needed to go. You look like one of them monks with the little spot. What was it for again?” Dean sounds almost sly, and Sam recognizes that his brother is checking his functions without making it obvious. As if Sam has any dignity left to preserve.
“God touched. God touches. Spots for God’s finger.” That sounds…not right but close? Or is it just that his tongue is thick and tripping over itself as Sam tries to make it clear what he’s thinking and why. Dean huffs again and Sam swears lips brush over the base of his neck.
“Fucker hit you hard Sammy. You’re damn lucky he had an awkward angle or that could have been worse. A lot worse. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to duck?”
Yeah, Dean taught him to duck. Dean taught him everything. Dean taught him to move fast and low, Dean showed him how to be silent and swift, and Dean taught him to be vicious and decisive. His brother taught him how to read, and potty-trained him, and Dean taught Sam how to ties his shoes and make a grilled cheese sandwich. How to take a shot, and how to change oil in a car, and how to be in love. Dean taught him how to be loyal and honest, and how to make mistakes, and how to own up to them. Dean taught him everything. He’s gotta be talking aloud, because at the end of his thought process Dean takes a long and shaky breath before the arms around him tighten briefly.
“Morgan was talking to me that first full day. Said she and her hubby used to watch the show, and every season you’d take off. Ray used to say, ‘Sam’s got sand in his clit again.’”
If Sam wasn’t so relaxed, so warm and spaced out, he would take offense. He’d mention that Dean knows from personal experience that Sam doesn’t have a clit, and that most of those times Sam left because there seemed to be no other options. Sure, sometimes, maybe Sam could have stayed. Maybe he was being overdramatic, but Sam had lived a lifetime in a world where the tiniest thing could get you killed. Overdramatic seemed to be the way of things in the Winchester lifestyle.
“I laughed when Morgan told me that, but she didn’t. So when we were putting her to bed that last night you know what she said to me?” Dean pauses but Sam doesn’t know if he’s supposed to guess or not. How should he know? They barely know the woman, and she lives in far away Never-Never land. She lives in a place where Sam and Dean Winchester only exist on TV, and any time things get too heavy or painful they can simply be paused or turned off. Morgan doesn’t understand what this is like, or how bad it feels to be so close to a thing you can’t have. So close to a thing that was given to you and then turned you away.
“She said, ‘I used to laugh too, but then I watched. I watched closely, and realized that every time Sam walked away you pushed him there. One day Dean you’re going to push him, and Sam won’t come back. No one’s going to laugh then.’”
Morgan was an incredible woman with insights beyond all reckoning. Morgan was goddess among women. Morgan was a saint.
“I wouldn’t go that far Sammy, but she knew a little bit of what she was talking about. She knew for instance that the only thing that would make me stop for a second and take things in was the possibility that this really wasn’t something we could stop without breaking apart forever. I know what happened, and I know what I said, and I’m sorry Sam. I really am. I was an asshole, and you deserved better. You always deserve better. I’m willing to try to be better but you gotta go slow with me sweetheart. You gotta understand it ain’t gonna come all at once, and I can’t just change my spots overnight. I’m gonna keep pushing, but you gotta stay this time. I can’t do this again. Can’t watch you walk away again without just breaking apart, so you go slow with me, and I promise you I’ll give you everything I can. You can answer tomorrow when you ain’t high as a kite.”
Sam wants to answer now, wants to say yes, because yes. He knows though that Dean means it, and his head isn’t in a place where he’s good to make decisions. So he settles into Dean’s warm and strong embrace, and submits to Dean recounting every season of Dr. Sexy M.D. with the occasional questioning to test if Sam is awake and aware of where he is and who he is.
But how could he forget? He’s in Dean’s arms, and he’s Dean’s, and that’s not something you forget.
----
When Sam wakes up from a mini-nap Dean is leaning against the headboard, eyes shot with red and heavily bagged, and knocking his knee with his fist none too gently. It’s an old trick Dean’s used since he was in school to keep himself awake, and Sam’s a little surprised to see it. Not as surprised as he is to realize that last night was not a concussion related hallucination. Dean is here, Dean came for him, and Dean gave in. Dean surrendered. Sam wants to get up and cheer, to dance, to do something properly celebratory, but when he shifts the headache sets in so vicious and thick that Sam is being led over the edge of the bed and dry-heaving into a tub Dean had ready for this very moment.
Sam’s grateful.
-----
At the end of the week the doctor checks him out and pronounces that Sam seems back to speed. The headaches have lessened, Sam can keep food down, and his vision is back to normal. He doesn’t press charges on Henry’s friend, and Henry assures them that in return when his friend gets out of the hospital bed Dean put him in he won’t press charges either. It’s good enough.
Patrick is more than understanding about Dean staying until they can find a replacement for Sam. When Sam apologizes for leaving Patrick shakes his head and smiles warmly. “I expected you to be gone weeks ago boy. Saw that look in your eye and just knew you were temporary. Nellie’s gonna miss you like crazy, but as long as you remember to call every now and then it’ll be ok.”
Dean sits in a booth most nights as Sam pours drinks and washes glasses. Every now and then his brother will haul supplies from the stockroom or join in a game of pool. Sam’s pleased when Dean doesn’t hustle the locals for money, but he’s more than a little amused at the way Dean openly flirts with him. It’s strange, it’s new, and Sam likes it a lot.
No one knows them here. Not beyond Sam the drifter and Dean his boyfriend. They’re just people, members of the community temporarily, and Sam’s given a glimpse of a life they can have. Not permanently, not always, there are still people around that know them for who they really are and they’ll always have to be careful where those people are involved, but it’s something they can have in places like this. They can be Sam and Dean the couple instead of Sam and Dean the dysfunctional brothers. They can be together.
On his last night as bartender Sam’s mixing a Flaming Dr. Pepper when Dean reaches out and casually brushes Sam’s hand. The lighter jerks once, and then he gets it under control and makes sure that the 151 is burning merrily before he slides it to Grace and watches her put out the flames and chug the mix. When he turns back Dean’s smiling at him, this weird little possessive quirk of his lips, and fingers reach out to tangle with Sam’s.
They close up on time, the last stragglers singing some country song as they swagger out the door, and after all the lights are off and the doors are locked Sam reaches for Dean and his brother comes easily.
There’s none of the last encounter in this. No crying, no begging, and no desperation. It’s a slow build, tongues tangling and hands moving lazily as Dean and Sam stumble their way up the narrow stairs and into Sam’s apartment. He’s glad Patrick took the night off, glad it’s just them, because he’s pretty sure if it hadn’t been Dean wouldn’t have been comfortable doing this. There’s something symbolic in the act of Dean taking him upstairs, leading him to the little bedroom and lowering him onto the lumpy mattress Sam has called his own for almost two months now.
The first time this part was almost violent. Sam begging Dean to touch him, to admit he loved him, all while Dean ripped at Sam’s clothes and growled out words while marking him with his teeth. This time Dean undoes each button of Sam’s shirt one by one while he murmurs soft phrases along Sam’s skin. Simple platitudes about the way Sam moves, the grace of his fingers, how hot it’s been to watch him all night.
When Dean is scraping teeth along Sam’s ribs he realizes his brother’s shirt is still on, and he struggles his way up to his elbows so that he can jerk on the collar and remind Dean that this is a two-way street and they both need to be naked.
Dean doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight, just disconnects his mouth long enough to grab the shoulders of his shirt and pull it up and over his head. He comes out it looking ruffled, alive, and there’s a spark in his eyes that Sam wants to capture on film. Something to remember this by.
Even that little reminder is enough to set Sam to shaking, how much Dean wanted it last time and what it did afterwards. Dean’s eyes darken, and he shakes his head once before his hands start to undo the buckle of his belt. “No. No Sam. Not this time.”
Then he’s gripping Sam’s hands, kissing the wrists and the palms before he leads them up to grip the bars of the headboard. Sam holds on like he’s instructed to, obeys, and Dean uses his belt to secure Sam to the rusty metal bars. It’s not what Sam was expecting, not what he would have asked for, but there’s something about being held down and vulnerable under Dean’s hot gaze that sets him off.
Bondage, for obvious reasons, has never been Sam’s thing. Then again, neither have men, but it seems that Sam has a Dean thing, and everything works when it comes to his brother. He watches as Dean opens the fly of his jeans and then licks along his hipbone and over the v of his lower abdominals. The fingers of Dean’s left hand stray up, flick his nipple, tweak it once, and Sam moans in the back of his throat while his brother pulls the waistband down and exposes more flesh for his questing tongue.
He has to break off the torture long enough to sit up and unlace Sam’s boots, pull them and the socks off, and then he goes back to slowly peeling Sam’s jeans down. He mouths over the cotton of Sam’s boxer briefs, down to Sam’s exposed thighs, and then slowly over his knees. Dean’s tongue nestles in the sensitive curve of Sam’s right knee, and he lets out an embarrassing keening noise. At least it should be embarrassing, but Dean’s body jerks like he just got hit with electricity and he presses the palm of his hand against his cock hard before looking up the length of Sam’s body and locking eyes with him. “Goddamn Sammy. Goddamn.”
Dean keeps going, tongue and lips questing along Sam’s calves and down over his ankles, but there’s an urgency now that wasn’t there before. Exploration has given way to need, and Sam can’t complain about that. When the jeans are thrown across the room Dean gets up on his knees long enough to unzip and unbutton, and then shucks his own pants before his mouth returns to Sam’s legs. The tongue hits the same spot on his left knee and Sam makes that noise again. Dean’s response is a low growl and a gentle nip, before hot wet muscle is moving up the inside of his thigh.
His boxer briefs get pulled off much less gently than his pants, and then Dean is nuzzling the crease where his thigh meets his hip, inhaling deeply, before his tongue ghosts along the side of Sam’s cock.
It’s too hot, too sensual, and Sam has to close his eyes because if he keeps looking at the way Dean’s tongue peeks out of those pink lips, the long lashes framing smoldering green eyes, or the ridiculously agile fingers that have returned to his nipples Sam is going to finish way too soon. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek and holds still, resists the urge to thrust his hips up while Dean’s tongue taunts and teases along his shaft, the vein on the underside, and the flare of his cockhead. Dean tastes along his slit, tip of the tongue poking in briefly, and Sam can’t help the cry that escapes him or the way he moves underneath Dean. He grips the bars so hard he thinks he hears a creak, and then there’s the snick of a lube bottle and liquid dripping.
If Sam notices that no wet fingers breach his entrance then his brain can’t keep the information front and center. Instead Dean’s mouth engulfs the head and starts up a steady suction while one hand disappears from Sam’s chest and doesn’t return. The other hand drifts down, palms Sam’s heavy balls, and then moves lower to stroke a thumb rhythmically over his perineum.
Sam’s making that keening noise again, whole body straining upwards in a desperate attempt for more contact with Dean’s mouth, more friction, more something. Unfortunately it appears that Dean’s a cocktease, and Sam’s gonna return the goddamn favor as soon as he can-
The mouth is gone, cold air breezing against his slick skin, and Sam’s just about the open his eyes when he feels Dean’s knees brush against his thighs. He’s not prepared, not stretched, but it doesn’t seem to matter because whatever Dean is doing the knees are on the outside of Sam’s thighs. He opens his eyes then, and does so just in time to slam them shut again when Dean grips his dick and lines him up.
Nothing, nothing in the goddamn universe could prepare Sam for this moment. Dean’s eyes are open, and did Sam think he felt vulnerable? He understands why Dean secured him to the bed at the beginning. He gets it now. Dean’s eyes are wide, open, and they shine with love and fear. Tenderness. Dean winces once when the head of Sam’s cock brushes hard against his rim, and then Dean gets a better grip and bears down.
Sam can’t help it. “Dean!” escapes him, and then he’s partially buried in the tight slick heat of his brother’s ass as Dean’s hand lands on his chest for balance. Dean’s breathing hard, eyes half shut, and Sam wants to say something more. Wants to be poetic, because this seems like a moment for poetics, but he’s got nothing. No words of love or kindness, just the aching, primal, urgent need to thrust upward and the dim civilized understanding that he cannot do that under any circumstances.
Dean circles his hips once, twice, tender little movements, and then the long lashes sweep downwards as Dean slides all the way home. Sam’s in deep, deeper than he thought he could go, and Dean’s so tight that it’s a little frightening. Did Dean prepare himself? Sam hopes to God Dean did, because he’s long past the point of being able to argue for Dean’s health.
They stay like that for an eternity, Sam buried inside of Dean and his brother impaled on him and trembling. When Dean seems to have control, when his eyes have re-opened and still show Sam more than he’s ever seen before, Dean begins to move. At first it’s tiny, hesitant, but his brother gets bolder with every slow rise and fall.
Eventually Dean is riding him, body twisting sinuously and tight channel flexing around Sam’s cock as Dean uses his thighs and the leverage on Sam’s chest to move. Then Dean leans forward for a kiss, Sam thrusts upwards, and he knows from the shocked cry that punches out of Dean that he’s hit his brother’s prostate. Dean stays leaning forward, lips pressed against Sam’s but not kissing as he moves again and again to chase that sensation.
Sam can’t blame him, it’s a great moment, but he shifts his legs up and plants his feet against the bed so he can thrust in earnest. So he can show Dean how incredible this can be, and why they should do it every night for the rest of their damn lives. Dean’s bucking on his cock, mouth moving and breathing out Sam’s name with every thrust, and then Sam manages to get a glimpse of Dean’s rock-hard leaking erection trapped between them.
That can’t happen, it won’t do, and Sam can feel his own orgasm building. Dean needs this, and Sam plans on helping. Except his damn hands are tied to the headboard, and Dean doesn’t seem interested in freeing Sam to get real friction on his cock. Brushing against Sam’s abs can’t be enough, and Sam fights against the belt before he begins to beg. “Dean, Dean please you gotta-untie-untie me Dean-I need-oh shit please-I need to touch you.”
“I got it Sam. I got it. S’all ok Sammy. Come for me baby. Come for me.”
And Sam obeys.
When the orgasm is done, when he’s lying there wrung out and Dean still hard and over him he watches as his brother slides off slowly, hesitantly, and then Dean is down between his thighs with the lube bottle again. Sam would protest but he doesn’t have any brain cells left. Dean stretches him open gently, reverently, kisses placed against his sweaty and shaking thighs. Then he’s lifting Sam’s legs into his arms and spreading Sam open before he slides into the hilt.
It burns, burns and stretches, and Sam’s exhausted cock gives an interested twitch and valiantly tries to rejoin the fun even as Sam groans and moans under Dean’s administrations. Dean’s moaning above him, thrusting deep, and then shortly afterwards filling Sam up before he collapses downwards. “Love you Sammy.”
“Y’too.”
When enough time has passed for Sam to get his breath and his brain back he twitches and then mouths along the shell of Dean’s ear. “Hey. Hey Dean my-you gotta untie me man. Shoulders.”
Without looking up Dean reaches to Sam’s hands, unbuckles the belt, and then rolls off and out. They lay side by side, breathing heavily and covered in sweat, spit, and come until the cold air starts to affect them. Sam manages to manhandle Dean up and into the shower where they platonically wash each other before collapsing under the covers and passing out into what Sam will swear for the rest of his life is the best sleep anyone has ever had.
Sam wakes the next morning to Dean sprawled out on the bed beside him, naked and eating a Bear Claw. Sam would complain about crumbs, but Dean got him one two, and he knows from personal experience that these are fresh and irresistible. Dean gestures once, and Sam gets the motion and opens his mouth.
He really shouldn’t be surprised when Dean smashes the Bear Claw into his face. He really shouldn’t laugh. He does both anyway, because no matter what shittiness Dean has to dole out this morning his brother’s eyes are bright and there’s a smile on his face that Sam can’t remember ever seeing before. Something like pure joy. And Sam? Yeah he’ll do anything to keep it there. Fight anything, kill anything, give up anything to protect his brother’s fragile joy.
It’s after his goodbye to Patrick, after Nellie presses a bag of food in his hands and kisses both his cheeks, that Sam finds himself in the passenger seat of the Impala watching the little time he spent away fade into the distance. Dean breaks the silence with the weirdest non sequitur Sam’s ever heard.
“She was wrong about that too.”
“Who was wrong about what too?” Sam almost doesn’t ask. Almost lets it slide.
“Morgan. She said there’d be two more fights and then I’d be the bottom to apologize.”
Sam squints against the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow and then looks over to see how big Dean is grinning. He hates to argue, but this is a point he can’t quite avoid. “Dean you did bottom to apologize.”
“At first, but I’m man enough I topped from it. So technically, you bottomed twice last night.”
He’d say something smart, he really would, but he’s too busy laughing so hard the window has to prop him up. Dean manages to look offended, but there’s still that light in his eyes, and Sam’s ok with that.
Sam’s ok with all of it.
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Date: 2013-03-09 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-09 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-03-09 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-10 07:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-09 08:46 pm (UTC)That was beautiful and ingenious and unlike anything else I've ever read in this fandom. I'm usually not one for original characters in my fanfic but having Dean/Sam analyzed and understood by Morgan was so amazing. This was just...brilliant. Really. I don't have the adequate words to tell you how much I admire and love this story.
Also? I really, really, really want to know what happens with Morgan and Jensen. That was a fascinating relationship in itself.
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Date: 2013-03-10 07:06 am (UTC)I may actually make a timestamp for Jensen and Morgan. I think it might be there, and you're not the only person to ask. Which was surprising and gratifying.
Really, thanks again for reading and reviewing, and I'm so glad you liked it!
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Date: 2013-03-09 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-10 07:07 am (UTC)There may be a timestamp in the future. I think it's a possibility. :D
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Date: 2013-03-09 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-10 07:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-10 01:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-10 06:07 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-03-11 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-12 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 07:04 pm (UTC)“She said, ‘I used to laugh too, but then I watched. I watched closely, and realized that every time Sam walked away you pushed him there. One day Dean you’re going to push him, and Sam won’t come back. No one’s going to laugh then.’”
I adore that and I will love you forever for that single line. Finally someone else saw that. I had thoughts now and then that I was just a deluded Sam girl when I felt that way.
And a true fangirl who wasn't as crazy as Becky? More hugs to you for that. The whole story was so original. Being summoned to solve the case was such a new twist.
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Date: 2013-03-12 03:59 am (UTC)Also, yeah, the anti-Becky. Although Becky had her moments. :)
So glad you liked it, and don't ever feel alone in the Sam girl camp. I know some excellent Sam girls. :D
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Date: 2013-03-12 06:30 pm (UTC)Thanks for a truly gripping read :)
xx
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Date: 2013-03-13 02:23 am (UTC)I'm so glad you enjoyed it though! Thanks!! :D
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Date: 2013-03-13 08:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-13 12:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-19 07:56 pm (UTC)That ending porn was yummy (tied up Sammy!), and so glad Dean was finally able to get Sam's leaving was always tied to Dean pushing away.
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Date: 2013-03-19 08:20 pm (UTC)Yeah I'm glad Dean got his shit together on that one too. I think it's an important plot point that never really gets handled.
And thank you for liking my OCs, because they always make me nervous. :D
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Date: 2014-01-04 02:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-08 10:36 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for commenting, and again, so glad you liked it! Sorry this reply took so long!!