Chapter 1: Drove
Chapter Text
The sky is darker.
Day and night have never been something definitive in Purgatory. Sometimes the hunter can see well and sometimes it can't. Maybe that's the difference. All the hunter knows is when it can't see well, the sky is darker. There isn't some kind of timetable that will tell it when the darkness will fall, Purgatory is sporadic. A living breathing thing that changes as it pleases with no regard for the monsters that lurk within, the endless hunt they partake in.
The sky is darker. The hunter can't see well, but that hasn't been a problem for it in some time. Once, perhaps there had been a time when its feeble humanity had made it weak, vulnerable. But as Purgatory shifted and the sky changed shades, the creature changed—evolved. It is no longer weak, it had to survive.
The sky is darker and the forest of Purgatory is awash in a gradient of black hues, a suitable camouflage for the hunter as it stalks after its most recent prey. Purgatory is not a quiet place, it rustles with the heartbeats of monsters and the wind blows through the dead foliage. The hunter uses this to its advantage, stepping only when the prey steps, bare feet soft in the dirt. It lost its meager clothing somewhere along the endless hunt, shedding those tokens of humanity like a second skin, and underneath lie a predator.
Now only the rotting bones of a particularly brash wendigo adorn the hunter's bulky frame, strung together with dried vines and serving to mask its human scents from the prey. They line the hunter's shoulders, caress the vulnerable flesh of its chest, a second ribcage. It particularly liked the skull—sitting over its own head, bright green eyes peering through its black sockets. The armor protects it from the bite of a werewolf, the tearing claws of a rougarou, even the hellmouth of a Leviathan struggled with the mangled corpse.
The hunter slinks through the underbrush, head bowed low and halberd in clenched fist. The prey is still unawares, traipsing about Purgatory with all the subtlety of an infant and no visible weapon on its person. The hunter takes stock of the prey, shoring it up as it's done hundreds of creatures before it. The body is not dissimilar to the hunter and the glimpses it catches of the face show no signs of malformation. The prey is a vampire.
The smell of it reeks of blood like vampires always do, though the hunter knows that nothing eats in Purgatory. It hasn't tasted anything on its tongue but the viscera of monster flesh when it needed its blunt teeth to survive. The vampire does not coat itself in blood to consume it, but to reminisce in what it once fought for—lived for.
As the hunter plays along with the shadows cast by the darker sky to its advantage, skulking behind the vampire, it is reminded of what it once lived for. Not human blood, but a human being. A Sammy—
The hunter growls low in its throat, stopping that thought in its tracks, an attempt to ground itself in the present, in the hunt. The vampire stills and it knows. It has to strike now.
Raising its halberd, the hunter rushes the vampire, counting on its soft steps to mask the direction of its attack. But the vampire is fast to react, the sound of a swinging blade cutting air is enough to warn it, and a meaty hand raises just in time to catch the sharp, gory end. The halberd lodges in flesh and the hunter bares its teeth from underneath the wendigo skull, chest vibrating with a snarl.
The vampire's staring into the black eye sockets, seemingly unable to comprehend what it's seeing. Never one to miss an opening, the hunter jerks the weapon free from the flesh of the vampire's palm and spins back, putting necessary distance between them before the vampire can retaliate.
It feints backwards when the vampire makes a move forward, thrusting the halberd through the space between their bodies. The blade's point rests at the vulnerable throat of the vampire and it freezes, still eyeing the hunter with that frowning expression. There isn't the fear twisting into its features but a strange confusion.
The hunter growls, chest heaving under the rattling wendigo bones, and makes itself look taller, stronger, predatory. It wants the prey to know that it lost the hunt because it's beneath the hunter, the bottom of the food chain the hunter's been clawing its way up since the angel disappeared-
"Th'hell are you?" the vampire speaks, tearing the hunter away from a train of thought it hadn't meant to think. It flinches at the sound, a low and smooth voice with a drawl that is almost familiar. Reminds of a life the hunter had before. Before the hunt began. It doesn't really remember that life, or it might—somewhere—but the hunter tossed those sentiments away as quickly as it could. Wouldn't have survived otherwise.
The hunter doesn't answer because it doesn't speak. It can't quite understand either. The words are little more than the screeches of banshees or the groans of a wendigo. It speaks only in the universal language of monsters and the speech of vampires and werewolves and humans no longer registers the same. The hunter can only glean the questioning tone in the noises the vampire makes, the familiarity of the sounds, and it grunts, shoves the halberd deeper into the flesh of the vampire's throat. A warning.
The eyes of the vampire travel all over the hunter's form, assessing. It doesn't quite know why it hasn't ended this prey yet, finds itself hesitating at the question, perhaps curious in the hunter's own way. The vampire angles its head to the side, leaning just a breath away from the point of the blade.
"You a human?" the vampire speaks again, and its eyes are widening. The expression registers in the hunter's hindbrain as some kind of surprise. It thinks the vampire may be answering its own question.
"You are."
The vampire seems satisfied and the hunter knows this exchange is not something good. It has to end this immediately, grimy fists clenching tightly to the wood grip of the halberd, and low growl in its throat.
"I can get us out of here," the vampire makes more noise, perhaps sensing the hunter's impatience with this exchange. It doesn't understand why the vampire thinks these words will stop it from reeling back and swinging its blade with a braced, familiar strength, heels digging into the soft earth. But it doesn't.
Vampires are fast creatures. It knows this, knew this—from before, from when Sammy—
The vampire ducks the swing of the blade, grabbing at its staff with strong hands. The hunter doesn't have time to react, doesn't quite see it happen through the sockets of the wendigo skull. The prey jerks the halberd towards it before the hunter can release its grip and the movement sends it careening forward. The hunter tries to regain its footing, knows this moment, right now, this error could be the line between life and death in the hunt.
The hunter doesn't regain fast enough, the vampire connecting its meaty fist with the side of its head. The sound of the wendigo skull crushing beneath the strength of the vampire's punch is loud in the hunter's ears and bright bursts of pain and light are erupting in its vision. The starbursts are gone as soon as they come, replaced by the inky black of a blanketing unconsciousness—it can already feel its body giving out and knows it'll soon be dead.
The hunter spares a thought again to that reason for life, that Sammy—
"Yer gonna get us outta here, human."
It has just enough time to question the determination in the vampire's voice before it fades, gone.
The road is long. It stretches into the dark of night, seemingly endless, illuminated only just enough by the headlights of the Impala to keep Sam from wrapping himself around a tree.
He's been driving nonstop for going on thirty hours now, left hand clenching around the steering wheel in time with the thudding of his heartbeat. The now-healed scar along his palm digs in with each squeeze and it only makes his pulse throb harder with an ache he hasn't been able to shake. Not since that day Dean blinked out of existence, taking every reason Sam had to keep going right with him.
The Impala purrs, engine revving noisily under the press of his foot to pedal. Her sound does little to soothe the gnawing in his gut, the buzzing in his ears, the tightness in his jaw that tells him he's truly alone. Like a ghost, he crawled into her drivers seat and dragged her injured body to a car shop, repairing the damage she'd endured in the last moments. It served as distraction—for a while. Distracting enough to prevent him from doing anything drastic anyways.
So he's driving. Has been for months now. He's lost and he knows what he needs to do, what he needs to find but he doesn't know how to do it and he's frustrated and his body is breaking down along with his thoughts—and he just needs Dean.
Sam's throat constricts and he almost can't take in the next lungful of air he needs to live. He doesn't really want to. He chokes. Takes a breath and eases off the pedal as the Impala's speedometer touches the hundred line.
He wishes he could say he's tried everything to get Dean back, wishes he could say he's pored over the literature, prayed to anything that will listen, met with any old curmudgeon hunter who could have any semblance of an idea. But he can't—he hasn't.
Sam's brother disappeared and Sam—
Sam drove.
He can't even bring himself to cry now. In the pit of his chest, that beating, thudding thing that insists on living—despite its reason, its only purpose has gone and left him—hurts in a way he didn't think he could still hurt. The emptiness of truly being alone surrounds him like a thick and heavy smog and he drives and drives. If he drives hard enough, long enough, far enough, maybe he can escape its suffocating presence.
Though it hasn't worked so far.
The stars shine brighter in the middle of an interstate along some backwoods American countryside. Sam hasn't read a sign in days, he has no idea where he is anymore. He can't see anything but the stars and he remembers picking out the constellations—with Dean, making ones up when they couldn't identify anything more than the big dipper.
That choking, breath stealing fist hits him again and he hiccoughs, easing up even lighter on the gas. The Impala glides along the asphalt at a healthy thirty miles per hour. It's the slowest Sam's driven since setting out, the dips in the road more apparent at this speed, easier to take in the trees that line the highway. The scar on his hand throbs in time with his clenching fist.
A movement catches his eyes, just in the periphery, black and quick like a hallucination and at first Sam thinks that's all it is before it's suddenly huge and careening right towards the car.
He has just enough reaction time to slam both feet on the brakes as a black mass the size of a huge deer reaches the headlights, but he isn't fast enough to swerve the wheel and the Impala clips whatever it is. The sound of an impact has him flinching his eyes shut, squeezing the steering wheel hard enough to break skin as the Impala slides off into the opposite ditch.
For a long moment he can't even breathe, clutching the wheel, feet still jammed down into the brake pedal, eyes shut tight enough to hurt and heart in his throat as the Impala comes to a complete stop. But he needs to make sure the thing's okay, make sure he didn't kill it just now.
He's already shaking his body free of the car, muscles rolling tight with coursing adrenaline as the door groans at his exit. It's dark and he doesn't immediately see anything, has no idea where the thing went after getting clipped. His only real course of action is to follow the dark tire tracks stretching across the interstate, eyes searching frantically in the night.
The moon in the sky isn't quite full but it's close and his vision gradually adjusts to the swath of blue light beaming down on the tar. He should've brought a flashlight, he has half a mind to berate himself, before spotting a mass of pale flesh in the grass a good ten feet from the road.
Somewhere in the back of Sam's head, as he's rushing towards the injured creature, there's a mounting dread—a ball of fear and guilt at what he might see. But the feelings are welcome, something new to nestle in beside the lonely smoke that's been creeping into his lungs. He sucks in a sharp, clearing breath as he comes upon the victim of his poor reaction time.
Whatever it is, it's huge and Sam immediately registers bloody bones and flesh—the pale flesh of skin rather than fur. He stops short, almost recoils, with a wary frown because that can't mean anything good, could mean the Impala tore its flesh up when it struck. Could have ripped the animal's fur from its body, open and exposing milky white bones, swooping waves of nausea roll in his gut.
As if aware of his presence, it groans and shifts, still alive. That frame of visible bones falls away with the movement and Sam's initial relief goes icy, body rigid.
It's a human.
There's a person, crumpled in a fetal position, wearing some kind of makeshift armor of animal bones. Their hollow rattling echoes in Sam's ears when he rushes forward. His eyes are jumping from place to place, taking in the legs, the arms, and torso underneath the blanket of a skeleton. This is a person, a man, and Sam doesn't know what the fuck is happening but a hunter's concern is beating his heart like a jackrabbit.
The person's naked but for the makeshift armor, strung together bones that Sam can't pinpoint the origin of. Light skin marred with months of dirt and blood and gore shines under the blue of the moonlight, and a shattered half of a strange inhuman skull rests on his head, hiding his face from Sam's view.
What the hell—Sam wants to stop and assess the situation because what the fuck is he looking at? But the softer part of his brain takes control before he can deduce if he should be wary. He needs to help. He's Sam Winchester (without his Dean yes) and he's just hit a man—a naked man wearing monster bones, but a man nonetheless. Sam crouches down beside him, can hear the faint rumble of a creature in pain, can see his arm is limp, bent at an uncomfortable angle.
"Hey, hey-hey-hey, are you okay? Lemme help you, can you move?" he stumbles out in a half-whisper, leaning close to try and pull the vines of bones off without jostling him too much. The man whines at the sound of Sam's voice, a keening sound that reminds Sam of a dog in pain, and he's trying to move away, stuttering drag of his limbs.
"No, no, no, hey I'm tryna help," Sam says desperately as the man manages to put a couple of inches of space between them, dragging his arm and whining all the while.
"Can you understand me? Hey, I'm gonna help you," Sam whispers mindlessly, frowning at the way the man's only aggravating his injuries in his attempts to get away. "Shh, it'll be okay," he continues, bending down and grabbing the ramshackle bone armor from around his shoulders.
Sam lifts it up, ignoring the way the keening sounds are stuttering in the man's throat, peppered with sad attempts at growls. Sam spares a delirious thought to wonder if the man crawled out of the woods after being raised by a pack of wolves or something. Ignoring the animal noises out of the man's mouth, Sam completely removes the bones in one gentle tug.
Under the dim lighting of the moon, Sam can't tell if the dark colors decorating the man's exposed torso are bruises or dirt or something else and he clenches his jaw, assumes the worst. He'll have to take him to the nearest medical facility, no way he hasn't shattered at least some vital piece from the impact with Sam's bumper, not to mention whatever the hell else the guy's been doing with himself lately.
A gentle whimper draws Sam's eyes to the limp, malformed remnants of some animal's skull that sits precariously around the man's head. By the sounds he's making, Sam thinks he's near to losing consciousness, growls quieted to a soft rumble and whines rapidly fading.
"Shh, buddy, it's okay. I'm gonna take that thing off and then we're gonna get you in the car," he narrates his actions, unsure if the man can even understand what he's saying as he digs two fingers under the lip of the skull.
The man recoils from the touch, jerking his head back with a groan, successfully dislodging the bone. Sam gets a grip on the skull and pulls it back, holding it up to the moonlight for just a moment. He wants to know what the thing is, too large to belong to a dog but too round to be a deer. For a second he almost thinks it looks a bit human, but on closer inspection his suddenly thudding heart wonders if it doesn't remind him a bit of a wendigo-
Another desperate growl from the man and Sam's gaze falls from the strange skull to his face, finally bare under the light of the stars overhead. The dull blue glow catches on a smattering of freckles across the familiar bridge of a nose. Bright eyes stare wide up at him, pupils dilating past irises into black pits, reflecting the stars through long lashes.
Sam drops the skull. The pit in his chest fills rapidly like dirt caving in on a gravesite, it flows in all at once, filling his ears and nose and mouth and he can't breathe but this time it's different—he's not suffocating. He's gasping, inhaling his first sharp, desperate breath into his dirt-filled lungs like a man clawing his way back to the surface.
He chokes the dirt from his lips, barely able to find his dry voice as he whispers, "Dean?"
There's something wet on his face. Sam's crying and Dean's lying there in front of him, looking just as he did the day he disappeared.
Those green-black-starlight eyes flash with something but Sam can't call it recognition. Dean flinches back from him, almost violently—frantically—a growl rumbling out. His sudden jerky movements only worsen the shaky, injured bits inside his pummelled flesh and then he's crying out, his whole body convulsing with rabid tremors trying to suffuse the abrupt pain.
"Dean!" Sam's shooting forward, just as Dean's eyes fall shut, his face going slack and he collapses under the stress of his injuries. "Dean? Dean! Are you okay, hey, I got you," Sam mutters more to himself than his brother, as he gently slides his hand under his shoulders, careful of the injuries. He's hefting Dean up into his arms, warm and shaking, and has to force himself to tear his eyes away so he can get him to the Impala across the road.
His mind works a mile a minute as he debates whether to put Dean into the backseat or not. He decides to slide him across the bench through the already ajar drivers' side door. Half because he doesn't have the strength to open another door—half because he wants his brother as close to him as physically possible, is already having trouble with the idea of letting him go.
He slides Dean as gently as he can, though Dean's completely out, and his bare feet brush up against the passenger side door. Sam joins him in the car, a bit of maneuvering necessary with two bodies over six foot.
Carefully, almost tender, Sam lowers Dean's head to rest against his thigh, mindful of his injured arm resting across the naked chest that flutters with pained, quick breaths. Dean doesn't wake up in all this, his long lashes brushing his blood and dirt encrusted cheeks, but his face is twisted, lips curled. Sam's brother is hurting.
The Impala seems to growl almost protectively when Sam shifts her into reverse and revs recklessly back onto the interstate without a backwards glance. She knows her boy is hurting. Sam throws her back into gear and slams the gas as hard as he can without jarring Dean unnecessarily. Her answering rumble eases the chaos in Sam's head and chest as his eyes search desperately for a sign indicating the nearest town.
Dean is back. Dean is with Sam.
Sam's right hand settles on Dean's bare chest just shy of his injured upper arm, and he can feel the hummingbird quickness of his brother's heart in there, drumming hard against Dean's sternum as if trying to reach the flesh of Sam's palm—to reassure him.
Sam swallows the spit that's suddenly flooding his dry mouth. He rubs soothing circles into Dean's skin, more for himself than his unconscious brother, catching a sign for a no name town only sixteen miles away. The needle in the speedometer is brushing ninety and the Impala is purring and Dean is back.
Where did he go? Sam chews his lower lip, risking glances down every half mile to drink in the rough features of his brother's face. How did he get back to Sam? Sam's still crying, his nose is stuffed with snot, and his throat is closing on silent sobs. He knows it's relief—relief has taken his voice, his heart, his ability to reason. Sam wants to know what happened to make Dean like this. How he appeared out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere with not a soul around for miles—not a soul except Sam.
The heartbeat under Sam's palm is slowing. Sam doesn't know if that's bad or not, but the road signs say he's only got ten more minutes and he gulps the lump in his throat down. A furtive glance at Dean's body, carefully curled along the Impala's bench has his thoughts racing again. His brother is completely naked save for the remnants of that bone armor he was wearing and there isn't a bit of skin that's clean. In the dark it could be dirt, blood, or bruises, but it coats every inch of Dean's body and it almost seems deliberate.
Sam feels like he has all the pieces of a puzzle but the edges don't match and he clenches his jaw trying to imagine where Dean's been all these months, what kind of fight, what sort of monsters could put him in this state.
The headlights of the Impala catch the green glow of an exit sign for Livermore and the memory of Dean's green eyes reflect in its shiny surface. That bright haze of unrecognition. Sam pulls off at the exit, just minutes from town, but he can't shake the way Dean recoiled after looking right at him. Had Dean… does Dean not remember him?
It's dark as Sam rolls into the tiny highway town. He breezes past a motel that looks practically empty, a gas station, and a diner. He tries to catch any semblance of a medical facility among the unlit buildings that line the main road, but he doesn't even catch a sign. Not a single car is out as Sam scans the buildings with increasingly desperate eyes, his right hand clenching and unclenching on Dean's slowly rising chest.
Finally, he sees a small office with its lights glowing brightly like a beacon. The sign on its front says Veterinarian 24 Hour Emergency Service and Sam makes a split decision, teeth worrying his lower lip bloody. He swings the Impala into the tiny parking lot beside the lone sedan.
It'll have to do for now.
Sam will hold the vet at gunpoint if he has to, all he needs is to see his brother in proper light, assess the damage himself. He knows Dean's got severe injuries, maybe something broken, maybe dislocated but he can do it himself with a vet's arsenal. Mostly, Sam just needs to get his brother wiped down so he can see what the fuck happened to him. What Dean needs to be okay again.
Dean's breathing steadily under Sam's hand and Sam smooths his palm over his brother's chest once more, savoring the skin on skin contact, the warmth. He inhales deep, steeling himself, as he slides out of from under Dean's head and grabs a handgun from the backseat. He tucks the weapon into the back of his pants and climbs out of the Impala. Dean doesn't wake up in the midst of all this movement and Sam worries his cheek.
Please let Dean be okay.
He hooks his hands under Dean's armpits and gently pulls him across the bench, taking on his weight as he tugs him from the car. The last string of bones Sam hadn't managed to tear away when he found him catch against the seat and Sam reaches forward to snap them free. They fall to the footwell of the Impala, Sam making mental note to examine them later when Dean's okay.
Dean does little more than groan softly, his brows furrowing deeply. Sam could almost pretend Dean was just sleeping really hard and he remembers when they were kids and he would pretend the same. Every time Dean came back from a bad hunt with their dad, bleeding and passed out from his wounds and the pain meds. Sam's chest knots up, straining beneath the gravedirt inside it.
Dean's uninjured arm is around Sam's shoulders, his other hand wrapping around his brothers' naked torso to fully take on his weight. Sam finds himself grateful yet again that he's so much bigger than Dean, carrying him easily, as Dean whimpers with all the jostling. Sam feels him bury his face against Sam's shoulder like he's trying to get away from the pain by burrowing inside his brother. Sam's whispering reassurances almost mindlessly. "I gotcha, Dean, you're gonna be okay."
If Dean hears him he doesn't react beyond soft pained sounds, not moving from where he's pressed his face, practically in Sam's armpit. Turning his attention to the glass door of the vet office, Sam rapidly tries to come up with a story for this that won't get the cops called on them immediately. He's already supporting Dean with one arm to pull the door open with no excuse forthcoming, the urgent need to fix his brother overwhelming the sane part of his brain.
Inside the office, the white lights are almost blinding and even Dean flinches further into Sam's side. He still isn't fully conscious but the movement forces Sam to turn slightly so he can wrap both of his arms under his brother's and hug him to his chest to keep them both upright. The position is actually sort of appropriate because the veterinarian is a startled woman about Sam's age and Dean's completely naked. At least this way she might be less inclined to dial 911 right off.
"It's my brother—he's, he got clipped by a car I think his arm's broken," Sam rattles off, not even having to fake the puppy-eyed desperation he knows is shining on his face as he struggles to keep Dean from crumpling in his hold.
The vet, a light skinned woman with curly black hair, stares at him with huge, doe eyes, mouth slightly agape. Sam licks his lips, tilts his head. "Please, I didn't know where else to go."
His words seem to shock her into action and she swings around the front desk, white coat fluttering behind her. "Sir, you need to take this man to a hospital," she says immediately, voice clipped and professional as she carefully raises her arms to support Dean from behind. Sam allows her to, suppressing the knee-jerk reaction to keep his brother safe from outsiders, to pull him close and away from her prying hands.
"The nearest's in Franklin, it's a 20 minute drive," she says, her eyes poring over Dean's body with a concerned frown. Her hand ghosts over the side that made impact with the Impala's front bumper and Dean grunts, retracting away from her touch and into Sam's chest. Her tongue pokes the wall of her cheek and she glances up to meet Sam's gaze. "You said he was clipped by a car?"
The look in her eyes asks all the other questions, like why is he naked and covered in dirt? and how did he get clipped by a car at 2am? and where were you during all this? Sam nods, adjusting his careful hold on Dean and buying time for a bullshit excuse.
"Yeah, he was—he's drunk. Completely wasted and fell into the road. The car was goin' less than thirty. I just wanna make sure he's okay, please—" he spots the tag on her coat, turning the pleading gaze up to a hundred. "Dr. Richardson, please."
She gives Dean another determining once over, big eyes looking his weak, dirt encrusted frame up and down. "Turn him around, I'll grab his legs. We can lay him down on the table in the back," she says in that same professional, no-nonsense tone. Sam heaves a sigh of relief, feeling lighter already. Dean's still heavy and out of it, as they both work to maneuver him into a more manageable position.
It's a slow and careful journey to the nearest examination table, Dr. Richardson demonstrating her big dog-wrangling strength as she takes at least a third of Dean's body weight. Together they lift him up to spread out on the metal of the table and at over six foot, Dean hangs off at the calves.
Under the harsh white lights of the room, Sam can finally see the real color of the gunk that coats Dean's body like a second skin. It's a deep brown swirling with bits of an almost burgundy red, crusted unevenly along every bit of light skin Dean could reach. Seemingly a mixture of dirt and gunk, it's caked up more in the creases of his joints as if recently spread there. Sam's reminded of hunters who stalk their prey in the forest, crawling along the foliage like the animals themselves. He can't even begin to imagine where the fuck Dean has been.
Dr. Richardson pulled on rubber gloves while Sam was staring at his brother, her face still a mask of professionalism. She goes first to Dean's right side and the now swelling and awkwardly bent angle of his upper arm.
"You both are lucky we get a lot of car accidents out here off the interstate. I've had my fair share of helping out with those," Dr. Richardson says almost conversationally as she ghosts her fingers over the injury. Sam rests his own hands on either side of Dean's head, close enough that the thumb of his hand brushes against Dean's hairline.
Her ministrations elicit a spasm from Dean's arm, his face screwing up tight. He jerks his head to the side, running into Sam's right arm with his forehead. Sam tries to radiate some kind of calm energy, lightly pressing skin to skin without getting in the doctor's way.
The reaction draws her eyes and she glances back and forth between Dean's face and his wrecked shoulder as she feels it. Dean presses his forehead back against Sam's wrist with a moan when Dr. Richardson moves his arm to see the underside. Sam can't help the muttered, "it's okay Dean, it'll be okay." He can't tell if the words reassure Dean, but he feels better having said them.
"I can't tell for sure if there's a fracture without an x-ray, and obviously that's not happening here," Dr. Richardson says finally, gently laying Dean's arm back down. "You need to get him to a hospital, but initial diagnosis from a non-specialist: it's just a bruised bone. Maybe a dislocated shoulder."
Sam breathes an exhale he hadn't realized he was saving, raising his right hand to smooth it over Dean's dirty hair, more to comfort himself than his brother. Dr. Richardson shifts away to pull two boxes out from a cabinet beneath the examination table. "Next step is to get him wiped down, at least enough so we can be sure he isn't bleeding in all this dirt."
She tosses a box to Sam with a quirk of the lips. "I'll take top half, you take bottom?"
They both get to work dragging the towels and disinfectant wipes across Dean's dirty skin, wiping away muck, grime, and gore, to reveal the pale, freckled skin beneath. Sam goes through the whole first box on Dean's feet and calves alone.
Scrapes, cuts, and bruises hide just beneath the mud and with each new minor injury Sam finds, the mounting concern about just where the hell his brother's been grows. The thick, roughened calluses on Dean's feet alone were enough to tell Sam wherever he was, he wasn't properly dressed for the occasion. Not for a long time.
A soft gasp from Dr. Richardson has Sam shooting up from where he's scraping off the crust at Dean's knee. She's at the sensitive spot on the left of Dean's ribcage just south of his armpit and maybe a few inches to the side of his nipple. Sam shuffles into her space, already dreading what kind of horrific, festering wound he might find there.
The skin is rubbed pink and raw from the wipes, but instead of a bloody gaping gash, there's what looks to be words—carved shallowly into Dean's skin. The lettering was done with a small knife of some sort, jagged and roughly scratched but clearly legible.
Clayton LA it reads, and beneath that is what appears to be a name: Lafitte.
Sam squints at the words. They aren't bleeding anymore but they definitely haven't had time to heal and scar, which means it's been somewhat freshly done to his brother. He fights the flare of protective anger, clenching his teeth against a hissing huff of breath. Just another mystery to add to the ever mounting pile. Sam leans back and catches Dr. Richardson's wide, horrified eyes.
"That's new," he says, deceptively casual.
Her lip curls, wipe dangling in her right hand. "What exactly does your brother do?"
Sam swipes gentle fingers over the letters, committing them to memory before picking up a clean wipe and returning to Dean's leg. "He hunts. They're kinda hardcore out there," he offers, hoping that'll be enough to keep the doctor from probing further. She hesitates for a couple long seconds.
"Uh huh." It's drawn out and slow but she returns to cleaning away the dirt without further comment. They work in silence and while Sam catalogues each and every minor scrape decorating his brother's body, he spares glances at the supplies in the office. He finds the locked cabinet immediately and wonders if it'll be worth it to try and steal some pain medication before he and Dean ditch.
"There's more," Dr. Richardson says, a bit resigned, cutting into Sam's contemplation. She's holding out Dean's freshly cleaned left forearm and sure enough the same ugly lettering is carved there too. But this one is in Latin and spells out an entire sentence from elbow crease to wrist: anima corpori fuerit corpus totem resurgent.
Sam wishes he could say that a phrase that can't be anything other than a spell of some sort is the weirdest thing about Dean's left forearm. But beneath the blood and dirt of the makeshift camouflage, beneath even the scratched in letters, Dean's skin begins to glow a dull orange. It's the same color meatsuits glow when you kill the demon inside them, the bright light of an angel's palm when they attack, it has Sam moving to push Dr. Richardson back immediately.
She lurches away of her own accord, a shocked noise escaping her throat as she stumbles into the cabinets behind her. The sudden clatter of tools to the tile must make a loud enough racket to rouse Dean from his pain-induced unconscious state, because his eyes shoot open, impossibly green in the bright overhead lights. Sam doesn't get a word of assurance out, Dean's face immediately shuttering as he jerks upright on the table. His naked body is shaking slightly and he sweeps his gaze across the room, takes one hard look at Sam with those flashing eyes before launching himself off the tabletop.
Sam hurriedly braces for some kind of impact, unsure of what to expect with Dean in the state he's in, and apparently he judges rightly because he's taking all 200 pounds of his naked brother to the ground. Dean—injuries seemingly forgotten with a rush of adrenaline—is on top of him, forearm pressing to Sam's throat, and spitting, growling like some kind of wild animal. His knees bracket Sam's waist and Sam takes a few seconds to gather himself after his collision with the ground, head spinning.
Internally, Sam debates with whether it's worth it to try and get Dean to understand that it's him—his Sammy—or if he should just fight him off first (without hurting him too much, of course). Above him, those green eyes glare into Sam's own and not an ounce of recognition shines in them. Sam coughs around the pressure on his throat, just enough give to manage a weak, "Dean? It's Sam." His voice sounds rough and almost a mimic of the noise rumbling Dean's own chest.
The sound of his voice has Dean's snarling face pausing, brows furrowing. Sam can see his eyes dart all over Sam's face, taking in everything from his hair to his cheeks to his slightly panting, agape mouth. Dean stares at his mouth angrily for a long second, pressure still not quite at breaking point on Sam's throat. Sam licks his lips under the scrutiny and Dean mirrors the movement, tongue darting out to wet his own. Something must be clicking in his brother's brain, some sort of familiarity. Sam finds himself smiling just a bit and he coughs another, "D-Dean."
Dean blinks, long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He tilts his head just slightly to the side, like a curious dog, gaze still fixed on Sam's mouth. Sam recognizes the expression on his brother's face, the pinched brow and the pursed lips, just like the face he made when he was working so hard to solve that problem from tenth grade geometry. Like Sam's mouth just asked him to calculate the circumference of its gape. Dean's so distracted, growl fading to a soft rumble, he doesn't even notice Dr. Richardson. Sam catches her movement just behind Dean, an expert quickness that Sam doesn't feel qualified to try and prevent.
She jams a syringe into the side of Dean's neck, the sudden attack doing little to upset Dean's position on top of Sam as he jerks his gaze away from Sam's mouth to snarl at Dr. Richardson. The doctor recoils instantly, backing into the furthest corner of the room. Dean is back to full on growling and spitting, teeth bared like an attack dog that's just been kicked. Sam can feel him shift from where he straddles Sam's waist as if he's about to get up and change target, leg muscles flexing.
The hand that isn't currently working at closing Sam's windpipe is supporting Dean's torso, braced against the tile beside Sam's head. Grabbing it and throwing it out of its weight bearing position sends Dean careening downwards, the arm at Sam's neck flying out to try and catch himself.
Unfortunately for Dean, the tranquilizer Dr. Richardson stuck him with chooses that moment to hit home. His eyes flutter shut mid-collapse and then he's falling face flat against Sam's chest, his whole body going slack.
Heaving a breath, his chest rising comically under Dean, Sam raises his arms to cradle his brother as he makes to sit up straight. His back aches from the hard collision with the floor but it's not anything he isn't used to and honestly Sam's just glad everyone got out of that okay. Now that he's sitting upright—actually quite a feat considering he'd had to lift the combined weight of himself and his brother—he can see Dr. Richardson from where she's braced herself against the counter.
She looks a bit manic, twitching slightly and panting out quick breaths. Her eyes look even larger if that's possible, darting all over the two of them like they're a particularly nasty team of spiders. Dean has slumped into Sam's arms, his face resting in the crook between Sam's neck and shoulder, having slid into a somewhat embarrassing position now that Sam had brought them upright.
He's settled in Sam's lap like a toddler, thighs on either side of Sam's hips and arms limp. Sam can feel Dean's steady breath against his collarbone, damp heat coating his skin in an instant clamminess. He adjusts Dean's position from where his arms are wrapped around his back, allowing Dean's head to fall a little lower so he's not breathing directly on Sam anymore.
Dean snuffles but is otherwise motionless. And Sam manages to not bother thinking about how their hips are pressed together and Dean's still naked as ever. He'll definitely have to torch these clothes.
"What," Dr. Richardson's voice is so high it's almost a squeak, "the fuck."
Her eyebrows do this little dance like they can't decide if they should be raised in shock or frowning in accusation. She stares openly at Sam, the syringe still clutched tightly in her right hand. Sam wracks his brain for literally anything that would make sense in this situation and draws blanks.
But he has more to worry about than the doctor, like how Dean's apparently decked out with IKEA instructions and has something supernatural glowing in his skin that could very well be killing him. Not even to mention how he can't seem to remember Sam at all, or how to be human.
"Look," Sam says curtly, already trying to gently ease himself out from under Dean so he can get them both up. "Would you believe me if I said it's bath salts?"
He's not even looking at Dr. Richardson, too preoccupied with making sure his brother doesn't get any more unnecessary bumps and bruises. Dean's as floppy as a ragdoll, head lolling so far to the side Sam's almost worried he'll hear a crack from his neck. He manages to slide Dean's non-glowing arm around his shoulders and tuck Dean's head gently against his chest.
Dr. Richardson is standing up straighter, placing the syringe down finally. She eyeballs Dean up and down, pulling one of her lips between her teeth. "...You still need to clean and stitch all those injuries," she says slowly, the tracking path of her glances no doubt mapping out Dean's wounds like an autopsy sheet. Sam's hand rests against Dean's ribcage, supporting him and holding him close. He can feel the letters carved there under his fingers and he nods at Dr. Richardson.
"I know, but if it's nothing more serious than that, I can take care of him," he says, and hopes it really is the truth. Barring the mysterious orange glow, Sam can fix bruises and cuts. He'll worry about that after he fixes Dean to the best of his ability. He can't afford to work any differently, one foot after another—he has Dean back in his arms, nothing else matters but keeping him there.
Something must show on his face because Dr. Richardson is nodding slowly like she understands it. "I think that shoulder is dislocated too, the one that got hit by the car. You can fix that?" she says, but Sam can already sense she's conceding on letting him go. Hopefully, without a short call to the cops. Sam nods with a tiny quirk of a smile that he knows probably looks sadder than it does reassuring.
"Done it for him before," he offers with a huff and a one-armed shrug. Dr. Richardson doesn't look comforted by this tidbit of information but she turns to a cabinet and tugs out a plastic bag.
"I'm gonna give you some stuff. Make sure he gets hydrated when he wakes up, that sedative will dry him up. Bath salts—" she stops throwing things in the bag to laugh, eyes rolling to the ceiling. "I have no idea what that shit does. But don't let him eat your face and please google how to help him. I have numbers for rehab centers nearby too, actually." She's already producing a pen and scribbling them down and Sam is a little touched.
"You don't have to do all this," he says softly, "I admit I kinda freaked out when I brought him here."
Dr. Richardson shakes her head, throwing the last few bits of suturing thread into the bag and tying it off. "No, better safe than sorry. The man's high on some really bad shit and got himself hit by a car, I think you made the right call."
She's not quite smiling when she comes up to Sam, and she does keep a respectable distance between herself and them, but she sounds sincere. "You clearly love him a lot."
Sam thinks of the long stretch of interstate highway, the emptiness, breath caught in his chest cavity, slowly suffocating, and can only nod at the doctor. He doesn't really know if he's agreeing or shaking the thoughts away. Dean breathes steadily against his side and Sam's fingers press so tightly into his brother's skin he worries there might be marks.
Dr. Richardson offers him a soft, knowing smile that doesn't reach her eyes, almost sad. Sam thinks if he found her, before all of this, before Dean—in some other world, he might've fallen for that smile.
"I'll help you get him to the car," she says and Sam can only think of Dean.
Chapter 2: Sammy
Notes:
here's chapter 2! how's everyone doing? me, well someone shattered my car window and stole its radio a few days ago (ಥ益ಥ) that radio is worth like 20 bucks u scoundrels
more importantly, thank y'all for the love and attention on the first chapter! enjoy the update~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The lights of the highway rove gently over the Impala as Sam drives. He glances down and catches the orange hue of them dancing across Dean's slack face. It reminds him of the unnatural thing that almost seems to do the same in Dean's forearm. A little like the bubbling magma in a volcano Sam saw on the National Geographic channel as a kid. It unsettles him and it's not even the first of his problems.
He needs to bunk down somewhere soon.
Dr. Richardson told him the sedative won't last more than a couple hours in the absolute best case scenario and Sam doesn't really want to be caught in the small cabin of the Impala with his feral brother. He can't risk Dean going berserk on him while he's going 80 down the road, but they're nowhere near Rufus's cabin which only leaves a random Motel 8 or something.
The thought of trying to fix Dean in a shoddy motel room wouldn't normally bother Sam, hell, it's what they always do. But Dean's… different right now and there's no telling what damage he might cause in this state.
Or if he'll make a lot of noise, growling and trying to tear Sam's throat out. They can't really afford to deal with overzealous do-gooders reporting them for hosting dog fights down the hall.
Sam grimaces and the fingers he rested on Dean's chest, right over his tattoo, are tapping out a gentle rhythm in line with the rumble of the Impala. Dean's head is turned to face Sam's stomach, nose pressed into the flannel of Sam's shirt, and completely unconscious. He just ended up that way when Sam settled him against his hip, but it works for monitoring his breathing. Open mouthed breaths puffing out against Sam's stomach, dampening the cloth of his shirt.
From the steady rhythm, the consistent and uninterrupted inhales and exhales, Sam figures Dean is pretty deep under. If he had to guess (and hope), they have maybe half an hour guaranteed before the sedative starts to run the risk of wearing off. He's gotta find them somewhere to sleep before then or the risk for Sam crashing the car twice in one night will skyrocket.
Sam chances another glance down at Dean's profile. He's almost soft and boyish like this, lips parted, all drool and slight huffing snores. It's hard to believe this Dean right here napping against Sam's thigh could tackle Sam to the ground and try to choke the life out of him.
Sam's throat constricts in a phantom memory and he swallows, but a lump seems to have lodged itself in there. His mind is working overtime on no sleep for the last two days and suddenly he feels overtired, jealous of the way Dean's almost lazily draped across the bench seat.
He wishes he could just drag Dean into a motel room and curl up in bed beside him, sleep for a good long week just basking in the gun, motor oil, familiar scent of his dumb brother. Be happy he's alive, back where he belongs at Sam's side.
But of course, he can't.
When have the Winchesters' lives ever been so easy? Now he doesn't even have Bobby to call for help. He's alone in this. Sam's eyes feel hot and he swears if he starts crying again, he's gonna punch something. So pathetic and small in the drivers' seat of his brother's car, and lost on what he's going to do, how he's going to save Dean. Warring with the wrestling in his chest that tells him he's alive, he's whole again with Dean here—but is Dean really Dean? Can Sam even keep him?
His nose is stuffed with the threat of tears and Sam sniffs to keep his whole face from leaking. The sound is oddly loud among Dean’s soft breathing. He starts at the noise of it, unaware of just how tensed he's been since he got back in the Impala, and that has him choking back a hybrid between a laugh and a sob. His hand flies up from Dean's chest to press knuckles to his closed lips, a barrier to keep every desperate, overwhelmed sound contained. Silent in his throat so Dean won't hear.
Dean isn't awake, but his breath stutters and there's a slight movement of his shoulders and head, shifting. His eyes are still mercifully shut, but he nuzzles his nose gently into Sam's stomach. A soft grunt leaves his roughened throat, displeased, and Sam can only hold his breath. He absolutely does not want to do anything that might encourage Dean to consciousness sooner than he can properly handle.
Dean huffs against his stomach. On the exhale, a rough, "S'mmy…" slips past his lips, pressed to Sam's skin through his damp shirt.
Sam's heart jumps.
"Dean?"
He can't help the way his brother's name blurts past his fist, an ingrained response to Dean calling for him. His voice cracks around the syllable, a quiet, hopeful stutter. Dean doesn't wake up, but Sam's quick glances catch something that almost looks like a small ghost of a smile on his sleepy face.
Sam's own dopey grin is sliding across his mouth in response, the muscles stretching for the first time in a long time and he feels dumb with it. But he can't stop the hope that bubbles up, how Dean might recognize him, might remember who he is. Dean is still in there. Sam's Dean.
The hand that had been pressed to his mouth falls back to the soft, clean skin of Dean's chest, a steady rise and fall. Sam smooths his hand out flat, his long fingers reaching from Dean's collarbone to his sternum, all encompassing. A comfort in a way, to have Dean held down under his hold like this, and a restraint. Dean's here, with him, and Sam isn't going to lose him again.
It's only a few more miles before he finds the soonest, shadiest motel along the highway. The neon blinking sign of a perfect hole to hide out in, unnoticed.
When he pulls into the parking lot, he's extra careful not to let the Impala bounce through the potholes too much in case Dean wakes up all violent and scared. He leaves the keys in the ignition, hoping her purr will lull Dean through the few moments he needs to get them a room. The walk from the Impala to the front office is just a few quick strides but Sam keeps glancing back through her windows as he goes, feels the strong urge to rush back and drag Dean with him.
It's annoying how reluctant he is to leave Dean's side, how anxious it makes him, heart thudding and a cold sweat breaking out. But he decides to blame it on Dean not being entirely trustworthy at the moment, rather than his need to keep his brother in his sightlines for fear of losing him again.
Pressing a thumb roughly into the scar of his left palm is the only surefire thing Sam can do when he's working himself into knots, a way of grounding himself in the security of Dean's existence. His brother is real. He's here, he's back. He doesn't have to glance over at the Impala every two seconds to make sure.
The room is easy enough to score, thankfully on the first floor so Sam doesn't have to bridal carry his not small brother up a set of shoddy stairs. It's still the dead of night and the risk of anyone spotting Sam lugging an unconscious naked man into his room should hopefully go unnoticed. He opts for dragging his bag of clothes and first aid equipment inside before Dean, just to be safe.
Returning to the Impala, Sam maneuvers Dean into his arms, the deadweight of him and the soreness in his biceps from all the brother-carrying makes this an extremely arduous event. Sam has to use his hips to close the door, teeth gritted and a couple veins no doubt straining in his neck.
Dean, being bridal carried for what Sam can only hope is the last time, just snuggles comfortably into Sam's hold, none the wiser. No longer completely lax, he shoves his face into Sam's neck, arms folded neatly over his chest. Sam resists the uncomfortable goosebumps raising where Dean's mouth presses into his skin. He isn't sure if it's fear that Dean might go for his throat again or something else.
Either way, Dean isn't light in his arms and while Sam's strong and bigger than most, he makes quick work of depositing him on the queen bed furthest from the door. He does try his best to lay Dean down on the comforter gently, despite the floppy limbs and the nudity. Even if his skin is still half coated in unidentifiable grime, and therefore his decency isn't exactly at stake, Sam can't quite bring himself to waste perfectly clean clothes on him until he's showered. The possibility of which is certainly debatable considering how aggressive and turned around Dean is.
Staring at the loose limbed state of his big grimy brother, Sam heaves a sigh. He's ruining the fresh (hopefully bed-bug free) sheets on the bed with all his dirt, but a shower probably isn't in the cards tonight. Dean would definitely wake up if he was getting sprayed with hot water and then he'd be wet, slippery, and dangerous. Not exactly the ideal combination. Any hope of cleanliness should just be tossed out the window.
As if sensing Sam's unhappy thoughts, Dean snuffles and rolls onto his side. His hands fumble across the mattress, as if to reach back for Sam at the edge of the bed, but he finds one of the pillows instead and clings to that. Apparently satisfied enough to stay unconscious, Dean burrows into the plush of the sheets and doesn't make any further movements. All soft and cozy, he could practically just be sleeping.
Sam is aware he's watching him a little endearingly, warm and pleased. He quickly shuts down his fondness in favor of getting as much of Dean's wounds treated as physically possible. The more of the touchy things he's taken care of before Dean comes around, the better if he wants to keep his windpipe intact.
It takes the better part of the hour to cleanse the myriad of cuts that decorate Dean's body from head to toe, sewing up the few gashes that are a bit too deep for Sam's liking. Checking each and every tiny injury that Sam can possibly find and doing what can be done to heal it, to wipe away the hurt with the press of gauze and the tug of thread.
Dean stays blissfully out as Sam works and it only occurs to him once he's tied off a particularly ugly stitch job on the jut of Dean's hip that he should make sure Dean is—Dean.
There's no doubt in Sam's mind, somehow, as he stares down at the marred and bruised skin beneath his fingers, freckles buried under swelling yellow and purple marks. Despite the growls, the frantic attacks, the fear—Sam recognizes Dean, under grime, under the trauma, in the bright and fervid glow of his green eyes.
But Dean would choke him out twice over if Sam didn't make sure. And so he spends the next bit of time miserably going through the motions. A cut from silver joins the plethora of other gashes, a carefully coordinated splash of holy water, a dose of salt, the whole nine yards.
Dean barely flinches at the onslaught, nothing more than a few angry snuffles into the pillow. No black smoke, no eerie sizzling of burning flesh, no acknowledgement. Nothing to reveal some monstrous, bloodthirsty beast boldly wearing the skin of Dean Winchester.
If he isn't Dean, he's a very good, brand new creature they've never come across. Sam's willing to take that bet, willing to take anything if there's even the slightest chance he can hold his brother close again, hear his loud dumb voice, surround himself in his comforting, homey Dean smell. He has to be Dean—he is Dean. Sam's Dean.
As if on cue, Dean hums into the fold of the pillow, an almost agreeable grunt of a sound. Rough but reassuring in its familiarity, eyebrows downturned and scowl affixed. Sam's chest aches, throbs painfully like he's the one who's gone through the wringer and he kind of wants to cry again, wishes he could just bundle Dean up and call it done.
But there's still that glowing, inscrutable thing in Dean's left arm—roiling and threatening nothing good, a problem Sam has to tackle. Not to mention the words carved into his skin, stark and red in pale flesh, like some sort of manual that Sam just wants to wipe away like the rest of the dirt. Hates to see Dean marked like that by some monster, some other person.
By far though the most pressing issue is Dean's mental state. Before he can start on getting to the bottom of all these what-if's and why's, Sam has to get Dean back. Find a way to somehow bring Dean back to himself, to remind him who Sam is, his little brother, his Sammy. He can't forget, he just can't and something needy aches in the pit of Sam's stomach.
But he still needs to pop Dean's shoulder back into place. Right, that's what he has to do immediately. One step at a time. He has more pressing things than the threat of loneliness that looms over him, the fear that Dean has truly forgotten everything, forgotten Sam, even if Sam has him back at his side.
Sam has to focus. For Dean, if anything.
Dean's shoulder is twisted oddly, grating out of socket, swollen. Sam will have to force it back, and he's done it before, but the thought of waking Dean up with agonizing pain isn't exactly appealing. But he has to fix it and it must be hurting Dean like hell, even if he's still unconscious. Though at this point, Dean might actually just be sleeping soundly rather than under the effects of the tranquilizer.
The pillow is a little tinged with mess from Dean's injuries but it remains squished under Dean's face and torso, cuddled as tightly as Dean's hurt arms will allow. If Sam didn't know any better he would say Dean just looks like he's finally gotten to pass out after a long, rough hunt. Screw consciousness, as he says. It makes Sam bitterly happy for him, even if the concern over where he's been the last few months and what was done to him eats away at his insides.
Dean puffs out a breath that's almost a sigh, lips pouting out with the exhale. He looks like a baby and Sam desperately wants to let him sleep, let Dean snuggle into his pillow for a good, long week of recuperation. Curl up on the other side of the bed and sleep right alongside him, keeping him close. Safe.
But he can't and Sam steels himself, dragging a hand down his face. The sooner he fixes his shoulder, the sooner they can move onto bigger problems. Namely Dean's current state of mind, and then the ominously roiling orange thing in his forearm. One step at a time.
"Okay, you can do this, Sam, just the quick 1, 2," Sam mutters, hyping himself up as he rests on the edge of the bed beside Dean's unwitting, prone form. He can see the way the darkening purple of his shoulder is slightly lumpier on the side than normal, and remembers the last time he had to force it back into place.
There's a bit of an internal conflict on whether he should wake Dean up for this or just go with it and hope for the best when the pain inevitably forces him into consciousness. He would settle it with rock paper scissors if Dean were awake to play him. In lieu of his capable partner, Sam just decides to go with the option that makes his life marginally easier.
Careful, eyes darting to Dean's face every second, Sam wraps a hand around Dean's right bicep and places the other palm forward in preparation to shove the bone back into the joint. Dean's bicep flexes under his grip, but he doesn't otherwise move or acknowledge Sam's hovering presence.
Gritting his teeth in a wince, Sam counts for nobody but himself. "Okay, 1… 2—" and he's shoving forward.
The joint relocates with a loud cracking sound. Sam has less than a second to celebrate the success before Dean is jerking free with enough force to send Sam toppling off the bed. He makes an "oof" of a sound as he thankfully hits the opposite mattress rather than the floor.
There's a flurry of movement and the racket of frantic fumbling for survival. Sam's more startled than anything when Dean launches himself on top of him all over again, pinning him down to the scratchy comforter of the bed. This time though Dean had the ingenuity to rip the hotel phone off the wall, brandishing it over his head with two hands, a loud familiar growl vibrating his whole body.
"Dean! Dean, it's me, it's Sam, don't—" Sam spills out to keep himself from instinctively bucking him off, fighting back. Dean's entire form tenses like a tightly wound coil ready to spring into action and send the phone hurtling down onto Sam's face.
"Dean," Sam says, voice rough, hunter's instinct flooding his body in preparation for an all out brawl. His hands are braced, open palmed along the bedsheet, and he's ready to topple Dean over if he absolutely has to.
The growls are almost inhuman, the way Dean's face is twisted into a snarl that bares his teeth, his eyes wild and his chest heaving. He's shaking with barely there restraint, his thighs practically vibrating against Sam's sides, and he's just as ready to pounce and tear Sam apart.
Sam searches for some kind of hint that Dean remembers this same interaction from hours earlier, the way he hesitated to hurt Sam. But luck is apparently not on his side tonight. Dean snaps his teeth at him, all hint of recognition absent from his snarling face, and then he's rearing back to bring the phone down on Sam's head.
It's just enough warning to give Sam the chance to knock the would-be weapon from Dean's grip. His other hand grabs both of Dean's wrists tight, and his hips buck up with the necessary force to throw Dean off balance and flip their positions. Sam has never been more grateful to be bigger than his big brother.
The switch is in a blink and even Dean seems to have a moment of disorientation when Sam throws him down onto the mattress, pressing him down with his body. They're chest to chest which brings their faces incredibly close—in biting range which is probably not good. Dean breaks free from Sam's hold on his wrists and shoves with panicky flailing movements at Sam's shoulders.
At the same time Dean lunges for Sam's throat with his teeth, Sam barely flinching in time to catch the bite in his jaw bone instead. The disgruntled whine he gets out of Dean for that maneuver is worth the inevitable teeth marks Sam's gonna have in his skin.
Dean's wriggling under him like a wild animal, trying to toss him off and growling all the while. He doesn't manage to tear any skin away from Sam's jaw, but there's a good amount of spit when he finally recoils for a second attack. Sam narrowly avoids a fist to the temple, swinging back, and he shoves off entirely before Dean can land the second punch Sam knew he'd throw.
He figures it won't be easy to convince Dean he's a friendly if he's pinning him down like some kind of predator so he backs off, hands raised. Dean freezes for a moment looking ridiculous, mid-fight, flushed and breathing heavily and naked as the day he was born. He glares at Sam, clearly confused, and then he lets out a low huff of a growl before rolling off the bed and crouching behind it.
His green eyes shine over the edge of the bedspread, staring suspiciously up at Sam through his lashes. Sam doesn't doubt he's poised and ready for round two, waiting for the slightest excuse to go for Sam's soft spots again. He's growling like a cornered dog, teeth visible under a curled upper lip, and it sounds almost like the Impala is running outside. Sam lowers himself so that he's crouching a bit closer to Dean's level, keeping the bed between them.
"Dean, c'mon, you know me. I'm your brother, I'm Sam," he says earnestly, his hands still up and open. He even tries to amp up the patented dewy puppy look he knows works so well on Dean, peering over at him with wide eyes.
He says, gentle, "it's Sammy." His voice is quiet, projecting calm and warmth.
Dean's staring at him openly now, less the murderous wild eyes of moments ago and more that curious, problem-solving stare. He tilts his head just slightly as if listening for some kind of hint to the solution, gaze falling back to Sam's mouth. Just like before at the vet's office.
Sam licks his lips again, says a whispered, "Sammy."
The word seems to turn a cog in Dean's head because he licks his lips too, glancing back up to meet Sam's eyes, completely quiet now. Sam sees Dean's fist clench in the bedsheet, the way Dean doesn't even seem aware of it as he refuses to look away from Sam's face, unwavering.
"I'm Sammy," Sam says when it's clear Dean is still waiting for something more. "Your brother Sammy." He says it with emphasis, hoping the simple and slow speaking is enough to get through whatever strange feral state has taken Dean. It hangs there between them, heavy and on the precipice of an understanding, Dean eyeing him but no longer tensed to strike.
Sam mulls his phrasing over and speaks again, more true, more earnest.
"Your Sammy."
The words do seem to land somewhere within their semblance of meaning in Dean's muddled head, taut muscles easing up and shoulders slumping. He crawls back on top of the bed in measured movements, first a palm and then a knee, inching closer with his wide eyes glued to Sam's face.
Unmoving, Sam allows him to inch closer, hoping Dean isn't just planning some kind of sneak attack as he comes within reach. In moments, he's up on his knees in front of Sam, nearly matching in height with the angle of the bed beneath him, and he's so close Sam could hug him if he wanted. He really wants to.
Dean's green eyes look so bright in the light of the bedside lamp, reflecting Sam's unsure face back at him when he leans in close enough to nearly touch noses.
That steady, unyielding gaze drops again to Sam's mouth, ridiculous lashes fanning out across his cheeks, closer than Sam's seen them in a long time. Sam inhales softly, repeats, "Dean.” Quietly, almost involuntarily. Dean's lips move, mouthing something, maybe practicing the sounds before spilling them out.
Eyes jump back up to Sam's, almost startling in their urgency. Dean grunts roughly like he's finding the right volume. His tongue wets his bottom lip and he whispers, husky with disuse, "...S'mmy?"
Sam can't fight the immediate grin that splits his face, dimples undoubtedly carving in his cheeks, because Dean remembers—Dean remembers. He doesn't even have half a mind to think that flashing Dean his teeth might not be the best move right now, might be dangerous, too preoccupied with how Dean just said his name to care if he tries to kill Sam again.
But instead of taking Sam's unbridled grin as a threat, Dean just blinks furiously, as if a camera flashed—blinded.
He stares so intensely at Sam's smiling face, Sam can't help but say another encouraging, "yeah Dean, I'm Sammy."
Dean's reaction is almost distraught, head tilting in that puppy way and his eyebrows drawing together like he wants to cry, but he can't tell if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Sam knows the feeling. He just barely resists the urge to pull him into a hug when he sees the way Dean's eyes have gone all shiny and wet and red.
Instead Sam let's Dean do what he pleases, holding still with his hands peacefully up and open. Dean's fingers slide up slowly, careful as if he's worried that he'll spook Sam too. They fist in the loose material of Sam's flannel shirt, near his shoulders, tugging Sam just slightly closer. Sam holds his breath, feels close enough to share air between them, the warmth of Dean's body.
Dean tilts forward then, pressing his face into Sam's neck, up under his jaw. Sam almost flinches, goosebumps raising along the skin under Dean's attention. He can feel and hear a deep inhale, the way Dean noses along the underside of his jaw, just below the spot his teeth had lodged into when they were fighting.
Sam remains completely immobile, swallowing down the way his instincts are shooting his pulse rapid fire through his veins. Dean huffs big gulping breaths, following along Sam's jaw behind his ear to a sensitive spot that makes Sam's hair stand on end. Dean's nose brushes his hairline, sniffing liberally, while his lips brush against Sam's earlobe, probably—hopefully on accident.
Sam has to repress a manful yelp when Dean's teeth nip at his earlobe, almost playful, something that feels an awful lot like a smile pressed to the side of Sam's face. His heart is racing, stomach swooping and Sam would very much like to say it's because he's scared Dean will turn and rip his throat out, but that's definitely not what it is.
"Dean?" he stutters out, not worried about startling Dean out of whatever he's doing because he's too busy being extremely flushed and uncomfortable.
A hot and damp exhale sighs along the back of his neck. It could almost be a laugh, but it's fraught with something heavy, weighted like relief. Dean breathes in deep one last time before retracting, his face coming back into Sam's field of view, and Sam was right.
Dean is smiling.
He's grinning the kind of grin that shows his teeth and bunches up his eyes, crows feet making their appearance. He looks like a giant dumb kid, and Sam's chest crumbles from the inside. He wonders if he can hug Dean now.
"Sammy,” Dean says again, but this time there's no questioning lilt at the end. He's confident now, he's still grinning. "My Sammy."
Now they're just two big dumb brothers, grinning widely at each other with wet eyes and Sam opens his mouth to ask if he can hug him. But Dean's releasing Sam's shirt and the moment is over and Dean will probably push away from him.
As if sensing Sam's impending disappointment, Dean rocks forward with urgency to throw his arms around Sam's shoulders, pulling him close and tight. The force is so strong Sam's breath puffs out of his chest, not so much hugging as clinging, but he's grabbing back just as desperately.
His arms clasp around Dean's back and he's solid and whole and big in Sam's hold. For the first time in three months, Sam feels like a human again, like the other half of a whole piece locking back into place. His lungs are full of air, gulping, gasping it and he wants to fucking cry he loves his brother so much.
Dean tucks his face against Sam's, and Sam wishes he could see what kind of expression he's making. If Dean—even like this—feels this magnetic pull that Sam always gets. Two poles slamming together and refusing to come apart again. Sam wants, not for the first time, to stay like this, wrapped up so completely in each other, almost too hard to breathe. Watch the world try to separate them then. He squeezes Dean closer, willing their bodies to bleed together.
Moments pass and normally this would be about the time one of them would reluctantly disengage, brushing off their emotions like so much dust and returning to business as usual. But Dean isn't making to pull away, seems quite content to settle into Sam's arms like it's his new home. His weight leans into Sam's and Sam is pretty sure they're both supporting each other, sure whoever pulls away first will have to catch the other from toppling after them.
What's the protocol for the hugs if Dean's slightly incapacitated and Sam doesn't want to let him go—never really did? Dean hums against Sam's cheek, not a growl this time but more a pleased rumble, like a satisfied cat purring under the warmth of its human's touch. Sam is struck with the sudden urge to pet Dean's head and see if he'll keep making that noise.
That's when Sam knows it's time to pull back.
He reigns it in with a rallying inhale, schooling his features in a way he's grown professional at. With a gentle and embarrassingly affectionate, "Dean," he starts to pull away, letting his arms slide down Dean's back as he goes.
However, Dean is not retracting.
He hears a faint grunt against his ear and Sam pauses mid-disengagement, hands resting on Dean's bare waist for want of a better place.
"Uh, Dean?" he says cautiously, not quite sure if Dean even notices his shift in tone to a questioning lilt. The muscles in Dean's arms jump as he tugs Sam a little closer, closing the tiny inch of distance Sam managed to create.
"Sammy," Dean answers, his voice still rough like gravel.
Sam can't help but laugh, unable to suppress the second urge to grin again like an idiot. There's something about the way Dean says his name, the ways he's always said it those rare times when they're not in danger, when he's not desperately asking if Sammy's okay and safe. When they're relaxed and playing around with each other, affection dripping from their lips so painfully obvious and so plainly ignored.
Dean's Sammy is always an affirmation. Sam's whole body feels warm from his toes to the crown of his head. Even like this, Dean says it the same.
"Dean, uh, we can't hug each other all night," Sam says weakly and even he finds himself asking why not? and who says? The same questions are echoed in Dean's answering growl, a rumble of his naked chest that Sam feels in his own. Sam swallows the spit that floods his mouth, wonders when his mouth had gotten dry.
"We'll get tired?" he offers, sort of kidding. Dean squeezes him harder, just for a moment, and Sam can't help but see it as a warning. Big brother's rules: Sammy can't leave the hug.
"Seriously, dude, you need a shower," Sam finally says after a long moment.
He can't say he doesn't enjoy being clung to, wrapped up in his brother's needy arms, the same brother who's been missing for months, the same brother he can't live without. But Dean does smell like he killed something violently and then took a nice long nap in its carcass, Taun-Taun style.
Plus there's no telling if there aren't other injuries Sam missed tending to while Dean was unconscious. Nevermind the glowing arm and all those words carved into his skin.
"Sammy," Dean complains, dragging it out on an exhale like he's admonishing Sam for suggesting such a dumb thing as human hygiene. Sam can't tell for sure how much Dean actually gets from his words, but he figures they know each other well enough. Wouldn't even need to speak to communicate anything, no matter the circumstances.
Sam's fingers—still resting on Dean's waist—travel upwards and graze against the words cut there, the roughness of the torn skin. The resolution to get Dean cleaned and dressed hits him square in the chest, and he turns his fingers to jab into Dean's side.
Dean jerks away, ticklish as always. He scoots back so quickly, he loses his balance on the springy mattress and falls on his ass. Sam chokes down the urge to laugh at his flailing, if only because Dean is sending him a very offended pout, lower lip poking out. Though, Sam knows if regular Dean heard him call it that he'd get tackled—on second thought, this Dean might do the same.
"Sammy." Dean's tone is disapproving or maybe that's just the way it comes out past those pouty lips, eyebrows downturned. Sam tilts his head towards the bathroom where he hopes the water actually gets warm, though the peeling wallpaper and stained carpet say otherwise. Dean shifts so that he's more comfortably sitting, crossed legs, and still shooting Sam that unhappy expression.
"C'mon, sooner you're clean, the sooner we can figure out everything else," Sam says, waving his arms in the direction of the bathroom again. Dean just watches his arms, eyeballing them once they fall back uselessly to Sam's sides.
He darts a hand out quicker than Sam thinks he's ever seen Dean move and then their fingers are tangling together, effectively holding hands. Sam shakes his wrist in lieu of pulling completely free, but Dean just grips tighter, grinding some of Sam's knuckles together.
"Sammy," Dean says and this time he sounds pretty satisfied. As if the short moments they weren't physically touching were the longest in Dean's life, and Sam can relate sometimes, so he doesn't fight out of the leash-like hold. If his brother needs it to feel safe, to stay himself and not the frantic, scared creature of before, then Sam is okay with it. He has to actively repress the intrusive thoughts that scuttle around desperately, nervous about where Dean was, what happened to cause such a change.
"Don't make me pick you up and drop you in there. I'm still bigger'n you," Sam tries, shaking their clasped hands. Dean only clenches his fingers harder, a pleasant ache in Sam's finger bones, but the orange swirling mess under the skin of his arm is a beacon of all the problems they still have and Sam doesn't have time to be soft.
With one last glance in Dean's direction, seemingly peachy to just sit there all night holding hands, Sam simply begins walking towards the bathroom. His arm doesn't budge at first, and he stumbles a bit, tweaking his shoulder. Dean's surprisingly strong. Sam can't tell if he's stronger than usual, doesn't think Dean's ever forced him to hold his hand in recent years.
Dean is giving him that disapproving look again like it's Sam's fault he wants to put more than a foot between them.
The urge to grab his wrist with both hands and tug is hard to resist—if only because Dean wouldn't appreciate being sent flying off the mattress after him. Instead, Sam yanks with enough strength to make Dean tumble almost head over ass and considers it a compromise.
"Sammy!" Dean shouts, practically face-planting to the bed in a heap of naked floppy limbs. Surprisingly not agile, considering how he'd almost killed Sam several times tonight. It could have something to do with letting his guard down around his freshly recognized Sammy, but Sam doesn't want to think mushy thoughts so he just grins at him.
Dean sits up immediately on his knees, scandalized, as if he couldn't believe Sam would do such a thing to him. His grip is still tight on Sam's fingers and Sam gives him another rough tug that almost drags him off the bed. There's a nervous grunt of noise, Dean frantically maneuvering to find ground on the ratty carpet before he's being thrown on it. Perhaps in revenge, he puts all his weight into the hold he's got on Sam's hand, almost taking Sam down with him.
Once he pulls himself up to his full height, he levels Sam with a look of utmost betrayal, shiny wide eyes. It succeeds in making Sam feel the smallest bit bad and he has a moment to wonder if Dean's second-guessing his Sammy admiration right now. The thick fingers tangled in his squeeze with enough force to actually get a wince and Sam figures Dean isn't.
"Ow," Sam hisses, shaking their hands sharply in what he hopes is a clear lemme go gesture.
Dean just gives him a crooked smirk like it was just some sort of punishment for trying to escape his clutches, wriggling their joined hands for emphasis. Sam worries vaguely that Dean won't let him go for the near future, worries more that it doesn't bother him as much as it should.
"Sammy," Dean says through his smirk, all haughty air like he just gained the upper hand. Sam sort of wonders if he hasn't.
There's a pull and Sam can only stumble after his ass naked brother, following that bowlegged swagger of a proud peacock. As if it was Dean's idea to shower in the first place and he's totally not just going along with Sam's directions.
Sam grins despite himself.
No matter what's happened to him, Dean's still Dean.
Notes:
any and all feedback is cherished, they can take my car radio but they can't take my kudos [shakes fist] and the next update will be may 2 bc it's sammy day ❤
Chapter 3: Teeth, Part 1
Notes:
posting this a bit later in the day than i hoped bc my skrub beta is slow lmao but i'm happy i get to update on sam's birthday, our beloved oversized bb grew up so fast :((
thank you to everyone reading this fic so far i'm always grateful other ppl like what i like. pls continue to enjoy this silly thing with me <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bathroom, unsurprisingly, isn't made for two grown men over six foot.
One could easily wash their hands, use the toilet, and even shower their left foot if they wanted to. Dean doesn't seem at all bothered by the fact that they're almost on top of each other, his back pressed tightly to Sam's chest, hands still entwined. Fortunately, the door at least opens outwards, giving them enough space to breathe.
Sam can already tell this isn't going to be an enjoyable experience. At least the rack above the toilet includes two whole washcloths on top of some threadbare towels. It's more than can be said for most shady ass hotels off the interstate. Dean is watching Sam like he's expecting Sam to start the magic ritual, waiting gaze so aware Sam can almost believe Dean's just been messing with him this whole time.
"Here, sit down and I'll get this ready," Sam finally says after a long moment of just squinting at Dean to see if he'll break. He spins him around so they're no longer back to front, facing each other properly, and somehow their hands are still clasped.
After Dean is settled on the toilet seat, Sam leans around him to start the water. As the resident Winchester in charge of understanding how every set of motel room shower faucets actually work, Sam gets the water running to Dean's ideal temperature. Just this side of too hot. In about five minutes the bathroom will be too steamy for most non-aquatic lifeforms. If the hot water even lasts that long.
With a short glance back at Dean and all his grime, Sam has a quick internal debate about whether Dean would be better off soaking in a bath or under the constant flow of the shower head. When they were younger, Dad always insisted on showers—quick and communal—unless someone was too fucked up to stand.
Sam eyes Dean with a calculating gaze, returned by a curious, innocence feigning stare. Yeah, Dean's definitely not too fucked up to stand. He's certainly sprightly enough to toss Sam around at least. A nod then, shower it is. He pulls the showerhead diverter up and the water rains down with a fury, nearly pegging Sam square in the head. At least the water pressure isn’t anything to sniff at.
Dean startles at the sudden blast of overhead water, shooting wide eyes at the healthy spray and clenching Sam's fingers tight. Sam fights back a snort and tugs Dean into a standing position that he easily goes along with, still eyeing the shower with an almost suspicious pout. The shower curtain isn't much, but it's keeping them from soaking the whole bathroom and Sam brushes the draping plastic back with his free hand.
"Alright, Dean, hop in," he says, turning puppy eyes on him. He inwardly begs for Dean to go along without a fight, but the way he's staring at the shower has ominous undertones. Dean meets Sam's targeted imploring gaze and blinks slowly, almost carefully. The hand in Sam's is clutching and Dean really looks like he's about to run the other way. There’s that abrupt pent up energy Sam's one-time puppy Bones had when Sam tried to wash him (which did not go well).
Sam cranks up the beseeching eyes to eleven in a last ditch effort, cocking his head ever so slightly, lower lip popping out for the ultimate effect.
Dean sucks in a breath, frown firmly still in place. It's a bit like a Dean heading off to war, determined scowl and all. His fingers wriggle tighter into Sam's, but he steps over the edge of the tub as if a land mine awaits him at the bottom. Sam's grateful, relief flooding his chest cooly as his hand is tugged past the shoddy curtain along with his brother.
The water is too hot on Sam's skin—always too hot showers for Dean. Sam has a sneaking suspicion Dean just wants that pore cleansing steam effect but won't admit it. There's the urge to retract his hand before it gets to be too much for his more sensitive nerves, but Sam has an inkling Dean isn't going to be a good sport about that.
It's at this opportune moment that Sam realizes he didn't grab any toiletries on the way and now the soap lays about seven feet from the edge of the bathtub. Unsurprisingly, on quick inspection, the motel did not provide anything complementary.
Sam purses his lips at his reflection in the speck covered mirror over the sink. The fool in the mirror mocks him with the same expression, coupled with what looks to be a rapidly bruising bite mark on his jaw. Thanks to Dean.
The hand wound up in his own is still very much hanging on, and he glances past the partially opened shower curtain. Dean's watching him with a determined sort of purpose as water runs down from the top of his head. Rivulets rush through the lines of Dean's face and his eyelashes clump together over his big disney princess eyes and Sam sort of wants to choke a little.
Sure, Dean showers with the door wide open about eighty percent of the time with not an ounce of shame. But that doesn't mean Sam spends those times staring him in the face while he does it.
"Sammy," Dean says with a sniff that is sort of pathetic, and it's not that he looks particularly like a miserable, drowned chihuahua that has Sam concerned. It's that he can read the frustrated press of Sam's lips, reacts to it in distress. Sam knows he can because his eyes are watching Sam's mouth with rapt attention like they'll give him the next round of winning lottery numbers.
Sam still hasn't quite gleaned if Dean is so invested in his mouth because it says words that mean things or some other reason Sam isn't going to touch.
He does however actually look a bit like a miserable, drowned chihuahua and Sam feels a little guilty asking him to release his hand so he can go grab the soap and shampoo. He glances back at the bag laying at the foot of Dean's original bed and he wonders if he could reach it without fighting Dean for freedom or if his only recourse is another brawl. Neither option sounds particularly fun and both run a high risk of Sam braining himself on the bathroom floor.
In the end, as the water pounds down on Dean's slightly less grimy body, Sam decides it's better to teach Dean personal boundaries now rather than explain why he's flopping on the ground trying to kick a duffle bag closer.
"Okay, Dean," he begins calmly, pulling his I'm a good FBI agent you can definitely open up to me voice out. Dean eyes him warily, his other hand coming up to brush his flattened wet hair off his forehead. Sam doesn't admit it makes him look like some kind of GQ model because the thought half annoys him and he just clears his throat to begin his plea.
"I need you to let my hand go so I can get the soap, okay? Faster I get the soap, faster you're free of the shower. It'll take two seconds." He holds up two fingers of the hand Dean's wrapped around for emphasis.
Dean looks at their joined hands, at Sam's fingers sticking up in front of his face. Sam wants to say his expression appears uncomprehending, but Dean glances up at Sam under the steadily steaming shower spray and it's more stubbornly resolute than anything. (Sam knows this because rather than frowning he's regarding Sam with slightly raised eyebrows, the slightly raised eyebrows of resolution.)
"Sammy."
It says all Dean needs it to say and Sam kind of wishes they weren't so good at reading each other so he could feign ignorance and struggle free. Because when Dean says Sammy , he means No and Two seconds is two seconds too long and My way or the highway and Your big brother is a jerk.
Sam huffs, shooting Dean a pointed stare that he hopes conveys how much he thinks Dean doesn't have a choice in this. But it won't work because Dean does have a choice in this if Sam doesn't want to physically wrestle his wet, naked brother for freedom in a grungy motel bathroom. Which he definitely doesn't. For a variety of reasons.
Dean knows this.
Meaning, Sam will have to pull out his lawyer brain to solve this completely juvenile problem. He can't even blame Dean for it because he's also feeling clingy to the nth degree, but he has all his faculties so legally he can not approve of this behavior.
"Okay, let's make a deal," Sam proposes instead of giving in to the nagging impulse to just let Dean hold on to him until they both die from steam inhalation. Dean shifts under the spray of the shower so it beats down on the broad planes of his back, bowing slightly under the surprisingly consistent pressure.
His gaze never leaves Sam's face, walking back and forth between his eyes and mouth, and preemptively unimpressed with whatever else Sam is going to say. It has the energy of a king allowing his peasant to speak: you may continue. Sam ticks his head to the side and tries not to look like the annoyed little brother he is, tugging his hand in Dean's iron grip.
"If you let me go get the soap for two damn seconds, I'll come back and get in the shower with you. Two times the cleanliness—quick and communal," Sam offers, already internally wondering if that's worse than just holding hands across the shower curtain. At least, theoretically, if you're showering together you're not contractually obligated to physically touch. Therefore, it's less weird.
Plus Sam and Dean have showered together thousands of times. Sure back then, Sam wasn't two thirds the size of the shower and they could move without nearly drowning each other. But this is desperate times and Sam just wants the both of them to be scrubbed clean and in bed before the sun rises. It may be a naive hope.
It's nearing four in the morning and even Dean is looking a little exhausted around the edges, but it's butting up against the determined, unwavering stare he's been leveling Sam with since he sniffed him. He raises Sam's hostage hand up to his chin and the curl of his mouth makes Sam think he might be chewing on the inside of his cheek, debating the merits of Sam's deal.
A hesitation. Then he inclines his head, finally diverting his attention to Sam's fingers floating on level with his lips.
Sam has an inkling of a bad feeling but he assumes if Dean was waiting to kill him until he was vulnerable and slippery, it wasn't an assassination attempt worth worrying about. His fears aren't exactly confirmed—well some are, just not the new ones.
Dean raises the meat of Sam's palm to his mouth, opens wide, and chomps onto the skin like a teething puppy.
For several reasons, the action sends a hot, painful spark up Sam's spine, from his lumbar region to the base of his neck. Primarily because Dean's eyeballing him like he's a piece of brisket he's finally gotten to taste, and also because it does actually hurt a lot.
His hand shivers in Dean's jaws, goes all the way up the arm like a nerve ending’s been pinched—or bitten as it were. It meets the throbbing heat in his neck, melts into a stammering tremor over the tensing muscles there and Sam has to stand up straighter to keep himself from collapsing.
The way his palm shakes in Dean's teeth has half to do with shock and half to do with the scar that runs through its middle, currently being tugged by the pressure of Dean's sharp incisors. Sam blinks widely at Dean, unable to tear his gaze free but sort of desperately wishing he could.
The best Sam can manage is a choked, "D-Dean?" and he wants to berate himself for stuttering.
The bite will no doubt leave marks alongside the noticeable scar, Sam feels like wrenching himself free just to spite Dean for gnawing on him like a chew toy. But he can't suppress the intrinsic comfort that pressure on his old wound always brings him. Ever since Dean clutched his palm tight in his fingers and grounded him with his gravel voice, steady and sure.
This is real.
Is Dean saying that now, in his own odd way?
There's a hint of the patented smug-ass Dean Winchester grin when he finally releases Sam's bitten hand from his mouth. Sam retracts immediately, eyeing the indentations of Dean's teeth that run alongside the old scar like a new friend.
Dean's grin splits his face in two and he looks entirely pleased with himself, reclining his head back into the spray of the hot water as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if he didn't just tear holes in Sam's skin for the hell of it, as if he didn't just leave some kind of mark behind.
Sam's a little breathless and he waves his hand as if whatever Dean just tried to imbue it with will fall out. He forces a weak laugh, already turning on his heel to get the toiletries.
"You've gotta stop biting me, man," he calls over his shoulder, angry with the way his voice is a little wobbly. "Kinda hard to explain."
Of course, Dean doesn't have a witty, porn-related retort. Instead, Sam gets a scoff he can barely catch through the rush of the shower and he can't quite tell if the feeling in his chest is disappointment or not. Dean, before he disappeared, wouldn't have bitten Sam twice in the span of a couple hours. (Once, maybe, and only if there was pie involved in some way.)
Sam's not sure how exactly this all adds up.
His palm is red and angry and he avoids using it when he fishes out the cheap body wash and one of the many little bottles of complementary shampoos they've collected across their lives. Irish Spring and Eucalyptus Mint according to the worn labels. Sam tucks the body wash under his arm so his left hand doesn't have to carry anything.
When he turns back to the bathroom he can see Dean peering at him from around the shower curtain. Maybe it's Sam's imagination but he looks a bit chuffed to see Sam's kept his injured hand free. Sam narrows his eyes, suddenly suspicious.
Did Dean bite his hand so he couldn't use it for anything besides holding Dean's ever again?
The prospect makes him queasy and displeased and he resists the urge to call his brother out on his obnoxious behavior. If only because he knows it wouldn't hit right with the way Dean is right now, wouldn't cause any shame or regret, maybe just a few more bites. Which Sam definitely does not need, so he holds his tongue and storms to the bathroom.
It's a good thing they've left the door open this entire time because the steam is practically unbearable now, like entering a sauna. Sam's back is dotted with sweat under his flannel. He makes quick work of the bottles, propping them gently (with one hand) along the rim of the tub, before turning his attention to the clothes he's been wearing for at least three days straight. It might be longer though Sam doesn't remember the last time he did laundry.
Perhaps there's a certain level of mulish eye-avoidance as he wrestles with the buttons of his shirt, left hand still aching and newly accompanied by tiny beads of blood. He hears what can only be a snort from the shower and he's dedicated in his campaign to not grace Dean with so much as a glance until they're clean and dressed again.
In typical Sam Winchester luck, this plan only makes his life harder as Dean's hands appear out of nowhere, dripping water, to help.
Maybe this would have been sweet if Dean wasn't the perpetrator of Sam's current injury and if he hadn't given up on the buttons faster than the Impala can hit 0 to 60. Dean's solution, while not entirely unlike Dean before he disappeared, is still the worst solution to any problem in the world ever.
He grips both ends of the shirt and rips it open. Buttons rattle noisily to the floor and Sam just knows he's going to find one later with his foot.
"Dean!" he almost shouts, feeling a wash of annoyance nearly overtake that sweet relief at having Dean back at his side. Dean jumps a little at his sudden exclamation, hands still in Sam's wide open shirt. But rather than looking even a little bit recalcitrant, Dean just shoots him that stupid, dumb baby grin that makes him look ten years old.
Sam glares at him.
"I like this shirt." He doesn't whine. But it's a close call.
If Dean were Dean he might have commented about how Sam owns twenty versions of the same shirt and one loss wasn't going to kill him. And he wouldn't be wrong, but he would still be annoying.
But Dean is already disregarding Sam's perfectly valid complaints to tug Sam closer to the tub. Enough so that he can push the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, apparently taking to his former job of "dressing and undressing three year old Sammy" with gusto.
Water is splashing all over the bathroom with Dean's ministrations, so quick and efficient, Sam's almost stumbling over when Dean whips his underlayer v-neck over his head. Maybe Dean's having the time of his life reliving the good old days when he took care of Sammy, but Sam has to draw the line at exactly the moment when Dean's fingers dig into the button of his jeans.
His rough knuckles graze the sensitive skin of Sam's navel and he sucks in a breath, immediately fumbling backwards.
The look Dean pins him with is mildly accusatory and Sam can't, for the life of him, figure out what Dean thinks he has a right to do here. So he reaches forward to push Dean by the chest, fully back into the shower.
"Back up. You're getting water everywhere. And I can undress myself," Sam proclaims, somewhat huffier than he intends, a little bit too teenager. His cheeks are hot and pink with the steam of the (honestly, shockingly still) hot water sluicing all over Dean's shoulders.
It may or may not make Sam the less alpha male in this scenario, not like Dean would have let him claim that ridiculous throne, but he spins around to avoid Dean's eyes and drops his jeans and underwear as quickly as physically allowable. In the process, Sam dings his elbow on the sink and almost experiences death by head trauma at the behest of the door pane.
He pretends not to hear Dean's low concerned noises from behind him and even has to fight off grabby hands once he's nakedly throwing himself into the other side of the seemingly shrinking bathtub shower. At least he didn't forget to grab the wash rags in his tirade, two threadbare squares of cloth hanging limply from his right hand.
The sheer amount of cloying steam pluming from the cramped space is enough to prevent Sam from feeling even a little cold as he finally stands on the same nudity level as Dean for the first time since getting him back.
Dean spun to greet him with enthusiasm, only narrowly missing his bid for Sam's bitten hand because Sam shoved a washcloth at him.
"Let's just get this done, okay?" he says, already grabbing the Eucalyptus Mint and keeping his eyes at 'above Dean's height' level. Because of this tactic, one he just invented to avoid the embarrassment of staring at Dean's sopping wet body, he can't tell just how muck covered Dean is anymore. But he gets to keep his sanity and moral compass intact, therefore it's the optimal choice.
"Can you wash your hair?" he asks, already forcing the tiny container to produce shampoo, at the expense of his recently injured hand. He uses it to focus his gaze so he doesn't have to look at Dean in any way, shape, or form.
Dean chooses this time to be inconveniently silent under the shower spray, but Sam can feel his gaze on him like a cold metal prod. Sam's forced to lower his eyes from his palm of shampoo to Dean's, eyebrows raising in what he hopes is an answer the damn question way.
"Dean?"
Once Dean has Sam's actual attention he cracks the smallest smile, the one he usually reserves for when Sam has finally given in to his antics. It could be a cute expression if it didn't look so victorious and obnoxiously flirty—which is tragically Dean's default state. It would be better to label the expression a smirk.
Sam loathes this smirk and he squints his eyes at Dean, the Eucalyptus Mint threatening to escape his right hand.
Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn't say anything, not even a nod to indicate he even heard the question. Sam is a little tempted to smack the shampoo onto his head and leave him to it, but he can't quite tell if Dean is being this way on purpose or not. If he's just acting this way because he doesn't know any better.
Thankfully, Dean's eyes don't stray from Sam's until he turns around so his back is to Sam, out of the reach of the hot water. He tilts his head towards Sam like an offering and Sam determinedly focuses on the crown of Dean's head—because he can see it, because he's taller—and not any other part of Dean.
"Sammy," Dean says so serenely it almost sounds like a prayer and Sam feels his abs clench up the way they do when he's about to have a stomachache. Saliva is pouring back into his mouth and he's mad because how could his mouth be dry in all this steam?
Sam doesn't immediately act, too busy being angry at his bodily functions, and so Dean turns his head, green eyes catching Sam's, bright and dewy. He smirks that small smile-smirk thing again and speaks in an impossibly rougher voice than Sam ever recalls coming out of Dean's mouth.
"Want Sammy."
Then Dean just goes back to facing frontward, nonchalant.
Sam wonders if this is some kind of continued recompense from God himself for being Satan's vessel back in the day. He thought he paid his debt, but now he wonders if he's not really in an extended personal hell. The newly created teeth cuts in his left palm throb appropriately and Sam sucks in a breath that's definitely more steam than oxygen.
He doesn't choke, but he feels like he could.
It's what a good brother would do. Sam assures himself internally, annoyed that he has to step closer to Dean's back to properly massage the shampoo into his hair. He keeps a nice safe distance of about four precious inches between parts of himself and parts of Dean and professionally goes about his business of scrubbing the Eucalyptus Mint down with his finger tips.
The twinges of his injured hand are actually a welcome distraction.
Especially when Dean starts making noises.
Since Dean has been making more sounds in the last three hours than he's ever made in his life, this shouldn't really surprise Sam. It doesn't in some ways, but he's scratching a chunk of mud out of Dean's hair with persistence when Dean lets out a low moan that a porn star would side eye him for.
It's deep, guttural, building up from the hollow of his throat and scratching on the way out. Sam can hear the way it curls off his tongue, knows from the sound that Dean's mouth is hanging open, and he falters.
His first instinct is to laugh it off, the way Sam and Dean have always done when they caught the other jacking it or in bed with some random person. It's not a big deal, people get off, sometimes loudly, Sam knows that. The problem is that Sam and Dean don't get off to, next to, or with each other and Sam has never heard such a sound rumble past Dean's lips because Sam's hands were on him.
This entire thing must look ridiculous from an outside perspective and if anyone else were in that bathroom, Sam would undoubtedly be sharing a look of disdain with them.
He decides to just pretend he doesn't hear anything and he still isn't sure if that's the best course of action, as he now finds himself treated to a sweet, insanely vulgar sound each time he tugs a bit of gore from Dean's hair. The rough, drawn out moans hiccup to something a bit more like a keen, when Sam pulls hard at particularly stubborn bits of slop.
It does not help, at all, that Dean staggers back every time this happens and almost collides his ass with Sam's front. Each time Sam has to fumble backwards to avoid dangerous contact and nearly slips. Maybe it's Dean's goal, a more stealthy attempt on Sam's life—Sam wishes he could seriously think this, he doesn't know if it's worse than the alternative.
This torture goes on for a good five or six long, miserable minutes.
Sam worries the hot water is going to vanish any second now, but Dean's hair was impossibly caked with the earth and viscera of somewhere horrible. Sam can say he at least appreciated Dean's pornstar whines if only because it distracted him from worrying too hard about what happened to him.
When he finally pulls his hands back, he's relieved to find he is not, in fact, sporting any perfectly reasonable physical reactions. "Turn around and wash it out," he says, avoiding any more unnecessary touching.
Dean does as told without any extra flair for once, turning to tilt his head back into the spray and banishing the suds to the drain. At least, Sam assumes he's not adding any additional flair, as it's bad enough keeping his eyes at face level while he digs out the last of the Eucalyptus Mint for himself.
If he doesn't spare Dean a glance he cannot, absolutely cannot, confirm if said brother is presenting himself like some kind of wet, proud lion.
If Dean spares him a couple peeks through hooded eyes, lashes shiny, Sam resolutely does not notice.
But Sam's first mistake is assuming this newly returned Dean would allow him to subtly ignore him for any length of time. Or any Dean, for that matter.
As he's just scrounging up the necessary shampoo to get his hair properly cleaned, Dean's petulant growl echoes against the ugly shower tiles. It's the only warning Sam gets before Dean's strong hands are wrapping around his biceps and forcibly switching their positions.
Sam makes an undignified sound, too busy trying to keep the shampoo on his palm to protect his junk from making a heinous amount of contact with Dean's. Sam's second mistake.
"Dean," he growls himself, cupping the shampoo above their heads and angling his hips as far back against the opposite shower wall as possible. The water spray is still remarkably hot—not as hot as when the shower started ages ago —but a warmth that Sam personally finds perfect. It soaks over his aching muscles like a salve and Sam can't even maintain his ire at accidentally touching dicks with his brother.
He melts under the spray and barely maintains straight legs.
The pleased rumble could have come from Sam or Dean, Sam couldn't really say.
But Dean crowds into his space, a soft, doting smile on his lips. It's an expression Sam saw through all of his childhood and makes its rare appearance in Dean's occasional fits of exceptional brotherly affection. Sam doesn't like it, it makes his bones react—mimicking the softness of expression, but in consistency. His skeleton turns to mush in his meatsuit. Dean's using it against him right now, definitely knows its power.
Sam can't be blamed when he's like putty in Dean's hands, Dean reaching between them to scrape what's left of the Eucalyptus Mint from Sam's outstretched fingers. Since he's preoccupied with that two handed task, Dean uses his forehead to press into Sam's chin, barely missing the second newest bite mark on his jaw.
He inclines Sam's head with a gesture that Sam can only reluctantly categorize as a nuzzle, angling Sam so that his hair is soaking in the spray.
"You gonna return the favor?" Sam asks quietly, and he means it with casual affection but he knows it sounds a little too rough, scrapes on his tongue as it rolls free. Dean's answering grin is wide, crows feet on full display and Sam's chest is bursting so he crosses his arms over it.
"Sammy," Dean rumbles, but it doesn't sound frustrated or petulant or demanding. It matches the cadence of Sam's question, a soft avalanche deep from Dean's throat, and Sam obediently turns around and tilts his head back for the same treatment.
As expected, it feels a little like what heaven should've been like.
Sam's had his scalp scrubbed clean by Dean's expert fingers thousands of times in his life and it never fails to lull him into a zombie state. Little happy huffs of pleasure escape his throat every time Dean carts his short nails down the sensitive line of tendons at the back of his head.
He also can't deny that he enjoys the way Dean has to reach up almost on the balls of his feet to get to the top of Sam's head, even when he leans back. His little big brother.
It's almost over too soon, Dean's hands leaving his hair to gently turn him back around. Sam complies with his eyes half open, too fuzzy to do much else but scrub the shampoo out under the gradually weakening spray of warm water.
He wants to say he can't feel Dean's eyes on him, but he would recognize the feeling anywhere—has had it ingrained into every second he's been alive. He doesn't bother opening his eyes to meet the stare.
Which is probably why it comes as a jump-scare worthy event when he feels a warm, soapy washcloth pressed to his navel with purpose.
He starts, but manages not to yelp this time, frantic hands flying to grab Dean's wrist, staring at the offending limb. His grip isn't particularly tight and he isn't quite sure if he's holding Dean to keep him from doing anything else or to follow his movements. The washcloth is strong with the smell of Irish Spring, extra soapy, and Sam's fingers just loosely hang off of Dean's wrist as he brings the rag up Sam's torso.
As one might expect, Dean's also an expert in washing Sam, has done it thousands of times before, and he goes at it this time with his usual concentration. He circles the warm rag over Sam's stomach and up to his chest, all the while watching his own movements with an odd furrow in his brow.
Sam's breath is coming a bit more shallow, he likes to think it's because they're definitely running out of air in the steam. He doesn't like to think about how the water is barely warm now and the steam is long gone.
It takes nothing more than the, perhaps accidentally intentional, brush of the washcloth over Sam's right nipple that has him hissing out a low breath and his eyes darting down.
Then he's staring at the evidence of his own personal shame, chubbing up against his thigh like a traitor, probably has been for a while now. Sam isn't a prude but he most certainly draws a line at getting hard in front of his brother (not because of), and he jerks backwards a little more violently than he intended.
"I-I, uh, I got it Dean," he fumbles out and with his superior self control does not look at Dean's dick, tugging the washcloth free and spinning around to face the showerhead.
He's making quick work of scrubbing his body pink, tries to pretend he doesn't hear the dissatisfied rumble in Dean's throat or the questioning and slightly demanding, "Sammy?" that follows it.
"The hot water's almost gone, clean yourself up quick," Sam sputters out through clenched teeth. He's willing his dick to relax and be good for once while simultaneously wanting to laugh himself out of the motel for thinking that any shower with Dean Winchester could ever be quick.
Dean seems to buy Sam's excuse about the rapidly cooling shower spray because he doesn't do any more than blow a raspberry from behind Sam. No further touching occurs and Sam's so relieved and absolutely not disappointed as he violently scrubs away three days worth of dirt.
Sam rinses his body in record time, even faster than the time he was four minutes shy of missing his Logic final at Stanford. He flops out of the shower with significantly less grace than usual, but is pleased to see that his chub is already dying back down as the cold air smacks him.
There's a distraught whine of a noise from the shower at Sam's absence and Sam quickly wraps a towel around his waist as Dean peeks around the curtain to eye him.
"I'm gonna get dressed first okay? I gotta find you some of my clothes to wear because all your stuff’s at the cabin," Sam explains, quick on his feet and dripping everywhere.
Dean huffs, a low unhappy thing, but he doesn't look angry. Maybe just extremely displeased.
A hand stretches out to him, bumping into his elbow in the tight quarters of the bathroom. Sam shoots it a suspicious glare.
"I'm not giving you my hand, you're not gonna let go," he says, keeping well out of reach. His palm's finally not bleeding anymore, and the eight or so gashes from Dean's teeth probably won't even scar if he's careful with them. Careful as in not letting Dean or his mouth anywhere near it again.
Dean's shiny eyes stare up at Sam through his wet lashes and it’s clear he has some kind of agenda. But he doesn't say anything more than, a quiet, imploring, "Sammy." Shakes his hand again like a needy baby.
Sam knows Dean likes to boast about his little brother's puppy eyes to any human beings that'll listen, the Winchester secret weapon he would say. But Sam also knows that Dean's begging wet eyes have their own kind of spell, facing them as he is right now—disarmed and weak. After all, Sam and Dad and Bobby overcame demonic possession just to get Dean to stop crying at them like that.
Dean definitely has a super power.
It's working painfully well on Sam's already crackling resolve.
"Don't try anything funny," Sam says staunchly, plopping his healing left hand into his brother's cool, callused one.
Safe to say Sam does and does not expect Dean to jerk his hand up to his face with enough strength to nearly send Sam toppling onto him. For Dean to open his mouth like a kid at Burger King, dripping and eager. For Dean to sink his bite back in, worrying a little at the healing wounds, tearing them anew.
It's sad that Sam is just happy it's not as painful the second time.
Dean's begging, please Sammy eyes are staring at Sam as he grinds his teeth in. Somehow, Sam is almost more distracted by the way Dean's pink lips drag across the skin of his palm, soft like silk, than the teeth. Moments pass where Dean digs in, a bear trap finally clutching around its defenseless prey, and Sam grinds his own teeth because he's not sure what the protocol is for this situation.
Is Dean going to stop gnawing on him at a specific time or is he going to keep ensuring scars until Sam makes him stop? The knowing glint in his green eyes somehow answers Sam's unspoken question.
"Leggo, Dean," he grumbles, wiggling his hand warningly. Dean grunts, Sam can feel it against his skin, and then he's releasing like a trained alligator who's gotten its head tapped. Sam hates the uneasy discomfort at the idea, the prospect of Dean having become a full blown predator, and what could have happened to him to make him act like this.
His palm is lathed in cooling spit from Dean’s mouth and blood wells up in each individual tooth mark. Under the fluorescent bathroom lights, they almost shine—symmetrical and bruising along his callused skin. Somehow, they're a lot prettier than the jagged, healed scar beside them.
"I'm getting clothes now," he forces past a rapidly congealing lump in his throat. "Hurry up and get clean."
He pretends he doesn't feel Dean watching him as he walks over to grab the duffel of clothes, momentarily blocking the view of him from the bathroom. It's only a second but the choked sound Dean makes when he can't see him is enough to have Sam scurrying back in his line of sight, bag tossed over the closest bed.
Sam wants to say he's just being very accommodating by keeping himself in Dean's periphery as he digs for clothes. Honestly though, Sam just doesn't want Dean to crawl out of the shower after him in a trail of Irish Spring bubbles and soaked seventies style carpet. Something he most definitely would do.
A sigh heaves out of Sam's chest as he pretends not to feel the pinpricks of Dean's attentive stare on his back.
This is apparently going to be their new normal now.
Notes:
ahh dean finally gets his teeth in sammy hehe rip to sam's freedom. next update will be may 7!! since my own birthday is may 4 i'll be busy celebrating w my fam for a few days~ comments and kudos and subs and bookmarks are, as always, loved and appreciated
Chapter 4: Sleep
Notes:
putting this up right after dropping my poor car off at the shop... on the bright side i have ur continued lovely support and this fic to keep me distracted (─‿─)
so lately chapters (including this one) have been about 6k each, but chapter 5 is around 10k!! it's one of the long ones, which also means more to edit. thus the next update will be may 13. in the mean time pls enjoy the new chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Used to be, Sam kept all his belongings in the Impala. Dean too. But after meeting several good people along the frenetic timeline of their lives, it really started to make more sense to keep pockets of things among their friends.
Rufus's cabin holds the strongest concentration of Winchester goods at the moment.
It used to be Bobby's place but well, that went up in a cloud of smoke. Jody also kindly stored a few extra outfits for them at her home just in case. Charlie probably still rolls around with their backup fed threads locked away in some deep dark cave.
This is all a roundabout way of explaining why Sam only has one bag of clothes on him.
After Dean—when he disappeared for the short three month period that Sam definitely fared well in, Sam's first trip in the repaired Impala was to Rufus's cabin. He wanted all of Dean's things together. Even now Sam can't quite deconstruct that reasoning.
Inside Sam's raggedy bag are some undershirts, a flannel, two pairs of jeans (one with a hole in the crotch) and exactly one pair of underwear. At first this last figure is especially worrisome, until Sam managed to unearth a moderately clean second pair of boxer briefs from the bottom of the duffel. He breathes a sigh of relief and doesn't question how it managed to escape his notice in the past couple weeks.
It's just enough to dress himself and Dean until they can get the both of them to a laundromat.
When exactly that will be, Sam isn't quite sure. Where they're going to go after this, after Dean's properly taken care of and no longer at risk of killing anyone, is also not really something Sam's given enough attention to. He shuts down the wiggling little stray thought that crawls out of his ear, sounding something like what the fuck are we gonna do?
He's saved from even trying to follow that little anxiety by the sudden silence of the shower shutting off. Dean isn't even making an attempt to be quiet as he flops out of the bathtub. Sam doesn't want to look at him standing there, undoubtedly naked, but he needs to know Dean is finally scrubbed clean of all that muck and gore. He bundles the two pairs of boxers in his fist as he spins around.
"Sammy," Dean says, like a comfortable greeting, the way one might say g'night when the lights are already out or hey into the phone when you already know who's calling. He's dripping water onto the tile and seemingly unaffected by the cool air floating stagnant in the motel room. Sam's eyes skim over the vast expanses of skin available to him and he is not drinking it in.
Dean at least has the forethought to hold his arms aloft so his body can drip dry a bit while he proudly subjects himself to his little brother's nitpicking stare. Sam can't believe Dean isn't even mustering up a blush under the scrutiny, just a comfortable quirk of his lips, as Sam tightens his fist in the boxers.
Among all that skin, there's not a speck to be found. Dean's pale and practically glowing under the hazy yellow lights of the bathroom, all those freckles winking as he shifts his weight.
The grime has been completely scraped off like removing a chipped layer of paint. Nothing left to remind of its presence at all save for the collection of new, quickly healing, cuts and scrapes and the purpling yellow greens of bruises, recent and old.
A few smatter his calves, a large one dots his right hip like a tiny galaxy. The massive ones Sam himself made across his arm and shoulder. He eases the guilt nipping in his chest by focusing on the anti-possession tattoo over his brother's heart, the one they share. It's Sam's. He wants to touch it again, but he doesn't move.
His gaze slides down to the carved letters marring Dean's ribcage and it makes Sam's stomach heave with a wave of irritation. He wishes Castiel were here to heal Dean's body, remove the markings made by whoever the hell else thought they had the right to hurt Dean like that, to mark him.
But Sam swallows his rising fury, the heavy thudding in his chest, and knows his priority is Dean first, as always.
"You look good," he says, a nod of approval and a smile that may not reach his eyes but is pleased nonetheless. He means it more in a job well done on your successful shower kind of way but it sounds different coming out.
Dean is beaming at him, crows feet and all. Sam doesn't want to know how he took the compliment. He should tell Dean to use the last scrappy towel hanging in the bathroom, but he doesn't quite manage to say it before Dean is pushing into his personal space.
Standing just shy of stepping on Sam's toes, Dean eyeballs him with a few steady blinks and Sam thinks he's going for the underwear or, more worryingly, Sam's bitten hand. But Dean doesn't take either.
His lashes flutter in a way that Sam refuses to describe as attractive and he's licking his lips, eyes dropping from Sam's to his mouth again. Sam is immediately distracted by a tongue roving over Dean's bottom lip. Too distracted to stop Dean from tugging the towel free off his hips in one swift, flourish of off-white terrycloth.
"Dude!" Sam scrambles back, suddenly naked, and his ass falls to the edge of the bed behind him. He's quick enough to frantically pull black boxers up and over his hips before his dick can do anything embarrassing.
Evidently, he didn't really need to worry about giving Dean an eyeful, because Dean merely dries off with Sam's towel and tosses it to the bathroom floor behind him.
Overall, a surprisingly tame sequence of actions that has Sam's heart rate falling back into a more normal range. Somehow he'd thought Dean would pounce on him again, and is immensely relieved he didn't. He can't fight the grin of approval he shoots Dean's way, happy for once not to have been unpleasantly surprised tonight.
"Sammy," Dean says, blinking rapidly like he did last time Sam hit him with a big, dopey smile. He holds out his hand for the other pair of underwear in Sam's fist but his eyes don't leave Sam's face, pursed lips making those tiny impressions over the corners of his mouth appear.
Sam hands the boxers over and watches Dean slide into them almost naturally, swaying just a bit towards Sam as he pulls them on. "Congratulations, you're not a nudist anymore," Sam says, not adding how grateful his heart (among other things) is for that.
They both get sufficiently dressed, which has always been different standards for the two of them at varying times of day, but in this case means undershirts only. Finally feeling a bit less exposed, Sam sets about stripping the intensely ugly comforters off both beds. Earlier, Dean gallivanted his guts-entrenched body all over both of them and Sam didn't just spend an hour on shower time to ruin it now.
The bundles are deposited in the corner of the room, Dean following Sam as he waddles around at the task, not offering to help but not intruding either. He seems content just to stick close by, occasionally swiping Sam's left hand if it swings free. It's a bit like Sam's fishing and Dean's the salmon that won't stop biting.
Sam is also furtively not being a weirdo and enjoying the way his undershirt hangs loosely off of Dean's torso, practically draping over his broad shoulders. The v-neck reveals more real estate on Dean's chest than Dean's shirts normally do, the tops of his tattoo peeking out.
While he's stripping the beds, Sam resists the urge to touch the familiar black tendrils of the anti-possession symbol, to tap his fingers gently across the ink and remember what it does, where it rests, who it matches. He doesn't. Even though he's certain Dean would enjoy the attention.
It's fast approaching five in the morning by the time Sam has both beds prepped for sleeping. This night has been longer than almost any night in recent memory and Sam feels like the emotional meat grinder he's forced his body through is finally catching up to him. Now that Dean is safely near, now that Dean's skin is warm under hand, Sam's ready to finally shut down for a while.
Both of their eyes are heavy with exhaustion and they have so much to do when they wake up, so many problems to solve, so many things to figure out. But they always figure it out in the end. For now they need to abandon consciousness for a night's sleep in an actual bed. Sam can answer it all tomorrow. Dean will still be there tomorrow.
It isn't until Sam's settling onto the bed nearest the door that he considers a dilemma. Dean is standing in front of him, brows furrowed, like he's been doing nothing but considering the dilemma since he put clothes on.
Sam blinks blankly—sleepily—at his brother and he puts his hands on Dean's hips to gently push him onto the bed across the way. Dean allows himself to be manhandled, but he only perches on the edge of the other bed.
His hand is stretched across the distance, a mere foot of space, to finger at the teeth imprints in Sam's left palm. Something pitiful and cute huffs out of his chest and he's already beginning to utilize his newly discovered super power, eyes huge and green and pleading.
The last time Sam gave in to that look he lost feeling in his hand for a second. Dean's eyelashes graze his cheekbones, and the way he glances up at Sam through them is most definitely a targeted attack.
There's a tug on his injured hand and Dean rumbles in his chest. "Sammy?" he says, all the questions in the world filling that simple call of Sam's name, endless and overflowing. Sam's eyebrows draw together.
"Dean, we haven't slept in the same bed since we were kids," he says, careful, anticipating the way Dean's fingers clench around his own. He acts as if Sam's words alone could separate them, like he has to cling so tightly that Sam bleeds. There's more urgency now, Dean standing back up and looming over Sam like the big bad older brother who makes all the choices around here.
"Sammy."
The no disagreements allowed tone is back, a dark look shadowing Dean's eyes. His fingernail scratches at one of the only scabbed over tooth marks, a tiny drop of blood oozing up as if summoned by Dean's needling.
Sam debates the merits of arguing with Dean about this now, what it would mean to give in and coddle him, what it would mean to push him away. His initial instinct of course is just say fuck it and let Dean crawl in with him. But Dean isn't his pet to raise right now, to smother with affection just because he's gone through something traumatic, something changing.
He's still Sam's brother.
Sam's brother who Sam thought he lost, who opened the gravesite in Sam's chest with his disappearance, who Sam wants nothing more than to fall asleep wrapped around. The only safety he really believes in.
But Sam thinks of Dean.
Dean before he disappeared. How he would most definitely bitch and moan about this behavior, insist on taking the floor before doing something like sharing a bed with his brother. Sam acts the same way. It's how it is, how it's been for years with them. Without rhyme or reason, Sam can't allow Dean to question it now.
He shakes his fingers in Dean's grasp, looking up at that unhappy face. He hopes Dean can't tell that Sam wants it just as much, hopes Dean will just crawl into the other bed like they've always done, like it's supposed to be. "No, Dean, seriously. You gotta sleep in your bed at least," he says, voice necessarily sturdy.
But that's not how Dean communicates now.
He growls at him, a low and frustrated thing, raising Sam's injured hand to hover just shy of his lips. Almost a threat.
Sam jerks his hand free to avoid another bite, has maybe always been able to. He can't meet the affront in Dean's eyes, ignores the unsteady grumbling in Dean's chest.
Dean huffs an exhale and immediately lifts his hand to grab Sam's back. It's not the intimidating move Sam might've expected. More akin to a puppy Sam's kicked, coming back to his master anyways, slow and anxious and needy. Sam burrows his hands in the sheets, hiding them from Dean's desperately seeking grasp.
Those searching fingers tug gently at Sam's shirtsleeve instead.
"I'm going to bed," he says firmly, shrugging Dean's touch away despite how much he'd rather lean into it. The gesture, a very obvious rejection, forces a low whine from the back of Dean's throat, sad and pitiful, but he doesn't reach out again. Sam resolutely avoids Dean's undoubtedly pathetic stare and flicks off the bedside lamp, sending them into near pitch darkness.
He can't afford to see Dean well if he's going to keep refusing him. There's no more protesting noises from his brother, and Sam scoots down the bed to flop onto his side so his back is to Dean.
There's the soft sound of Dean shifting and Sam hopes for one precious moment Dean will actually do what he's supposed to. Go to his own bed alone and for a few hours they can both pretend everything is just like it was, like it should be. But the gentle nudge against Sam's mattress tells him these hopes are in vain.
Dean's only plopped himself down beside the bed, leaning into it from his position on the motel's ratty carpet. He's as close as he can get without actually being on the bed with Sam, not quite touching but the faint warmth of another body radiates near anyways..
Dean's gaze is heavy like its own touch on the back of Sam's head. He's really going to sit there all night if Sam doesn't let him crawl in beside him, slumped against the bed and staring, lonely and clingy.
But Sam doesn't give in. He doesn't even know why he's being like this, doesn't know what's so wrong about holding his brother close on the first night he has him back from the dead. Why can't he bury his face into Dean's side, soak up his body heat and his whiskey leather scent, and sleep soundly for the first time in years?
There's no answer as Sam makes himself succumb to sleep, ignoring the sharp fretful breaths of his abandoned brother behind him.
The thing is, Dean doesn't really listen to anyone when it comes to Sam.
For as long as Sam can remember, Dean's been that way. Only Dean knows what's best for his brother, only Dean can take care of him, only Dean. Nobody else will keep Sam safe the way that Dean can, Dad couldn't even do that. Nobody else could be trusted when it comes to Sam, so nobody else's opinion mattered. Not even Sam's.
Ever since Sam was born and his first word was a demand for Dean's attention, he was Dean's.
Dean's responsibility, Dean's to protect, Dean's little brother.
Sam knows this.
Which is why it isn't quite surprising when he wakes only hours later to find Dean cocooned in his blanket with him like a very big, very persistent caterpillar. Although, with the way his limbs are wrapped around Sam's body, he's a bit more like an octopus.
It's almost a little hard to breathe in Dean's clutches, bicep tight over Sam's chest and a heavy thigh weighing down on his gut. The heel of Dean's foot is digging into his hip, leg hooked around and barring movement. There's another arm snaked under Sam's back, the hand at the end of it fisted in his shirt like a limpet. It's all very warm and heavy and contained.
Sam is effectively trapped.
The motel room is dim. A faint glow of blue dawn peeks through the gap in the curtains and illuminates everything in soft cool hues. Sam can feel rather than see Dean's face pressing into the side of his chest. Dean's nose is buried somewhere between his nipple and his armpit, lips mouthing his shirt wet with drool. The sheer volume of spit Dean seems capable of producing makes Sam wonder when he last ate something. Something that wasn't Sam's hand anyways.
As if to remind Sam it still exists and still kind of hurts, his left hand twitches in Dean's hostage grip. Their fingers are all tangled together in a heap on the bed, just shy of Sam's shoulder. The bitten skin of his palm throbs a little with each steady beat of Sam's pulse and he's mostly given up on ever having full ownership of that hand again. Or any kind of physical freedom, for that matter.
Sam pretends not to notice how his own arm rests around Dean's shoulders, holding him close. It's tight and protective and clearly not in protest of this whole bed sharing, hugging all night thing. This is obviously a two way street and maybe Dean isn't the only one who's feeling overtly clingy lately.
Dean's hair is fluffing up against the material of Sam's shirt and it's the only thing Sam can really see well in the faint sunrise. It looks sort of pettable, which is not a phrase Sam ever thought in his life he would associate with Dean.
Yet, here Sam is wondering if Dean would wake up if he ran his fingers through his scruffy hair, if he scratched at Dean's scalp the way people mindlessly do to their pets. Sam scrunches up his nose. He really needs to stop thinking about his brother like he's just a puppy Sam happily adopted.
Not to mention the impulse is stupid anyways. Last time he had his fingers in Dean's hair he was subjected to Casa Erotica levels of debauchery in moaning alone. He isn't keen on repeating that experience anytime soon. It's bad enough he can feel Dean's groin pressed tightly to the hollow of his right hip, perhaps dangerously close to Sam's own.
Though, Dean is probably just cuddling him close because he's a bit more touchy than usual, needier, just worried Sam would disappear in the night. Or is that Sam's thinking? His arm flexes where it's holding Dean to his side.
He can admit this is ridiculously pleasant, having Dean safe and close and wound around him like a vice. All those times, when he and Dean finally came back together after being apart and Sam wanted nothing else but to cling to his big brother—yet he held back. Because it was weird, it wasn't appropriate to be so attached, so wrapped up in each other. All of that self-denial when he could've been having this?
Dean's warm body tucked into him like he belongs there, solid and real and the biggest source of comfort Sam has in this world. Here, wrapped up in him, the excuses, the reasons why they shouldn't, it all seems so small and inconsequential. So utterly stupid. Sam inhales a deep breath that expands his lungs, chest rising up under Dean's cozy weight. He holds it for a few seconds, eyes closing, then exhales in one long sigh through his nose.
He could very easily fall back asleep like this, allow himself to slip back under and get a few more precious hours of this soft, heated feeling. Cocooned up in Dean's limbs, protected and satisfied. But the nagging thoughts he's kept at bay with the promise to worry about in the nebulous, undetermined future of not right now sprout up irritatingly in his mind like little weeds.
The biggest one, the hardest to ignore with his brother curled around him, is Sam has no idea how to fix Dean.
He doesn't even know what happened to him, where Dean's been these past few months, what the fuck the world could do to someone to make them like this. Sam doesn't even know what this is. Dean's practically an animal now. He growls and bites and seems to be working on little more than instinct. Some sort of inexplicable trauma response, maybe? The way the mind can wall itself off in order to survive?
But survive what? What could Dean have been through to induce something like this? Physical violence? Psychological torture? Or is it worse than that, is it like Hell all over again? Sam chokes a little at the thought, a cut off distressed noise dying in his throat. Last time Dean went to Hell he hadn't come back like this.
Does that mean this was worse?
The image of Dean's face when he finally told Sam what had happened to him, what he did those four months he was in Hell, has Sam's heart pounding hard enough to make his eyes water, frantic and scared. Sam can stand it, he never wants Dean to experience that, wants to wrap him up in his arms and never let him go again, wants to keep him safe and okay and here.
"Sammy?"
The whisper brings Sam back to the quiet dawn of the motel room. He realizes his fingers are clutching hard enough around Dean's to bend them at awkward angles and his arm is squeezing him flush to his side. Tight, unrelenting.
Dean hasn't moved more than the minimum need to shoot a sleepy, half lidded look up at Sam, cheek and mouth still smushed into Sam's chest. Sam can feel the press of Dean's lips through his shirt and for a delirious second his brain registers it as a kiss.
I'm right here, Dean's body tells him. I'm real.
His scarred hand throbs under the dual pressures of their combined grip.
They've never really had to use words.
Sam's entire body relaxes back, muscles going slack around Dean, like he's lost all the air in his lungs and deflated. He can't help the tiny smile peeking at the corner of his lips when he breathes out. It tastes a little like relief.
He has Dean, alive—and maybe not okay, but okay enough. And that will have to be enough for Sam. Whatever Dean went through to become like this, he made it to the other side, made it into Sam's arms. Made it here to take care of his little brother like he always does.
Sam swallows, sees Dean's eyes flicker to the bob of his adam's apple and back. "Sorry," he says, voice so quiet Dean might not hear him. "Nightmare."
It's a lie, but he's always been prone to bad dreams, even before they were demonic premonitions and after they weren't anymore. It's his go-to excuse when Dean is shooting him concerned frowns and debating whether to ask. Always the quickest way to get Dean off his back.
An answering hum, rough and scratchy, rolls out of Dean's throat and his sleepy gaze is still stuck to Sam's face. The lips pressing against Sam's sleepshirt part, less than an inch from Sam's nipple, and there's the press of teeth.
It doesn't hurt and Dean's not biting hard. If he didn't know it was Dean's mouth, he might be tricked into thinking Dean was just pinching him. It would certainly be less weird if he was. But this has been Dean's preferred way of conveying messages since he returned and Sam's getting weirdly used to being munched on.
Will they be communicating via eyes and teeth forever now? Sam wonders if it isn't more effective than their usual avenues.
The skin of his chest and shirt raise a little between Dean's teeth, when he pulls up they slip free and Dean rests his chin on Sam's chest. This bite won't leave a mark, not like the last time. It's just mildly accusatory, an admonishment that's equally reflected in Dean's unwavering stare. Because he doesn't believe the nightmare excuse, maybe he never really did.
Sam could probably distract him if he wanted to, avoid having to explain anything. Petting him, letting him gnaw on Sam's hand, giving him all the physical attention he appears to want would be plenty distracting for both of them.
Because Sam's not sure if he wants to tell Dean, in any state, that he almost had a breakdown imagining what could have happened to him while they were apart. At least his eyes are dry this time.
"S'mmy," Dean murmurs, blinking so slowly Sam can almost hear the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks. He pins Sam with a lazy stare as if to say yeah I'm sleepy as hell but I'm not going back to sleep 'til you tell me what's wrong.
It's almost funny how much Dean is really still Dean even if he doesn't speak, his face and the way it works is the same. Sam believes that face too, knows Dean is fine with laying there half awake for the next month if he has to. Waiting him out would only earn Sam another bite, he's sure, maybe one a bite more vicious.
Sam reflexively twitches the hand in Dean's grip, teeth marks aching, and Dean squeezes back, once, hard enough to hurt a little. A reassurance. Maybe Dean won't be able to answer, maybe he won't remember, maybe he doesn't even know. Maybe Sam will never find out. But he has to ask—wants to.
"Dean," his voice is more breath than voice. "What happened to you?"
Dean's eyes are foggy in the gradually rising sun and Sam can make out the way his mouth twists down, pursed. Those tiny dimples over the corners of his lips appear. He doesn't move to speak.
It's quiet, Sam can see Dean's gaze shift from one spot on his face to another—eyes, cheeks, mouth, nose. Sam waits him out, doesn't really know what else to say, what else to do other than watch him.
He can almost see the way the thoughts flitting around in Dean's sleepy head, but he can't tell if it's because Dean's searching for an answer or just a way to convey it.
Those tired eyes finally land on Sam's closed mouth and stay there, no longer searching for some unknown thing. Whatever they find draws a crease between Dean's eyebrows and now he's frowning outright. It looks more like pointed concentration than anger.
The scrutiny has Sam unconsciously pulling his lower lip in to scrape it against his front teeth, more a nervous tick than any attempt at helping Dean discern whatever he's trying to discern.
Dean's eyes go a little wider as Sam's lip slips free, cool with spit. There's a growl starting up in Dean's chest, Sam feels it tumble from Dean's body and into his own and he doesn't know how to interpret it.
He frowns too, his head flicking a quick aborted movement that fluffs his hair around his chin, a sort of unspoken what? Dean has to sense the mounting impatience in the gesture because he pulls back sharply, growl cutting off.
Their clasped hands raise at Dean's direction, moving to rest between their faces on Sam's collarbone. Sam had almost forgotten their fingers were so entangled, is getting embarrassingly used to it. He glances down and is unable to tell who's fingers are whose.
"Dean?" he prompts quietly, sliding his eyes back up to Dean's. His brother still wears that pinched look, focused, and then there's a finger raising from their clasped hands to press against Sam's lips. He only registers that it belongs to Dean when he can't feel the touch from both ends.
The pad of his finger is rough and catches on a bit of chapped skin on Sam's lip, pulling it along. Sam is struck with the abrupt urge to dart his tongue out and fix the dryness—just that and nothing else.
He barely suppresses it.
The pressure leaves his lip and then Dean is pressing his finger to his own mouth, sinking into the ridiculous plush of it. Sam is immediately jealous of something. But he can't quite pinpoint what. He only feels his stomach clench the way it does when the waitress offers Dean something "on the house" for being a flirty little shit.
But that's not important, because Dean is clearly trying to answer Sam's question in his own way.
At least that's what Sam thinks he's doing when Dean touches his finger back to Sam's lips, pressing hard enough to breach his mouth and hit teeth. Just for a short second, but long enough for a smear of saliva to shine on the callus when he pulls it away.
Once more he places the fingers to his own lips, breaks past them too but Sam sort of feels like it's intentional this time. He doesn't think about secondhand kisses because he isn't twelve anymore (and if he did then he would've realized he and Dean have shared thousands).
"Dean, what—" he's cut off by Dean's finger again and this time he really looks at Dean's face instead of focusing on the touch. Takes in the encouraging raise of Dean's eyebrows, the imploring way his eyes widen and the little nod he digs into Sam's chest as if to say get it Sammy?
For the first time since Dean came back, Sam doesn't get it.
Dean can see it in his face because he huffs a frustrated grumble. His pink lips are pursing so hard they're basically in full on pout mode and Sam is happy to see he still recognizes the meaning in this expression. The man-baby scowl of hitting a wall and having to furiously think around it, all too common when they're hunting.
Sam pulls his cheek between his molars, mulling over a way to make this easier on the both of them. Obviously, Dean is having issues communicating, hasn't said much more than variants of "Sammy" since they were reunited last night.
Sam might think it was cognitive, the result of some past blow to the head, but Dean seems to be operating on all cylinders. There's no confusion, no seizures, no sudden stops and restarts, he's just… a little bit like the things they hunt if Sam's being honest.
Freshly turned vamps, a baby werewolf, even that rougarou a long time ago was similar. A return to baser instincts, more monster than man. Not just monsters, animals too. Dean is growling and spitting and biting, and easily communicating seems beyond his abilities at present.
Sam blinks.
"Are you trying to tell me you can't speak?" he says suddenly, tone a bit incredulous. He sort of thought that fact was obvious between the two of them but he supposes it's not been outright confirmed.
The question pulls Dean out of his pouting session and he seems to contemplate it, glancing skywards with his lips poking out even more—a little duck-like.
Finally, he shrugs with a toss of his head. Dean body language for yeah sure, close enough. Sam wishes he could elaborate but, as they've now firmly established, that's not possible. Before Sam can ask how he manages to say "Sammy" at all then, Dean starts moving.
He inches his entire body up along Sam's, using the thigh he's still got wrapped around him as leverage. Of course, the innocent movements rub his entire front against Sam's body and Sam has half a mind to protest any more prolonged contact based purely on the fact that he can feel Dean’s soft dick pressing into his hip bone.
At the same time, Dean has lifted up off Sam's chest so he can look down at him. Sam's arm slips from Dean's shoulders to rest somewhere at his waist and it's only in this very distracting moment that Sam realizes something integral. Dean isn't wearing a shirt anymore.
Somehow, Sam has gotten so used to seeing Dean buck ass naked over the last five hours it hadn't even registered. He glares up at Dean, who's now somewhat looming over him, and has the intention to demand an explanation for the missing shirt. But he stops before he can even open his mouth.
Dean is pinning him with abruptly serious eyes, wide awake and bright under a creased brow, mouth a hard line. It's a John Winchester-esque expression, saved for the most important of orders.
Sam can't help but stay dutifully silent, words dying in his throat, and he wants to kick himself. The reaction is entirely instinctive, drilled into him since they were just kids.
"Sammy," Dean starts, voice still all husky with freshly awakened grit, and Sam knows there's more. Dean swallows, the sound of spit audible. "Sammy. Ah—" he hesitates, frowning hard enough to scrunch up his nose. "I—I'm fine."
The words hang there in the small space between their faces.
Sam stares at him, somewhat at a loss, because clearly Dean is not fine. That's the entire problem. He's shirtless, unable to talk properly, biting a lot, growling a lot more, and he's covered in inexplicable injuries—some of which are clearly inflicted by some sonuva bitch Sam is planning to murder. How the hell can he say he's fine?
But the intonation of those words, the beseeching expression on Dean's face, are familiar. Just another one of Dean's blatant lies to make Sam feel less guilty, and it never works, it only makes Sam feel worse.
He wants to yell you're obviously not fine, look at you and the gusto to do just that fills Sam's chest like a balloon preparing to burst—
"Sammy," Dean says, still wearing that irritatingly stern Dad expression. Sam's face is surely something between full offense and extreme frustration if the pressure in his jaw is anything to go by and he still wants to yell, still wants to reprimand.
But Dean releases their clutching hands, a disentanglement that actually requires some effort, and Sam instantly misses the warmth as cool air hits the clammy skin of his palm. He barely resists the unbidden urge to grab him back.
It turns out he doesn't need to. Dean wraps sturdy fingers around Sam's wrist and presses Sam's open palm to the bare expanse of Dean's chest. Warm, solid, and exactly the same as when Sam rested his hand just there, last night in the Impala.
He can see the anti-possession tattoo through his spread fingers, can feel the resounding assurance of Dean's heartbeat. It’s steady and slow and grounding as it thuds up against Sam's scarring bite marks. They throb in time together.
Speechless, Sam's eyes can only dart back and forth between his hand and Dean's face, oddly thrown off at the solidity of the gesture, the comfort. He watches a soft smile appear as Dean relaxes under Sam's fingers like putty. Sam likes to think that the touch is just as reassuring for Dean as it is for him. Or Dean's just happy Sam isn't opening his mouth to argue.
Then Dean's leaning forward, pushing into Sam's palm, and closing the distance between their faces. Sam has the immediate fear that his brother is going to kiss him but he doesn't try to move away.
Dean presses soft lips to Sam's forehead, chaste but warm and vaguely familiar. Wordlessly, he settles back down on top of Sam, shimmying a little to properly resituate himself, hands tangling together again.
"Night, Sammy," Dean says, cheek pressed into Sam's collarbone.
Sam hears the implications loud and clear, go back to sleep and quit thinking so hard. He finds he can't really argue such a good and succinct point. Not when he's here, enveloped in Dean's hold like they're really just one soul trying to come back together through the skin. Warm and safe and loved.
Dean's hair is brushing his jaw, smells like eucalyptus and mint and Dean, and his breathing is a gentle heat across Sam's chest. Their hands are clasped so tightly his bite throbs.
This is real.
Sam can't find fault in that, in any of this. His own heart rate is already slowing, maybe to match with Dean's against his ribcage, and Sam doesn't think about how he shouldn't be cuddling his brother like this. He doesn't think at all—was told not to—and just squeezes Dean tighter to his side, doesn't want him to leave, sort of knows he won't though.
"Night, Dean," Sam murmurs into Dean’s hair, so low it's more of an exhale. Dean's answering rumble lulls Sam into a better sleep than he's had in decades.
Notes:
listen sam just admit u love cuddling dean!!!! as said up top, ch5 drops 5/13. feel free to comment and lmk what u think, i love talking to y'all (≧▽≦)/
Chapter 5: Case
Notes:
here's the longest chapter yet (however not the longest chapter overall lol) i hope y'all like this big boi. thanks sincerely to all those who comment <3 i read them over multiple times when i'm editing annoying chapters and second guessing myself haha
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In a motel, especially one as shitty as the one they're in, there's plenty of noisemaking by neighbors. Screams of domestic disputes, hustle and bustle of packing and unpacking, revving engines of oversized trucks, and the occasional slamming of doors. All of it works together to make up the cacophony Sam was raised in.
Apparently these common, sometimes comforting, signs of life are no longer something Dean is used to.
Sam opens his eyes to find Dean crouching over him on all fours, hands and knees straddling either side, and heavy exhales that almost sound like warning growls rough out of his throat. He's eyeballing the door with a snarl curling back his lips, clutching a motel pen in his right fist like it's deadly as a dagger. In Dean's hand it probably is.
A quick glance at the door shows no signs, visual or audible, that anyone is trying to get in. Whatever set Dean off clearly wasn't enough to wake Sam and Sam's not exactly a heavy sleeper. They probably aren't in as threatening a situation as Dean seems to think they are. Sam can't imagine what banal outside noises could have possibly warranted such a reaction.
Dean's only wearing a pair of Sam's underwear so Sam can see every taut pull of muscle in his arms and shoulders and abdomen, practically vibrating with a barely restrained energy. They ripple in waves, flexing and releasing like those of a cornered predator preparing to launch itself at the enemy. Sam can even feel it in the press of Dean's knees against his hips.
How the hell is he going to ask Dean what's wrong when he's this tense? Dean's not a particularly jumpy hunter, but Sam can't speak to what he might do if Sam spooks him with the way he is. He really doesn't want to find that pen in his neck.
Dean saves him the trouble, jerking his head to look down at Sam.
"Sammy," he hisses, pen still clenched so tight in his fist Sam's surprised it hasn't snapped in two. The urgency in his tone has Sam going on alert, hearing Dean's voice in that low, anxious buzz always sets Sam's hair on end. An instinctive fight or flight reaction to his brother's distress.
"What?" Sam asks in a whisper, already moving to sit up. He only gets as far as putting his hands to the mattress for leverage. Dean's free hand flattens on his chest, a warning shove of his weight, and he's eyeing Sam underneath that furrowed brow. At least the snarl from before is no longer twisting his face up, replaced by an uneasy frown.
His fingers tangle a little in Sam's shirt when Sam still tries to push up and Sam barely stops himself from shoving at him.
"Let me up," he demands, a bit louder this time because he's not a ten year old in need of protection anymore.
"Sammy," Dean says, rougher this time. His palm is a heavy, unwelcome weight over Sam's heart, pushing back down, and he's already returning sharp attention to the door.
The closed and undisturbed door.
Sam wonders what innocuous thing could have set Dean off like this. The harried knocks of a persistent housekeeper? The accidental thud of something big falling off a pickup truck? Maybe whatever it was sounded like something Dean heard before. Back wherever he's been the last few months.
The weight of Dean's hand feels lighter as Sam's irritation gives way to something a bit more sympathetic. He understands the paranoia, the irrational fears that fill the aftermath of something terrifying and he doesn't try to wriggle free from the cage Dean's made around him.
It's significantly brighter outside, warm yellow light fighting through the thick curtains. Beside the bed, an ancient digital clock reads 1:34 in dull red. Sam's been out for about six hours since Dean lulled him back to sleep then. He can't believe he managed not to wake up for so long without even a whisper of a dream.
Nothing pulled him out from the dark blanket of unconsciousness in a sweat, nervous and jumpy like usual. He slept hard and heavy and would probably still be out if Dean hadn't jumped over him like this. It's the first time in a long time Sam's been able to do that. Was it because he finally had Dean back or because he had Dean wrapped up in his arms?
Sam doesn't deign to give the question much more than a fleeting consideration before deciding he doesn't really want to know.
He's awkwardly propped up in bed on his elbows, Dean's palm still curled in his shirt and his thighs bracketing Sam's hips. The pen isn't lowered and he's got that wary stare on the door that hasn't done anything since Sam woke up.
They could stay like this, Sam could just wait him out, but their positions are sort of strange and too close and not what they usually do. Sam is uncomfortable for a variety of reasons and most importantly, they can't stay like this forever.
Perhaps, Sam could solve this problem by talking it out with his overly tense brother. He doesn't though.
With practiced ease, the sort that accompanies a lifetime of family training, Sam grabs Dean in exactly the right places to flip their positions. Dean rolls under him with an alarmed grunt of a sound, air puffing out of his chest and limbs flopping around as he hits the mattress in a heap. It happens in the span of a second, quick enough that Dean only stares widely up at Sam from where he's being pinned to the covers.
"Sammy," he murmurs, wide eyed and looking somewhat scandalized. His hand tugs at Sam's sleep shirt and he quickly scowls again like he does not approve of the manhandling. His thighs are still on either side of Sam's hips and they flex just slightly.
Sam's fingers stay tight on Dean's shoulder and wrist, squeezing enough that the pen falls free, and he can't help the tiny smirk that pulls at the edge of his lips. It's not usually so easy to take Dean by surprise, to roll him around, and Sam doesn't doubt he's moments from trying to regain the upper hand.
To deter the impulse, Sam peels away, wriggling out of the grip on his shirt. He squeezes into Dean's skin one last time before completely releasing him and inclines back far enough to rest on his heels. Dean follows after him like they're tied together by a short string, sitting upright and watching Sam almost unhappily. All narrowed eyes and pouting lips.
Sam patiently watches him open his mouth to probably grumble an admonishing rendition of Sam's name, just pleased Dean's not all taut and anxious anymore.
But Dean doesn't speak, he's suddenly twisting sharply with a rough whine.
His face rapidly contorts into pinched grimace and his right arm flies up from the mattress to curl against his own chest, instinctive and pitiful. Sam's darting forward immediately, crowding into Dean's space, between his spread legs where he hunches forward to protect the limb from all the movement.
"Dean, what is it what's wrong?" Sam demands roughly. His hands fly up to hover just shy of Dean's forearm, not wanting to cause more pain, but desperate to stop it. He can just make out that familiar orange hue, roiling in ominous waves under Dean's skin. Like a living creature morphing inside Dean's body, something ugly and dangerous, and Sam curses himself for not trying to figure it out the moment he saw it.
They didn't need to shower and sleep, they needed to fix that.
Dean doesn't answer him, just lets out a small groan past clenched teeth, his stomach clenching up like he tried to keep the noise inside. Sam gently grabs Dean's wrist again, all the while watching Dean's face for signs Sam's making it worse. There's no effort to fight free from Dean, expression still all scrunched up, and Sam carefully pulls his arm from his chest, just enough to see better.
Sam examines the skin under the carved Latin words, otherwise uninjured. The orange light shifts beneath it, crawling back and forth in slow, punched movements as if it's trying to break free. Each time it jerks, undulating through the Latin sentence in frantic ups and downs, Dean's arm twitches and he forces out pained little exhales, clearly hurting.
"What is this?" Sam asks quietly, more to himself than Dean. This isn't something he's ever seen before and he wants to touch it, prod at it. To wrap both his fists around the moving light until he can't see it anymore, until he's forced it to stay still, to stop hurting Dean. He can't though, isn't sure what exactly would happen if he tried, and Sam can only scoot closer to Dean on the mattress, as if proximity will somehow heal him, somehow tell Sam what he should do.
He knocks Dean's thighs out of the way, has to wheedle up under Dean's spread legs to tug him close enough that their foreheads almost touch. All the while, Sam stares at the moving, swimming creature-like thing in his brother's arm, feeling something fearful and vitriolic in turns mimic the movements in the pit of his stomach.
Dean only whimpers again, arm shaking as if he's clenching his fist too hard, and the noise is so vulnerable, more vulnerable than anything Dean's ever sounded like. Sam remembers once when Dean broke his nose in a tussle with a werewolf as a teenager. How he hadn't heard a peep when Dad reset the bone with a crunching noise Sam still winces at.
But now here Dean is, practically hunched over in Sam's lap, making soft injured noises and Sam's teeth clench because he doesn't know how to fix it.
"Dean? Dean, what—" what do I do? He wants his big brother to solve it, fix the issue like he always tries to do, but Sam cuts himself short. He's in charge right now, Dean needs him. It's not a new feeling, but this is a new situation and Sam has to fix it.
He tugs his sleep shirt over his head in one fluid movement and grabs Dean's arm, ignoring the pained grunt Dean makes. There's no telling if this will work, if this will even help, but Dean's in pain so Sam follows his instinct and works.
It's easy enough to wrap the shirt around Dean's forearm, tight enough to hold any wound closed, Sam knows. He winds it with quick and efficient pulls of the gray cotton despite the way Dean has keeled into him with panting breaths. His face rests against Sam's shoulder, burying in the skin there as if he can burrow away from the pain.
Sam doesn't even really notice until Dean's teeth find his trapezius muscle and dig in hard enough to break the skin.
He nearly flinches, shoulder stuttering in Dean's mouth, and barely manages to retain the surprised grunt of a sound from escaping past his lips. It does hurt, no doubt sinking in hard enough to leave more than just red bruises behind, but if Dean needs to bite him to endure the pain, Sam can live with it. He ties the shirt off quickly, tucking the knot under the layers and securing it like he's done hundreds of times for Dean.
The orange light is completely gone under the cotton layers, so thickly covered Sam can't even tell if the skin is still churning beneath it. Dean's jaw worries his teeth in Sam's skin, but he's no longer shaking, no longer making those pained little exhales. The arm hangs limply between their bodies, resting on their meeting thighs.
Sam raises a tentative hand to the back of Dean's head, settles his fingers in the short hair there and narrowly resists the urge to pet him reassuringly.
"Better?" he asks into the nape of Dean's neck. His other hand rests gently on Dean's thigh where it's tossed over Sam's own and he presses into the flesh of it, half reassurance and half in need of it. Dean's still got Sam in his teeth, but under Sam's touch he practically melts, settling more firmly into Sam's limbs as if the tension has finally left him.
The bite stings, several points of cutting pressure around the meat of Sam's shoulder, but he finds he's scarily growing used to being a chew toy. What he isn't used to, however, is the sudden feeling of a wet, hot tongue laving against the freshly broken skin.
Sam lurches a little under Dean, fingers digging into him, a warning as much as it's a plea. For what Sam doesn't really know. Dean's tongue drags across the skin between his teeth, tasting, and then he's prying off.
But Sam isn't freed completely. Dean's lips replace the teeth, pressing to his shoulder, open mouthed. He runs his warm tongue over the aching bite marks, almost apologetic, and it sends a strange heat right down Sam's spine, tingling and uncomfortable.
It's at this moment Sam realizes just how close their hips are on the bed, how close other parts of them are, and it's too much.
"Dean," he says loudly, abruptly, and grabs Dean by the biceps so he can forcibly extricate him from the tangle of their bodies. Dean's shoved back easily enough, sliding back along the mattress to put some much needed distance between their groins. His knees knock up on either of Sam's elbows, almost hit him, and he's cradling his arm to his belly with wide eyes.
Sam's shoulder feels cool with spit, throbbing from the mark pressed into it, and he presses his lips closed because the sight before him is weirdly distracting. Dean, spread eagled between Sam's legs, half naked with those pale thighs and that freckled chest—a hurt raise of his eyebrows. As if Sam was too rough just now, as if Sam has betrayed him somehow by pushing him away.
He doesn't think about why.
"Is it okay?" Sam says hurried, before Dean can hit him with a sad little Sammy?
He gestures to Dean's wrapped arm with a flick of his hand, trying to look as if he didn't just toss Dean off him. It doesn't seem to work very well because Dean pins him with a scrutinizing stare.
"Dean?" Sam prompts, resolutely looking at Dean's arm instead of Dean's narrowed eyes. Dean huffs and shifts his weight to sit up straighter, ankles brushing Sam's hips on either side.
"Fine, Sammy," he manages after a moment's struggle, licking his slightly reddened lips and raising his forearm demonstrably.
The shirt is wound from elbow to wrist and completely hides the Latin lettering as well as the inexplicable orange mass underneath. They'll need to wrap it in ace bandages later, something that will hold much more securely. Sam doesn't even know where to begin figuring that thing out, but he can't keep putting it off and hoping somehow Dean will be able to explain it all for him. They don't have the time for that anymore.
"We gotta figure out what the fuck that is," Sam says softly, words quiet with frustration.
He remembers the Latin words clearly. They've been resting in the pit of his stomach awaiting digestion like a swallowed piece of gum since he first saw them. Anima corpori fuerit corpus totem resurgent. Freshly carved into Dean's skin as if he were nothing more than a sign post for some monster's undoubtedly ill intentions.
Sam's eyes drift to Dean's left ribs, under his armpit where he knows the matching wound hides. He leans forward to push Dean's injured arm up and away from the words scratched there, jagged and ugly. Dean allows the maneuvering as Sam turns him slightly, hands on his waist.
The message doesn't cover more than a few inches of skin. Clayton LA it reads and underneath that, Lafitte.
Sam flutters his fingers over the wounds, unsatisfied with the feel of them against Dean's otherwise soft skin. They're somewhat shallow, pink and thin, but he worries they'll scar and it bothers him more than he can explain.
"Who did this to you?" he says through his teeth, and it sounds harsher than Sam intended it to. Dean leans into the touch at his ribs, holding his arm aloft so Sam can easily reach where he wishes. When Sam glances at Dean's face he sees Dean looking at the injuries, at Sam's fingers resting against them.
"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean says again and tugs Sam's hand away. He rests his injured arm back against his side, hiding the words from view, and tangles their fingers together. Sam takes that non-answer in stride, mostly expected it, and pulls free of Dean's hold to grab the pen from the bed spread.
A little motel notepad is sitting beside the clock and he picks it up to scribble down all the words in Dean's skin. The pad is so thin and flimsy he has to prop it against Dean's raised knee at his side for support. Thankfully Dean remains still as he does so, sitting wordlessly in between Sam's legs.
"Clayton LA must be Clayton, Louisiana," Sam says aloud for both their benefits, already reaching over to grab his last surviving phone off the nightstand.
His quick search brings up a tiny town in northern Louisiana with a population of less than a thousand. It sits on the bend of a river Sam's never heard of and has more churches than gas stations. Sam can't even make out any mentions of a school system let alone a police department. Recent features in the news don't extend past the occasional feel good story about a parishioner's charity fundraiser or a local record-breaking trout recently caught.
Clayton, Louisiana doesn't appear to have anything beyond God and fishing as far as Sam can tell.
"Yeah, small place. Not much going on," he says to Dean, taking notes down beside the town name. Dean's knee twitches under the notepad, but he doesn't otherwise say anything and Sam can feel his curious eyes on the side of his head. He catches them with a quick glance before dragging his gaze down to the first two letters of Lafitte he can still see.
Again, he wonders if it's a name of some sort and feels an abrupt surge of protective anger at the thought. Someone else marking his brother's body up, carving into him—branding him like he's nothing but property. It has Sam clenching his jaw. When he finds whoever the fuck did this to Dean, he already knows he's going to kill them.
"Sammy?" Dean's low voice crawls into the burning anger flaring in Sam's chest, tampering it, and Sam blinks hard.
"I'm good," he says without looking back at Dean, returning to the notepad to write his suspicions down.
He searches Lafitte alongside the town name and doesn't bring anything up, not even an obituary or a social media page. Usually there's something that comes up, even if it's just tangentially related.
But with a town as tiny and undeveloped as Clayton seems to be, the internet can only provide so much information. Small townsfolk don't exactly flock to share things on the world wide web when they can just as easily talk it out over Sunday brunch after service. Which would be just their luck.
As far as Sam can tell online Lafitte doesn't seem to belong to any type of establishment or business in town. In regards to people who might be going by the name, there's no way of knowing for sure without snooping around Clayton in person.
This doesn't answer the primary question, which is why the hell does Dean have a name, a nothing town, and a Latin phrase carved into his skin? Sam would bet the Latin is some sort of spell. With words meaning soul and body and becoming one again staring up at Sam from the starch white of the notepad, it must have something to do with reanimation, some kind of revival. Possibly, it could be related to Dean's sudden return, coming back finally from wherever the fuck he was.
Though the notion sits uncomfortably in Sam's gut, because it means Dean was dead.
Sam's skin is itchy and he feels shaky, like the breath has been forcibly knocked from his lungs and refuses to return. None of it makes any sense right now, only serves to work Sam up into a distress and he doesn't know why this has happened, doesn't know how, doesn't know anything.
"This mean something to you?" Sam asks Dean, holding up the notepad so he can see Sam's scrawled thoughts. Dean spares it a curt glance, then shrugs one shoulder, almost uninterested. Sam has the fleeting concern that Dean can't even read anymore and he wants to ask but isn't sure if Dean would get offended.
Assuming Dean at the very least heard Sam's out loud musings, he understands what he's being asked, and yet still hasn't deigned to share any more information. Sam sighs through his nose and tosses the pad onto the bed alongside his phone.
"No idea why a random town in Louisiana is cut in your chest? None at all?" Sam says and tries not to sound frustrated with him. "Dean, where did you even come from? How did I hit you in the middle of nowhere like fifty miles from anything? How did you end up there?"
The questions are sounding increasingly hysterical, rising into a higher, nervous pitch. He runs his fingers through his hair to smooth it down and give his antsy hands something to do other than violently shake Dean. "I mean, seriously Dean, what the fuck is happening with your arm? Are you in danger? Is that killing you? "
Looking up with his hands clenched in fists at the base of his neck, Sam's face must be stricken with distress, heart palpitating under his ribs because there's so much he doesn't know. Sam is so used to being the one who knows things, knowledge is the best way he can find some modicum of control in his insane life and if he doesn't have that he feels off balance, like he's tilting too far to one side.
"Sammy."
Dean's voice is comfortingly steady as he reaches out both arms and closes the gap Sam worked so painstakingly for. Sam allows himself to be tugged into an embrace, Dean's solid arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling them chest to chest.
Neither of them have shirts and the bare skin contact is warm and awkward, but Sam's leaning in, practically chases it. He rests his chin on Dean's sturdy shoulder and the pressure of Dean's body against his keeps him from hyperventilating. This time, Sam doesn't resist the impulse to sink into Dean, to meld them together so he can gratefully disappear from the world completely, disappear into Dean's solid presence.
But Dean pulls back.
It's like detaching velcro and Sam almost lifts off his ass to follow after Dean's warmth, seeking after his comfort like he's four years old again. He doesn't though, barely, just stares at Dean with a frown.
Dean is smiling, a soft one that makes his eyes look old and warm, and he takes Sam's left hand like he always does. Sam lets him press the palm into his teeth, doesn't protest the way he fits it in his mouth, easy and practiced. His bite cuts back into barely healed wounds.
Somehow, the whole process has started to become calming, as though roots are sprouting from the marks in his hand. They extend through his arm to find ground amongst the strongest foundations under his skin, settling in like anchors. Sam's bolted down, unable to slip completely off his axis with Dean's teeth cultivating this sturdy structure inside his body.
Dean blinks up at Sam through his lashes, nose pressing into the base of Sam’s thumb, and he ensures the scars will stay.
His mark will stay.
Sam lets Dean worry at his palm to his satisfaction, already disturbingly rooted. When Dean finally releases him, Sam's hand is spit shiny and angry red. Sam wants to wipe it clean on the sheets, but Dean tangles their fingers back together before he can, squeezing lightly.
"Sammy," he whispers and Sam's heart clenches at the softness, the way his name slips out like a prayer. The sound of a swallow is audible, Sam can see Dean's throat bob with it, and his expression is somewhat stricken, brow creasing. Like he has something to say, something important he needs to get out. His tongue moves behind parted lips, shaping the sounds before he gives them voice.
"N-not fine, Sammy," he manages, glancing down at his wrapped arm. "Hurts." His words are fumbling, but his voice sounds sure and stable coming out of his throat.
Sam's face screws up anyway because he knew it and he can't fix it, he can't take away the pain Dean's in—the pain he's gone through to end up like this. Sam makes a pathetic sound in his chest and Dean reflexively moves closer. He's scowling, growl huffing out past his teeth as if something other than him was the cause.
Their clasped hands raise and Dean points with a finger to his side, twisting slightly so Sam can see Clayton LA. Dean forces out a soft, "g-go... fix Sammy."
Sam can't tell if he means to fix himself or to fix Sammy. Either sentiment has his throat constricting tight, blocked up with something solid and distraught. He doesn't think he can say anything so he just nods.
Dean must not be fully satisfied with that because he yanks Sam closer, eyes focused somewhere to Sam's right. Sam's forehead connects with Dean's jaw and he doesn't even bother trying to pull back, at a loss as to what Dean's intending to do.
There's a rough touch on the shoulder muscle Dean sunk his teeth into before. Fingers prod almost painfully at the marks of it, and a chuff rolls out of Dean's mouth. His cheek bunching up with what Sam just knows is a satisfied little smirk.
"My Sammy," Dean says for the second time since they reunited.
A mystifying flush creeps up Sam's face and he pulls himself back upright with an abrupt urgency. His new bite slips free of Dean's irritating fingers and a sullen little grunt of a noise follows the separation, but Dean doesn't insist.
Sam is tempted to touch the mark with his own hand, curious if it’s quite deep and likely to scar. But he doesn't want Dean seeing him give attention to it so he just offers a flash of a lopsided smile.
"You're right, Dean,” he starts and is quick to clarify when Dean immediately lights up, "about going to Clayton."
Dean's grin falls and he grumbles, scratching irritatingly against the bite marks he can still reach in Sam's hand. Sam pretends he doesn't know why he's pouting.
"We can go to Louisiana, find out who or what this Lafitte is, and hopefully what the hell is going on with your arm."
It'll at least give them a direction. Sam is struck, not for the first time, with the unfillable absence Bobby has left behind. He would have been the very first person Sam asked about this whole mess. It still hurts to think of him and realize he's no longer a phone call away, with his well of information and prickly affection.
Now, Sam really only has himself to figure this thing out.
And Dean.
He has Dean.
He can't forget that, here, sitting in the bed they shared, wrapped up in each other like two inseparable halves.
As if reaffirming just how indistinguishable Sam's starting to realize they've become, both of their stomachs erupt with a grumbling that could rival Dean's dissatisfied noises.
"When's the last time you ate?" Sam asks, and realizes he can't even remember the last time he ate. His body needs sleep before it needs food and Sam knows he hadn't slept for at least a few days until now. He cringes when his stomach gurgles again like it's a victim.
"Dean?" he says because he hasn't gotten a reply and Dean just shakes his head very slowly, almost distractedly. He's frowning intently at a vague area on the bed like he's trying very hard to remember the last time he ate. Sam takes the chance to glance him over then, figuring he can tell if it's been long enough to worry.
Dean's ribs don't seem to poke out from under his skin and he still looks like he has that softness in his belly he's had most of his adult life. Sam ignores the suspicious urge telling him he should touch just to be sure. Not that he thinks Dean would mind.
Clearly though, Dean's been fed in some capacity, wherever he came from. He must have been well taken care of in general, because even his hair hasn't appeared to grow any longer since Sam last saw him that day back in Sucro Corp. There's nothing beyond the vaguest hints of a five o'clock shadow ghosting along his jaw and upper lip either.
That's actually really bizarre.
Dean follows Sam's gaze and scratches his jaw with his free hand, as if tracking Sam's train of thought
"Sammy?" he says carefully.
Sam wishes he could sit here and cross examine Dean, take account of every little oddity and see what the hell it all adds up to. But they're not going to get any answers here on the queen bed of a random motel in Maine. Sam will just have to make mental note of the strangeness of Dean's complete lack of change since disappearing, and work it over later on the road.
At the moment, more urgent needs have to be addressed to get them out of this place and headed towards Clayton.
Sam runs through his morning mental checklist, already altering it slightly to accommodate anything Dean might need. First on the list is the bathroom: toilet, shaving, deodorant, and brushing teeth.
The itch at Sam's jaw is mostly the healing reminder of Dean's bite rather than overgrown scruff, so Sam can probably forgo a shave today. Everything else is non optional though, especially with the sudden pressure in his bladder. Sam glances over at Dean finally, wondering if he has to go too—and with a sudden mounting dread—if he even remembers how to.
The eyes on him are warm, a molten green, and Sam shifts on the bed under that liquid stare. He clears his throat, already moving to slide his legs out from under Dean's.
"I'm gonna pee, do you gotta go?" Sam rolls out quickly, going back to the easy strategy of avoid and move.
His hips are already scooting free from Dean's and he has to manually lift Dean's left leg up to escape. Dean doesn't protest as Sam lowers his calf for him, allowing his foot to hit the carpet with a heavy thud.
Finally free from the cage of each other's legs, Sam can maneuver off the bed. He stands to his full height, popping a few joints as he does, and sorely tempted to do some casual stretches to get the stiffness out.
Dean's still got a firm grasp on his hand, looking up at Sam with a steadiness that borders on fervency, as if he's indulging in the sight. Sam thinks his chest might be flushed, it feels a bit warm.
"Well?" he prompts, realizing Dean hasn't said anything about his bladder situation.
"Mm," is the noncommittal grunt of a response. It's uninterpretable in terms of yes or no or maybe. Sam shakes his hand in Dean's.
"Then let go," he says simply, already taking a pointed side-step towards the bathroom. The movement stresses the grip on his fingers and for a panicked second, Sam really thinks Dean is going to insist on being physically dragged to the bathroom so he can spectate.
But Dean eventually does release Sam from his hold. After subjecting one of Sam's innocent fingers to a sharp nip of his canine tooth that is.
Sam lets Dean bite at the flesh of his ring finger for a long second, unsure what exactly the act accomplishes in Dean's head. Then he's free and practically power walking to the bathroom, acutely aware the entire time of the gaze on his back.
It's natural to turn and grip the door, preparing to pull it closed behind him. Yet he still expects the sharp, warning growl from the bed when it isn't even half way shut.
This is apparently the state of Sam's life at current: under the mercy of Dean's strangely obsessive attention. More so than usual anyways. Maybe more pronounced is the right word.
Sam shoots Dean a sharp, disbelieving glare from the open doorway before turning to do his business because fuck it all. He's just grateful Dean let him get this far without pitching a fit or breaking any skin. Which is pitiful really.
Somehow Sam is back to feeling like a little kid being monitored constantly by his over protective big brother who thinks he's gonna trip and fall on a nail, get tetanus, then subsequently die. It was annoying when Sam was prepubescent and unbearably suffocating as a teenager, which definitely played a role in Sam's go at Stanford. Not that Sam would ever tell Dean that.
Now though, it just feels ridiculous. Sam wouldn't say he's annoyed per se, and he's definitely not crawling out of his skin like he used to under Dean's constant vigilance. He probably should be though, considering that, yes, Dean's been clingy all Sam's life but never quite to this extent. Except maybe for a few hours after they've been separated. But even then, Dean wasn't so… tactile.
Sam flushes the toilet and glances out the doorway to see Dean still sitting lazily on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off in an almost casual way. His eyes are glued to Sam, attentive, like some monster might drop from the ceiling and rip Sam's throat out at any moment.
He washes his hands, pretending he doesn't notice the attention, and then steps back out to gather up the necessities. Holding both his and Dean's stuff in between his straining fingers, he finally glances back up to meet that hawk like stare.
"C'mere Dean, we got hygiene things and then we can leave for food." Sam doesn't get farther than Dean's name before he's materializing at his side, using their proximity as a good reason to touch from shoulder to hip. As if those last few minutes they weren't touching were unbearable, like he was holding his breath the whole time.
Sam's overheating with the press of skin on skin and he has to restrain himself from body checking Dean into the bathroom wall to get space. "Here's yours. Please tell me you know how this goes."
Dean cocks his head to the side, holding his blue toothbrush in one hand and a deodorant stick in the other. Sam squints at the vacant expression on his face, the way he seems to be projecting utter confusion, and heaves a long suffering sigh.
"Monkey see, monkey do," he says, turning back to the bathroom sink. Dean follows loyally and Sam does not find it at all cute.
The entire process isn't complicated and Dean's muscle memory seems to kick in about one second into doing anything that normal humans do. After they're both somewhat presentable in terms of not smelling terrible, Sam shuffles around Dean to get to the remainder of their sad choices for clothing.
They've got two pairs of jeans which miraculously fit them both (Sam thinks it might be the bowlegs) and one faded orange flannel. One of the jeans has a small hole in the crotch but it's not too noticeable with underwear. Sam can just take those. But that leaves the small issue of the lack of viable shirts—which reminds Sam.
"What'd you do with the shirt you were wearing?" he asks Dean, who's lurking at his side and watching him hold up their clothing with a distinct look of distaste.
Dean flicks the loose button of one of the pairs of jeans and glances over to the corner of the motel room on the far side. Sam notices a bundle of black on the floor.
"Really," he says and resists the urge to cuff Dean on the back of the head. Dean at least has the decency to look sheepish. "You don't like clothes now or what?" Sam asks with a derisive shake of the denim in his hands.
Dean rolls his eyes in a particularly human gesture that sort of throws Sam for a second as he swaggers on over to retrieve the shirt.
"Did you just roll your eyes?" Sam's a little incredulous, steadfastly keeping his gaze on Dean's broad upper back as he bends to grab the discarded shirt. Dean winks at him when he returns to his side and Sam feels for a frantic moment like Dean's just been playing him this entire time.
But then Dean's tossing the shirt over the mess of clothing in the bag and tugging Sam's injured palm into a clingy grip. And Sam can't even fathom Dean acting this way just to mess with him.
"I can't believe you winked at me," Sam says, watching Dean fiddle with his individual fingers. Probably sizing them up for future bites. Dean just grins without glancing up, seemingly immersed in his study of the length of Sam's middle finger.
Sam scoffs a dubious laugh and allows his hand to be commandeered as he shuffles the clothes around. He's not quite sure how they're gonna distribute the meager scraps to make complete outfits that won't get them the side-eye from the general public. Maybe one of them could wear the undershirt and Sam's jacket and the other could make do with just the flannel.
It's not too cool outside yet, and they're heading south anyways. Sam can take the torn jeans too because he can't imagine Dean bothering to be conscious of the hole as he traipses around.
"Here," Sam says, grabbing the shirt Dean threw away last night. "You wear this and," Sam pins him with a warning glare, "don't take it off."
Dean narrows his eyes, uses his free hand to yank it away as if it personally offended him. Sam just gathers the appropriate jeans to hand over too, not bothering to acknowledge the attitude.
At least Dean doesn't put up a fuss when Sam wrenches his hand free to get dressed. Rather, Sam is subjected to unabashed staring as he steps into his torn jeans, shimmying them up over his hips with little hops. There's no belt and they hang low, but what can Sam do about it? He cuts a glance at Dean as he's tugging out the flannel.
"Dude, put your clothes on," he mutters, wanting to turn away just so Dean will quit looking him up and down like that. He's probably just making sure Sam doesn't brain himself on the edge of the bedframe and not anything else.
Dean has enough awareness to look away when Sam keeps staring unhappily at him. He pulls the clothes on with a swift, almost frantic, immediacy as if something dangerous is being hurtled right at him and he can't dodge it unless he's properly dressed.
It reminds Sam of their childhood when Dad used to time them to see who could whip out of bed and into action the fastest—clothes on and bags packed. Dean usually won, or would have if he hadn't kept stopping halfway to fix Sam's shoelaces or make sure Sam got the .45 in safely. Sam smiles. Dean hasn't changed much at all.
"Sammy?" Dean says, voice gruff. He's trying to smooth down the wrinkles in the shirt with a frustrated scowl and not succeeding in the least. Sam almost tells him it's his fault for tossing the thing on the ground last night for no damn reason.
But his eyes land on the undone top of Dean's jeans and he stares silently for about three seconds too long. Dean's only managed to pull the jeans up to rest on his hips, zipper and button woefully separated to reveal the black boxers underneath like some kind of presentation.
"Why're your jeans not done?" he asks, mouth slick with spit again and making obnoxious wet noises when he talks.
He has to run his eyes back up Dean's torso to catch the casual shrug of Dean's shoulders, expression pretty bland. Sam supposes it makes sense he might struggle with doing up a pair of jeans in this state. After all, he had a momentary lapse when it came to brushing his teeth.
This at least gives Sam a hint of hope since Dean picked up on the movements as soon as he started doing them again. But what exactly is the best way to demonstrate the necessary movements to kickstart his memory?
Sam licks his lips, completely involuntary, and knows just doing it for him is not an option. He won't learn then and Sam is also not keen on brushing knuckles with Dean's dick—at all. There doesn't seem to be an easy way to avoid that though, unless Sam helps him from behind.
Although, if he does it that way, it's a bit like tying a tie. Dean taught him how back in high school, standing at his back and reaching around his chest to show the gestures. Slowly with instruction. Sam picked it up much easier like that. Guess that's what he's doing now.
"Lemme show you," he says and tries to sound extremely put out because he definitely is. Skirting around a curious Dean, Sam presses up behind him and is very careful to maintain a courtesy of space between their lower halves.
Dean grunts, quiet and confused, but he's leaning into Sam's hold like they're a pair of kids at prom. Sam huffs at the pleasant weight of Dean's back on his chest, the solidity of it, and moves his arms under Dean's to grab either edge of his open jeans.
He resolutely does not think about the way Dean fits nicely into his arms like this, almost as nice as their usual hugs, the back of Dean's head settling comfortably against the crook in Sam's neck and shoulder. He feels almost small against him. More so than usual.
"Alright, pay attention," Sam says and his words are strangely rough in his throat. Dean hums, raising his hands to hold the backs of Sam's to follow along dutifully. Sam at least appreciates that they seem to be on the same page about this. Instructional, that's all.
A manual brain override keeps Sam from contemplating the way Dean looks from this angle, staring down his torso in Sam's own baggy shirt—flat expanse of his chest and stomach peeking from underneath. His hips disappear under the band of Sam's boxers, accompanied by the faint blonde trail of hair from his navel, and all of it angles down to the pointed direction of his dick that Sam isn't going to look at for any longer than necessary.
He grabs the two edges of denim and brings them together, holding it like that so he can pull the zipper out and up. Fishing for the tiny bit of metal earns him the smallest hint of a gasp—really more like a sharp inhale—from Dean in his arms. Sam swallows and tries very hard not to wonder what he might have accidentally brushed his hand against in the process.
With the zipper carefully pulled up to its full height, Sam can fiddle the button through the hole. Dean's fingers mimic the ghosts of the movements against the back of Sam's wrists, seeming to grasp the mechanics of it.
Soon as the jeans are securely fastened, Sam jerks his hands up, still in Dean's clutches, and lands them somewhere in the vicinity of Dean's abs. They clench underneath his palms and something gooey and nervous like guilt wells in his gut.
"Got it?" Sam asks, and his throat is dry so his words still sound hoarse and, now, surprisingly loud. Dean growls a short, reluctant thing, but inclines his head in what Sam can only hope is an affirmative nod.
It's enough to tell Sam he can tear away from Dean without it being too weird and he does just that, breathing in deep breaths of non-Dean scented air. He's half flailing to get around the other bed and out of Dean's orbit, quick so his brother can't snatch any of Sam's limbs back.
"Uh, guess we can pack everything," Sam throws out in a hurry, determined not to look Dean's way as he takes stock of the practically barren room. "We don't need to stay here and who knows if Dr. Richardson called the cops last night because of you."
Sam doesn't mean it to sound accusatory, but his back is still kinda sore from being violently tackled to the ground at the vet's office, not to mention the chokehold, so it might still sound accusatory. Sam's not mad that Dean didn't immediately recognize him, doesn't blame him for acting like he did. But it still freaked out the poor vet and they still have the risk of her being a good, upstanding citizen.
Dean's face is all screwed up like he ate something gross, pinched nose and pursed lips, as he glares unhappily at the carpet. More than likely he's either beating himself up internally for nearly killing Sam a couple times, or he's grumpy Sam is saying mildly accusatory things to him. Either way, he doesn't move to help pack anything so Sam shuffles over to grab the two duffels himself.
Toiletries and dirty clothes are tossed without much care into their customary places and Sam makes sure not to forget the notepad he'd scrawled on, or his phone. The plastic bag of medical supplies courtesy of the doctor sits on the bed next to Dean's leg.
"Can you toss me that?" he asks, already turning his attention back to making sure everything else is securely packed away. The bag isn't immediately forthcoming and Sam glances across the mere two feet of distance between them with raised eyebrows. Dean is standing there clutching the bag in a fist, hard enough to definitely be crushing its contents.
"Dean?"
Dean's still got that grimace on his face as he crumples the bag even more. He takes one long step to place himself up against Sam, and they're once again pressed together from hip to shoulder. Holding out the bag, Dean's expression gradually shifts as he raises his eyes to meet Sam's.
His eyebrows push up and together, lower lip popping out, and he looks a bit like he does when Sam won't join him on a bar crawl. Sam's not quite sure what to make of all the displeased faces Dean's worked through in the last minute. Had his comment bothered Dean that much?
"F—" Dean starts suddenly, shaping the sound and holding it for a second while he collects himself. "Forget, Sammy." He looks a little distraught, staring up at Sam with an emphatically pleading air.
Sam feels a bit out of his depth for a moment, floundering in the sight of Dean's abrupt distress. He doesn't know if Dean's making that face because he forgot Sam or he forgot what happened at the vet. Which would be more likely to cause this?
"Forgot what?" Sam says mildly, offering a hand to take the bag Dean's been offering. Dean doesn't make any move to give it up, in fact, he tugs it out of reach and up against his chest. Sam can only blink at him, curious and uncomprehending, because he figured Dean just felt bad about the incident with Dr. Richardson in some way.
But now there's something almost determined glinting in Dean's eyes as he keeps looking up at Sam, almost resolute. The earlier distress is melting away as he clutches the bag to his body, making room for something a bit more insistent, resolute.
"Forget," he says sternly and Sam gets the impression he's requesting something with the way he's wearing that determined scowl. Dean shakes the bag a little then, as if to say this! Forget this!
It occurs to Sam that he's misunderstood Dean. Or, rather Dean's decided on a much more important mission now than whatever he started out trying to say.
What Sam's looking at is not the guilt or apology of having forgotten Sam back in that doctor's office. Not anymore, at least. This is a request, an urgent appeal. Something familiar and very Dean, but Sam decides to ask for clarification just in case.
"You want me to forget Dr. Richardson?" he asks because he thinks he knows what this might be, can't help but glance down at the balled up plastic bag in Dean's unhappy fist.
Dean scowls openly this time, no longer looking pouty, but instead downright irritated. He drops the bag in the duffel without letting it touch Sam's hands and reaches forward to take hold of a couple of Sam's fingers. It's almost needy, a word that Sam has in fact used in reference to Dean often, but not when it comes to touch.
"Forget, Sammy," he says again on a gravel low grumble, and it's enough of a confirmation.
Honestly Sam hasn't seen Dean act like this so obviously, without some excuse to mask it, in a while. The tone is unmistakable though, the way Dean won't meet his eyes now as he stares down at their fingers. He folds Sam's left hand into his, tightly like he doesn't want Sam to leave him, like Sam ever would.
The purple-red outline of Dean's teeth glares up at them from the edge of Sam's palm.
"You know me and the doctor weren't friends or anything right, Dean? I don't even know her," Sam says appeasingly on an exhale that's almost but not quite a laugh. Because this behavior is ridiculous and familiar and it never ceases to make him feel warm and light.
It happens all the time, common enough for Sam to notice it but not too often that Sam could call Dean out. The first time was probably when Sam was eight. He bragged about his older friend who was in fourth grade and played with him during recess. Dean acted like this then, frowning and unhappy. He demanded Sam sneak over to the basketball court near the junior high so Dean could spend recess with him instead. Sam did of course.
Variations of the same scenario have played out over the course of their lives in spades since then. Any time Sam was around anyone else in any way for any length of time that could be interpreted as not including Dean, he would act like this.
Sam liked to call it what it was. Jealousy, of the big brother variety.
Sometimes Sam found it cute (which he of course would never admit to Dean, not because he's embarrassed, but because Dean might sock him in the face for it). Sometimes Sam found it insanely annoying. It was generally the latter when he was a kid.
But in the last decade or so of their absurd, often miserable lives, it became something more of a familiar, bemusing comfort. Dean's usual bluster and bravado anytime Sam talked to someone too long without him, spent more than just a night away from his constant observation, was just a reassurance that Dean cared.
It probably also helps that Sam doesn't really have many friends now. Especially not any that he doesn't share with Dean. They've become sort of a single entity in that sense. No Sam without Dean and vise versa. The former is strictly enforced by Dean, whether he realizes it or not, and Sam hasn't had reason to complain lately.
The Placating of Dean Winchester works just as well on Dean even in his current state and he hums happily at Sam's assurances, crows feet making their much adored appearances. It's a common reaction to Sam's Yes Dean, you're still my favorite person and Sam's pleased to know Dean is still Dean like this.
However then Sam's hand is raised to Dean's pink mouth and he's sinking his teeth softly back into their slotted places. As if to show Sam that Dean isn't still Dean like this, he gnaws into the flesh a little and looks ridiculous because he's still grinning, eyes wide and lips quirking at the corners. Feral.
Sam prepares to be subjected to yet another long moment of getting marked by his brother like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant, but Dean frees his hand pretty quickly this time.
"My Sammy," he affirms with a self satisfied nod and maybe it's just the tone of his voice, the intonation of the words—but Sam starts to wonder if it means what he thought.
Sam assumed it was just a simple statement of fact. The way one might say my brother Sammy , but just missing the middle word for brevity's sake.
But the way Dean's fingers press into his wrist hard enough to feel his pulse, the way they're standing so close they're mixing breaths, the way Dean bit him with the intent to leave some kind of imprint behind. The way Dean clings to him not only like Dean needs him close, but like Sam can't not be close to him. Like he wouldn't be allowed to, even if he tried to get away.
Dean's hand is suddenly like a brand on his, hot and inescapable.
Sam is starting to feel a little bit… owned.
For some reason, his stomach growls. He's starving. Drool floods his mouth as this occurs to him and Sam swallows immediately to keep it from dripping past his lips. Dean's thumb presses just this side of painful into Sam's bite marks, pleased smile still plastered on his face as his stomach answers with its own pitiful gurgle.
"Sammy," he says encouragingly, releasing Sam's hand to grab both of their bags. Right, they need to get out of this motel room finally, forget all the weird, confusing aspects of Dean's behavior and focus on what they can do. Like getting food and heading to Clayton.
Although, Sam has no idea how Dean will handle himself outside with other people. If the way Sam woke up this morning is any indication, it could be violent. Sam's going to need free hands to bodily restrain Dean if something triggers his fight or flight response.
A heaving wave of stress settles over him like a thick, smothering blanket. He's staring at the ground as it does, and that's when he sees Dean's bare feet under the long length of his jeans.
Dean doesn't have shoes.
A solution isn't immediately available and Sam just fumbles out a quick, "lemme get my shoes."
Dean follows behind closely, leaving just enough of a gap between their bodies that he doesn't step on Sam's heels. Sam kicks his feet into his boots and peers out the blackout curtains at the gravel parking lot.
The sun is bright as ever in the afternoon, beating down on the Impala and making her glow shiny and sleek just a few feet from their door. There doesn't appear to be anyone around as far as Sam can tell, some careful angling doesn't even reveal the cart of a housekeeper.
As he's stealthily getting a lay of the land, Dean peers over his shoulder, resting his chin comfortably and staring out too. "Sammy?" he says almost conversationally, glancing back and forth with eyes lit bright green in the sunlight.
Sam takes a second to restart his brain at the way Dean's eyelashes fan over those green eyes, long enough to see Dean narrow them in an almost suspicious way. A growl rumbles out his throat, vibrating against Sam's back and his gaze is angled to the right, an intense frown taking over.
Sam spots a couple just turning the corner, laughing and talking as they head their direction. They look harmless enough, two middle aged women with sunhats and shawls around their shoulders, and Sam can't imagine what kind of threat Dean perceives. He's watching them the way a particularly vicious chihuahua might eyeball the mailman, stiff as board where he's leaning hard into Sam.
"Dean? They're just people," he says slowly, glancing between the two as the couple comes closer to their room with no other ill intentions than to walk past the door. Dean huffs and doesn't take his eyes off the unsuspecting passersby until their backs are visible.
Familiar stress shoring up, Sam pushes back against Dean, successfully shoving him off to stand up straight again.
"Okay, Dean," Sam prepares, turning so they're face to face. Dean, having only been very slightly disturbed by Sam's push, drags his gaze from the window with a visible reluctance. "I need you to be… good."
Inwardly, he cringes at the wording. He doesn't want to treat Dean like he's a dog, or a rambunctious two year old, but there's not exactly a better way to phrase it.
"Don't growl, spit, or otherwise attack people."
There's a skeptical downturn of Dean's lips.
"Sammy." It's in a tone that implies don't be ridiculous, Sammy. Which could either mean I would never do that or, more worryingly, I'm gonna do that and you should feel ridiculous for trying to stop me.
Sam sighs, closing his eyes to collect himself, because he's pretty sure he knows which one it is. "I'm serious. I get you're on edge, and you wanna protect us, but I can't help you if we're running from the cops, okay?" He tries to puppy eye him for this too, eyebrows going all earnest.
There's a heavy exhale, Dean staring at him with squinting eyes and then he slings one of the duffles over his shoulder. The move is just a casual shift of weight but it's such a reflection of Dean at his most comfortable that Sam can't stop the small quirk of a smile. Dean watches him and rolls his eyes again.
"Fine, Sammy," he grumbles low in his throat, rough and displeased. But Sam doesn't exactly trust him at his word. The amount of times he's jerked Sam around in the last few hours is evidence enough to be wary.
"If you feel nervous, just tell me. Or better yet, grab my hand," Sam offers, waving his left hand and not mistaking the way Dean's eyes are shining all of a sudden. "And we'll find you shoes after we grab food, think there's some in the Impala somewhere."
He doesn't wait for Dean's likely displeasure at the prospect of even more clothes, and grabs for his jacket off the little motel table beside the door. The room key and the Impala's keys are in its side pocket and he tugs them both out, looping the rings around his fingers.
As they always do, Sam casts one last scanning glance over the room behind them, ensuring they haven't left anything important behind. It remains as drab and depressing as it was when Sam first carried a naked and unconscious Dean across the threshold. He won't miss it.
"Alright, let's go," he says finally, taking a deep breath that fills his heavy lungs in preparation for the long road ahead.
The door pulls open with the obnoxious squeaks of age and Sam steps outside feeling oddly like he did that night he left for Stanford. As if he's leaving the safety, the cocoon that the motel room offered them, for the world he isn't quite sure they'll fit into—almost knows they can't.
Dean follows him step for step.
Notes:
whew we've finally left the little motel room and gained a vague semblance of plot, who's excited to finally go on the road?? also ch6 is coming to you may 18!
Chapter 6: Mouth
Notes:
omg we've hit 100+ kudos ;^; i will never want for anything ever again, thank you lovely hearted people who are sticking with this big ol' fic (and also me)
and now pls enjoy sam and dean's first little foray into the wild again
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Few things can make Sam as simultaneously uncomfortable and oddly affectionate as reunions between Dean and the Impala.
Sam gets a little disgustingly fond every time Dean slides behind the wheel. How he always slots in like he was born there, like he would much rather root himself in its leather seat and never leave. His right boot glued to the pedal, grinning like a child when her purr rumbles through him.
It's overly romantic, but isn't that Dean and Baby's relationship in a nutshell?
The way Dean is now, Sam isn't sure it'll be the same and he absolutely does not let his throat squeeze up with unexpected emotion at the thought. He unlocks the Impala, dogged closely by the crunch of Dean following along with his poor bare feet. Sam's turning then, trying to decide if the best way to get his brother in the passenger seat is through the driver's side or not.
Turns out it doesn't really matter because a loud, slightly pornographic moan rumbles from Dean's throat and Sam stares, wide eyed. Dean's dropped the duffle bags like they're trash, hands splaying on the Impala's hood. He leans down to press his cheek to the warm metal, eyes closed in an almost rapturous expression.
"Baby," he sighs through an open mouthed smile and Sam doesn't flush but his body tightens up, antsy. He wars between being inappropriately enthralled by his brother, bent over and caressing the car like a lover, and wanting to cry with relief because it's so Dean.
Only Dean would come out of some horrible experience practically rabid and barely able to speak, just to remember two single words without issue: Sammy and Baby.
An uncomfortable fist clenches tight in the pit of Sam's gut and he's kind of worried that tightness is sinking lower than his navel. He clears his throat.
"Dean? You two need a moment?" he mutters, actually struggling to tear his eyes away from Dean's prone form. He casts wary glances around to find they're fortunately still alone. No threatening old ladies to judge Dean for looking like he might want to fuck his car.
Dean slides upright, gently dragging his fingers across the smooth surface of the Impala's hood and shoots Sam a side eyed squint. Whatever he sees on Sam's face makes one of those smarmy little smirks peak in the corner of his lips.
"Sammy," he says with a tiny tilt of his head like he's considering Sam, eyes traveling up and down his body. Sam can read the body language. Don't be jealous Sammy, I love you both equally.
Comparisons to the Impala have been around since Sam was five and Dad thought it would be funny to make Dean pick. Sam's used to the feeling and he rolls his eyes, grabbing the discarded duffle bags. It's also a perfect excuse to avoid that look on Dean's face.
The driver's side door opens with a whine that elicits a satisfied ah from Dean. Sam throws both bags and his canvas jacket into the backseat without care. One of them knocks against the empty cooler and rattles noisily into the footwell, reminding Sam of their need to stock up on road food in the future.
Dean has crowded a little closer on the other side of the door, staring up at Sam under those raised eyebrows with a winning grin. Eager.
"You're not driving today," Sam says pointedly, resting his forearm on top of the window between them. Because if Dean can't even give himself a proper shower, he can't be trusted to drive. This logic is sound.
Dean clearly does not agree.
He growls a warning noise that might have made a smaller man flinch, but Sam just looks at him.
"Sammy," he says again. This time in the admonishing way he always does when Sam won't let him order another burger or forces him to stay and research instead of hitting up the nearest bar. A combination of do you know who I am? and You're not the boss of me. If they were still kids, Dean would stick his tongue out too.
"No, Dean, I'm not gonna let you wreck the Impala just because you think you're okay enough to drive," Sam says with an adamant slap of his palm on Baby's roof. Dean would insist on driving even if he lost a leg and Sam isn't taking the chance. "I just got you back. When I can trust you really remember what you're doing, I'll let you."
He sounds like their dad, unforgiving no-nonsense tone. Coming from his mouth, it's the kind of language that can only rub Dean the wrong way, raise his hackles and bruise his ego as the big brother.
But it's necessary, and if Sam's lucky it'll serve as incentive for Dean to improve, recover. Dean already feels leaps and bounds ahead of where he was when he tried to kill Sam with the motel phone. He can say some words, recognizes Sam and the Impala, wears clothes and those familiar dopey grins.
"Sammy," Dean grumbles past an unhappy turn of his mouth. It doesn't even sound like he's trying to say anything so much as make displeased noises with Sam's name. His eyes have fallen to the keys dangling in Sam's hand over the window, adopting a forlorn expression through his lashes.
Sam doesn't want to disappoint Dean. He wishes he could give him this at least. One good thing finally after all the shit he must have been through in the last few months. But, right now, it's up to Sam to make the mature decisions and sometimes that means making his poor, pitiful brother sad.
Cheering him up though, is a bit easier now than it used to be.
Sam slides around the open door between them, moving the keys to his other hand. Dean is watching him with an almost suspicious cant to his upward gaze and Sam offers him a tiny, indulgent smile as he reaches over.
It's becoming natural to tangle their fingers together, wrapping his larger hand up in Dean's, and Sam does it easily. The bite marks sting with an almost pleasant ache when Dean clutches tight, clingy like usual. That pinch between his brows smooths just a little, sufficiently cowed.
"C'mon, we need food," Sam says lightly, half dragging Dean past the door so he can fold him in the Impala. Dean slips into the driver's side like he's made for it, and he is, but Sam's still not letting him drive so he pushes at him. The Impala's bench seats once again save him a headache as he shoves at Dean's shoulder, intending to climb in after he scoots down.
Dean doesn't budge, little protesting noise in his throat as his free hand flies to grab at Sam's hip. His fingers dig into the bonier flesh there and it's impossible to tell if he's trying to push Sam away or pull him into his lap.
"Move, Dean," Sam demands hotly, tugging his hand out of Dean's grasp for maximum manhandling capabilities.
He practically throws Dean onto his side, using enough force to send him flopping out of the way. Dean topples over with a grunt, narrowly avoiding banging his head on the other door, and Sam falls in after him. His hip slams into Dean's thigh as he does, pushing him further down the bench.
Dean's scrambling upright with an affronted look, palms planted on the leather of the seat beneath him like Sam might try to overthrow him again for the hell of it. Sam gently nudges him out of his space and towards the passenger side with a light shrugging attempt at innocence.
"Sammy," Dean says and it sounds like another protest, but he lets himself be positioned at a non-touching distance from Sam.
When Sam pulls back to comfortably sit behind the wheel, he catches the smears of gritty dirty and grime from last night coating the seat beneath them. It's almost invisible on the black leather but Sam can see it on Dean's hands where he's dug them in and he scowls.
"Great," he mutters more to himself. Dean follows his gaze and stares openly at his dirty palms as if he can't quite figure out how it got there. "I guess the sheets weren't the only thing you contaminated," Sam explains, already turning so he can dig out his dirty flannel from the duffel bag.
As he shifts to hand the makeshift rag to Dean, he recognizes the wide-eyed horror one might expect at the implication that the Impala is not in pristine condition. Dean's already ripping the shirt away to frantically scrub the seat and interior down like a madman, frown of concentration replacing his earlier disdain. Sam only watches him with a sort of bemusement, obediently raising his ass off the bench so Dean can get the driver's side too.
After bending over and scanning the footwell for any more mess, Dean reappears with the string of animal bones from last night. The reedy looking vines intertwine with his fingers and he offers it to Sam without any comment. Sam takes them so Dean can go back to hunting for dirt.
The makeshift armor of sorts is made up of long and narrow bones, almost black with what Sam can only call gore of whatever they came out of. He counts nine of them strung together in a formation that somewhat resembles a ribcage when he holds them up, curving and secure.
"Dean," Sam says, turning one over and resisting the urge to sniff it. "What are these?" He doesn't really expect a clear answer, Dean's only capable of conveying so much right now, but this thing is certainly strange and worth trying for.
The once light red flannel in Dean's hands is almost burgundy now and Dean balls it up, turning to shove it into a pocket of one of the bags in the back. As he does so, he glances over the bones in Sam's lap and shrugs one shoulder.
"Safe," he says, a quiet grunt of a word. Sam frowns, tilts his head, but Dean's already reaching for his bones and wrestling them free.
He doesn't expect Dean to open the passenger door and toss them out, but that's exactly what he does. Sam can't suppress the regretful noise he makes, half reaching a hand up in an abortive movement. If only because he would at least like to try and identify what animal they even came from.
They were definitely too big to be anything smaller than a human and Sam doesn't want to imagine his brother wrestling and killing bears or something. The image of the cracked skull Sam had first seen on Dean's head has his mind reeling, recalling just how almost-human it was.
But Sam doesn't want to pry into that if Dean would much rather throw them away without explanation. It could be just as easily dredging up bad memories of wherever he's been, something he wants to forget, something he wants to get rid of. Sam's chest throbs even thinking that and he doesn't bother trying to get the bones back.
He just hopes they aren't human.
"Sammy," Dean says, clipped and urgent. Sam would even call it impatient. When he glances over, coming out of his strange thoughts, Dean's looking back and forth between the keys in Sam's hand and the Impala's ignition. There's the excited grin of a little kid pulling up his crow's feet.
A flood of warmth oozes up under Sam's skin, insanely fond smile sliding over his mouth, because of course he knows what Dean wants. Sam's practically indulgent when he shoves the keys in and turns, letting the Impala's engine roar to life with a rumbling purr.
Dean's answering growl is low and borderline inappropriate as he slides his hand over the dash with pure adoration heating his cheeks red. It's a little reminiscent of when he takes Sam's hand in his and Sam forces himself to look away, strange itchiness in his bite mark.
"Alright, tone it down," Sam says, rolling his eyes, and definitely not sounding like a petty little brother who's not getting enough attention. Because that would be childish and Sam gave up on fighting against the Impala a long time ago. About the time he realized he was getting jealous of an inanimate object, one that he also loved dearly.
"Don't cream yourself," he adds with a private little smirk. He gets a modicum of satisfaction at the thought that Dean, as he is right now, probably won't understand that comment and glances over his shoulder to reverse.
Normally, when they crash a motel room, just one of them goes to return the room key at the front office (usually the loser of a rock-paper-scissors showdown). It's much more lowkey than driving the Impala back up and reminding the owner of her memorable black chassis. With the everyday paranoia of running from the law regularly, they always take this kind of precaution.
But this time Sam can't exactly leave Dean alone and he wants to avoid dragging him along in front of other random people if he can avoid it. So he'll make the tiny drive to the office together and internally worry about how difficult Dean will be when he leaves him the Impala for a few seconds.
Dean is settling back against the seat with a serene expression as if his world has finally righted itself. Or is about to. Sam sees Dean's hand snake between them to grab onto the right pocket of Sam's jeans like the hook of a fishing line.
Sam doesn't look down to see the two fingers nudging against the crease of his thigh through the thin lining of his pocket. It's not a tight grip, but it's certainly restraining and Sam's dreading the idea of having to wiggle free. Getting those hooked fingers out of his pocket won't be nearly as easy as shaking him off Sam's hand.
They arrive at the management office before Sam can think of a way to gently let his brother down on the temporary separation thing.
Sam pulls up into the only bit of parking lot that's actually paved, the Impala bumping over the tar and rolling into one of three spots. He shifts her into park, leaving the engine running in what might be a vain hope.
Maybe Dean will feel more at ease sitting there if he has her satisfying rumble lulling him. Sam tries not to think about how he sounds like he's leaving a particularly anxious dog alone. Even if it'll barely take two seconds to rush in and toss the keys to the desk attendant.
Would it be too big of a betrayal if Sam just opened the door and ran out of the car before Dean realized what was happening? Sam risks a covert glance over.
The potential victim of betrayal is watching him curiously, fingers wiggling in Sam's pocket, tugging a little as if he wants Sam's attention. Or he's gradually preparing to drag Sam across the bench. But otherwise, seemingly unaware of Sam's current inner turmoil.
Through the glass window of the office door, Sam can see the middle-aged man staring at his phone with a lazy expression. Overall, the distance is maybe ten steps. If Sam made a break for it, Dean might chase after him. (In his state, Sam can really see this happening.)
The no doubt ridiculous scene of it would not be an easy one to explain away to the poor motel employee. Dean growling and grappling with Sam just outside the door as he struggles to get free. They would be lucky if the guy didn't call the police. The sad part is bringing Dean along with him isn't likely to net a better outcome if the way Dean stared down those passersby is any indication.
"Okay, Dean," Sam decides to say, prying his oddly tense hands off the Impala's steering wheel. They come away stiff and he has to flex his fingers to get the feeling back before grabbing the motel room keys off the dash. Dean's been watching him since they pulled up to the office, unwavering stare on the side of Sam's head. Now Sam can make out the wrinkle in his brow, somewhat apprehensive.
Sam rips it off like a bandaid, speaking quickly and grabbing the door handle. "I'm gonna go drop these off now so you should—" All of Dean's fingers force into Sam's pocket, curling into a fist to grab onto the denim with an urgent jerk of movement that tilts Sam sideways, away from the exit.
"Wait here?" Sam finishes his sentence in a weak voice, his lower half now pulled towards Dean. The waistband of his jeans gaps at his hip, exposing his underwear and threatening to tear at the seams under Dean's harsh grip. Sam is honestly concerned they're going to get even more holes in them.
"Sammy," comes the rough reply.
Dean is eyeing him with an intensity that pins Sam where he sits, unable to even try to wriggle away for fear Dean will pounce. It's a warning, a threat, and oddly familiar. As if Sam's just told Dean he's running away to solve his own problems, not unlike the various times he and Dean disagreed and Sam threatened to disappear again. A clinging, angry restraint.
Sam licks his lips.The bite of all those times he's tried to run away needles at his conscious in the face of Dean's bare-faced resistance.
A deep breath.
"Dean, seriously, it's right there. You can watch me do it," he says, waving a hand at the office and wearing his favorite exasperated brother face. He even rolls his eyes so Dean can really get how much of a non-issue this is.
Dean doesn't get how much of a non-issue this is. Or just doesn't care, because he's growling like an animal, low and louder than the Impala vibrating underneath them. His fist is still wound in Sam's pocket, still clutching tight, unrelenting. He might've popped one or two of the stitches Sam can't quite tell from his lopsided angle.
Dean's other hand reaches out, taking advantage of Sam's downcast stare, and Sam just barely manages to whip the motel keys away from the grabby fingers. He quickly hides them behind his head with an incredulous huff.
"Hell no, I'm taking it," Sam insists. This isn't the hill he wants to die on, but he can't just let Dean bully him into sitting in the Impala while he takes care of everything like usual. Not to mention he's still all feral and bitey, who knows what he might accidentally do to the poor motel employee.
Dean narrows bright eyes and bares his teeth. It's the only warning Sam gets before Dean is lunging across the bench seat at him with a surprising amount of force.
The fist in his jeans yanks hard, probably tears the remaining stitches, while dragging Sam across the bench. Sam breathes in sharply, falling over as his ass slides out from under him. He almost slams into the door, arms flailing out to catch himself, but Dean is already clambering on top of him, eyes on the prize.
Sam is laid out, keys clutched in his left hand, and he narrowly avoids losing them to Dean by shoving them under his waist, out of reach.
"S'mmy," Dean grunts through his teeth, propping himself up on one hand to finagle the other after the keys. His knee is planted between Sam's thighs, doing a great job of keeping Sam from wriggling away, and his shoulder is angled into Sam's chest, pinning him.
Dean's knuckles knead into the flesh of Sam's back as they shove under him and Sam hurriedly flings his hand free and away like a stupid game of keep away. That only leads to him flopping around, arm flailing about trying to avoid Dean.
There's a lot of grunting and growling and thrashing and Sam can't help but think, in all of this ridiculousness, that it must look just as dumb from the outside. He hopes for their sake the desk guy isn't staring because the Impala has to be shaking.
Sam lurches up against Dean's body to buck him off, embarrassed and annoyed now, but Dean just collapses all his weight on him. Which honestly shouldn't have surprised Sam, considering it's been his go-to wrestling tactic since they were kids. As always, the sudden weight knocks the breath out of Sam.
It doesn't help that Dean takes the chance to play dirty, using one hand to grab Sam's hair and pull hard enough to make Sam hiss. His hand with the keys flies up to shove himself free and Dean grabs his fist with a growl, prying the desired object free.
There's a triumphant howling whoop as Dean recoils away from Sam's frantic hands, holding the keys aloft. Sam's panting and frazzled and defeated. Slightly scandalized too.
"Sammy," Dean grunts, husky and flushed, with a victorious grin on his face. It shows his teeth and they're sharp and shiny under the sun. Sam's momentarily distracted, knowing he has the shape and pattern of them marked into his palm. It throbs a little where it hovers in the air between their bodies.
Sam's still breathing hard, still on his back across the seat.
That grin of Dean's is huge when he suddenly darts down. For a panicked moment, Sam thinks he's going for his throat, like last night when Dean hadn't quite recognized him yet.
But it's not his throat that Dean's teeth find.
It's quick, a mere flash of movement, and Sam feels the press of a bite at his open mouth.
His lower lip is in between Dean's teeth, nothing more than a light nip that doesn't break skin, and Dean's own lips are there too. Sam can feel their soft plush alongside the sharp of his teeth. When Dean pulls back, Sam's lip is pulled with him before popping free, warm and bitten.
Sam doesn't even breathe as Dean nimbly escapes the Impala, surprisingly fast and quiet and gone.
A few long moments, Sam lays there, staring at the roof under a furrowed brow. His mouth still hanging open. What just happened to him? What did Dean just do? Sam's chest feels suspiciously heavy, breathing quick shallow breaths like it can't stay filled under the weight.
The sudden, abrupt and entirely strange impulse to lick his lips again has Sam furiously wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel. Because he should be disgusted, what the fuck, his brother just bit at his mouth like some kind of creepy animal, and there were lips too, it was almost a kiss. Dean probably got spit on him or something, Sam and his mouth are contaminated with Dean's—Dean's germs.
Sam's lips are heated now as he pulls his sleeve away, in fact his whole body is overheated. It has to be exertion, just leftover heat from all the wrestling, that's all. Entirely unrelated to the fact that Sam can't quite figure out if Dean just kissed him on the mouth or—it was just another bite. Another way that Dean expresses himself. That's all. Right?
Sam's tilted. He needs to get up. He needs to make sure Dean hasn't mauled the poor desk attendant.
Shooting upright, Sam's aware that he probably looks rough—reclined on the bench seat, hair a mess, and breathing heavy for no goddamn reason. He wouldn't be surprised if his cheeks and mouth were red.
Through the windshield and the glass door of the motel office, Sam sees Dean, in all his barefoot glory, slam the keys down on the desk. He can't see Dean's face but from the set of his broad shoulders he's tense.
The look on the employee's face doesn't make Sam feel any better about letting Dean storm in there. He's scowling like Dean dragged in something dead with him and he makes a waving gesture at the door, probably trying to get Dean out as quickly as possible.
Considering the less than savory state of the motel, Sam wouldn't be surprised if the guy suspects Dean's tripping on something. Maybe bath salts.
Sam is morbidly entertained by that thought, scrambling to sit up fully and look presentable when Dean spins around and heads back his way. The expression on his face is not necessarily pleased, but it's at least happier than it looked before. Dean got to be the one to return the keys and not Sam, after all. He's definitely satisfied with that.
Even if he isn't exactly in the state to be having normal human interactions in Sam's opinion. The fact that he literally bit Sam's lip, not kissed, makes a case against normal brother interactions too.
The Impala groans loudly when Dean falls into the passenger seat with a huff. His hands bridge the distance between their bodies, grabbing onto Sam's elbow and tugging his right arm over into Dean's lap. Shameless, like he didn't just tackle Sam for some keys, like he didn't just do that—that other thing.
Sam immediately glares at him and tugs free, throwing the gear into reverse so they can hurry up and get on the road. He pretends not to feel the motel worker's eyes on them.
There's a soft grunt of disapproval and Sam has to shove Dean's hand away again as he pulls into the street, searching for a place with burgers and a drive thru. He'd love if they could enjoy the familiarity of some random diner off the highway like usual, but it's too risky.
They need to minimize the amount of time Dean is out of the car until they get to Clayton, for the sake of Sam's sanity at the very least. He does not want to physically wrestle his brother to the ground again. Or get bit on the mouth.
"Dean," Sam says curtly, grabbing Dean's hand and prying it off his thigh. He tosses it back and ignores the sad little noise he hears. "Don't start. You bit me—"
"Sammy—"
"You bit my mouth. Just stay over there until we get food, okay?" Sam cuts him off before Dean can try to defend himself. Try and say he's bitten Sam several times lately and how is this any different. But Sam isn't going to tolerate any mouth to mouth action with his brother. Especially when said brother is not in his right mind.
"Sammy," Dean says, quietly this time. Sam does not look over at him to see that pitiful expression on his face or hear the imploring non-apology in his tone.
He scans the various road signs that make up middle of nowhere America and decides on some small fast food joint that boasts a chicken salad. Sam deserves to treat himself after the morning he's had.
Dean can finally have a burger too. Wherever he's been, he probably missed it. Even if he's acting like all he misses is touching Sam right now.
The burger will make a suitable distraction. Hopefully.
"We're both hungry, how's a greasy burger sound?" Sam says, pretending he's not forcing his brother to keep his hands to himself, depriving him of touch. It's so stupid because they're not even a foot apart in the front seat of the Impala and the last twenty years of their lives haven't exactly been touchy-feely.
Dean grumbles, a gruff noise in the back of his throat. Non-committal to any particular opinion on anything that's not about how he's being barred from grabbing onto Sam.
Sam just knows he's pouting.
"Good, burger it is."
Dean's at least keeping his hands to himself as Sam maneuvers through the drive thru. If Dean were in his right mind, he would be protesting adamantly about taking the Impala through something as suburban as a fast food drive thru. Fortunately, all he does is stink eye the menu board.
Sam just hopes he isn't planning to dive bomb him in some clingy attack before they can even get their food.
It's a ten minute ordeal that goes by agonizingly slow because Dean won't stop making those huffy pathetic sounds and Sam keeps getting nervous that the nice employees will hear him.
He's grabbing the paper bag of food from the window, when a hand snakes up under his shirt to grab at the waist of his jeans. He jumps so hard his knee hits the dash and he grunts in alarm, barely resisting the urge to glare at Dean over his shoulder. The poor girl in the window flinches a little at the commotion.
"Sorry, thank you," Sam shuffles out quickly, slapping the food onto the bench and pulling away before she can say anything. He throws Dean a dark look but doesn't bother trying to wrangle free this time. He can't exactly afford to crash the Impala into an unsuspecting car while fighting out of Dean's hands.
It's easier for both of them if he just parks nearby so he can eat his salad without killing them, and also give Dean a talking to. The warm knuckles of Dean's fingers press into his side and he's doubly annoyed that it's not even really bothering him. Calming in that way Dean's presence always is, even if he's gone too far with the nibbling thing.
Once he's switched off the ignition, in the parking lot of what looks to be a pawn shop, Sam twists his body so he's angled towards Dean. He puts on his best this is serious, Dean face. Dean calls it his bitch face.
Pointing to the fist in his jeans again, Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly.
The fingers flex like they're adjusting for a better grip. Dean doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. He's just staring back at Sam with a frown, slight pout to his lower lip, somewhat defiant.
Dean acting like he owns the place isn't anything new. Sam has dealt with Dean traipsing around treating everything they own between the two of them as free real estate. He willfully uses Sam's clothes, his toothbrush, his "girly" shampoo, even his laptop—nothing is safe. Sam just isn't quite used to Dean treating Sam's body that way too.
"Let go, Dean," Sam says sternly, grabbing Dean's wrist and shaking it. The grip doesn't give, might even curl deeper into the denim. Sam just sighs and uses his other hand to pick up the bag of food.
"We gotta eat."
Usually, no matter how annoyed or insistent Dean is, a fresh burger and some fries is enough to deter him from whatever track his mind is stuck to. Sam hopes it's the same even now.
"Sammy," is all he gets. As usual. Dean's eyes haven't left Sam's face and his voice is surprisingly serious.
His fingers loosen then, unraveling from Sam's jeans, but not to let go. The wrist in Sam's hold turns, tugging so Dean can get a nice tight claw into Sam's palm instead. Those green eyes are bright in the afternoon sun and they look a little dewy, imploring.
Sam tries not to be affected, steeling himself when Dean's lips purse like they do every time he has to try really hard to say something new.
"Mmm," he starts, pressing the sound against his closed mouth. "Mad?" he finally forces out, voice rough but light. He sounds unsure, like a guilty kid, and he's doing that thing where he looks up from under his lashes. Not exactly ashamed, but nervous.
His hand is like a vice on Sam's.
Sam closes his eyes, half to block out Dean's disarming expression and half to give him a moment to find the right words.
"I'm not mad, you just—Dean, you’re my brother," Sam says and he's not really sure what he's saying, just kinda fumbles out words from his recently bitten mouth. "It's weird. The biting thing is weird but it's weirder if you're… you know, anywhere near my mouth, okay? You can't do that. Bite my hand if you want, but don't—don't do it anywhere else."
Sam pretends he can't see the way Dean's gaze has drifted down to stare at his mouth while he talks. Hopefully it's just fascination with the formations of speech like Sam's been assuming it is. Not something else.
He wants to lick his lips under that pointed attention just to make Dean's eyes move.
"Especially my mouth," Sam's adding like an afterthought.
Those green eyes widen a little, almost imperceptible, and then Dean's glancing back up at him with a furrow in his brow. His lips are downturned, tiny dimples appearing. He looks unhappy, confused. The expression telegraphs a loud and clear and obstinate why? and Sam swallows, shrinking away from the question written plainly on Dean’s face.
He doesn't really have an answer beyond the same redundant, hole-filled, seemingly sensical one he's been parroting in his head ever since he got Dean back. Because they don't do that, because they never have before. Because it's wrong, it's strange. Because they shouldn't.
They just shouldn't.
Sam doesn't want to address it, doesn't want to try and make it make sense to Dean. His brother who's only ever really wanted to see the world in black and white, in right or wrong. To Dean, especially now, that answer will be too flimsy. More of an excuse than anything. Sam worries it's becoming something similar in his head.
"Let's just eat, okay, I'm starving," he says, averting his gaze so he doesn't have to face Dean's obstinance.
Both hands are necessary to divvy up the food, but Dean doesn't look like he's going to release Sam anytime soon, the press of his fingers turning them white. Sam, with a sinking sense of resignation, just moves with the extra limb attached. It's a bit of a hassle and they end up tearing the paper bag as he fishes out the burger and fries for Dean.
The smell must get to him because a gurgle suddenly rumbles from Dean’s gut, loud and relatable. Slowly like it's painful, Dean's tight grip on Sam's wrist pries free and then he's grabbing at the food. It's a suitable distraction apparently as Dean tears into the wrapping with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas, practically drooling.
The burger is practically dripping with grease and Sam's own stomach is quieted at the sight, but Dean makes a happy little exhale through his nose. His jaw drops in preparation to take a huge, hungry bite but he freezes, eyes darting back to Sam.
Sam, who's watching with no small amount of unwilling fondness. "What?" he asks when Dean licks his lips and closes his mouth instead of digging in. The fries are resting in his lap and Dean holds the burger aloft in one hand so he can grab a few. Without saying a word, Dean pushes three skinny fries against Sam's lips, gentle.
There's that increasingly familiar adamance in the lines of his face, frown heavy. He doesn't blink and murmurs a soft, commanding, "Sammy."
Fries haven't ever been Sam's favorite food, hell, he's been avoiding all the junk of combo meals since he was old enough to demand Dad and Dean let him order for himself. Which took a few years of nagging, to be honest. Dean has always been eager to ply Sam full of carb heavy garbage food, no matter how much he protests.
"I'm good," Sam says after he leans back so the greasy fries aren't touching him anymore. There's a grunt then, obviously dissenting, and Dean's still wearing that intense frown. Rather than giving up with a shrug and tossing the fries in his mouth like he usually does, Dean angles his hand to tap knuckles against Sam's jaw.
"Skinny," he grumbles past that unhappy curl of his lips and then he's pushing the fries back to Sam's mouth. Apparently, this is very important to Dean, and Sam can kind of see where he's coming from. He hasn't eaten well in months, hasn't really done anything good for his health since Dean disappeared. It's no surprise if he's a little scrawnier than the last time Dean saw him, a little gaunt. In typical big brother fashion, Dean's ensuring Sam gets fed.
It's sort of comforting, familiar. In a way, maybe Dean has always just been trying to do that when he offers all his greasy junk food to Sam like Sam would ever want to eat it.
He gives in, feeling oddly sentimental, opening his mouth to let Dean shove the fries between his teeth. Dean's fingertips graze his lower lip and Sam's tongue flicks after it instinctively, tasting salt. Sam furiously chews and Dean's frown melts away to a satisfied smirk, crows feet and all.
There's a hum of approval and Dean returns his attention to the dripping burger in his hand with reverence. He digs in immediately, no instruction necessary. Trust Dean to remember how to eat a burger inherently, despite any and all former trauma.
The first bite yields another one of those dirty moans he's been very vocal with the last 24 hours, Dean's eyes closing and his cheeks full. Sam quickly turns his attention to his salad, face a little uncomfortably warm. Familiar noisy chewing refocuses Sam's attention into something a bit more affectionate and a bit less discomfited.
Dean's always eaten like an animal and that definitely does not change now. He practically inhales his burger, stopping only to send Sam looks through hooded, clearly pleased eyes.
"Sammy," he says in an appreciative groan that's probably supposed to send a happy thank you, it's delicious message, but instead has Sam biting his cheek and shifting awkwardly in his seat. He violently stabs a cherry tomato with his plastic fork and tries very hard not to let his thoughts stray over into inappropriate and weirdly affected areas. Like how Dean's porn star moans make Sam want to throttle him.
Among other things.
Dean clearly doesn't give a shit right now, about being decent or appropriate or social norms. Especially not the ones that dictate the acceptable amount of touching, biting, or moaning between brothers. No matter how platonic it's intended to be. Or not intended to be. Which reminds Sam that they didn't really get anywhere when Sam told him not to bite him on the mouth—to nearly kiss him.
He sort of suspects they'll never get anywhere on that front. He almost wishes he could just forget it, just let Dean do whatever the hell he wants to be comfortable. Let him pin Sam down and bite at his lips if he needs it. But it feels weird, heated, strange. Wrong. Dean, if he was himself, wouldn't do those things.
Sam shouldn't then.
He spears a dressing coated piece of lettuce, sops it around to clean up the last of his plastic container, and shoves it into his mouth. There's clearly more important things for Sam to concern himself with, outside of the slightly off kilter tone their relationship has adopted. Like Dean's glowing and painful forearm, for example. His communication issues for another. If only because Sam desperately wants to know what did this to him.
It's just typical Winchester luck that now when Dean's enthusiastically available for communication, he can't manage to enunciate well.
At least they have their usual shorthand to help facilitate the gap. Dean's also remembering more and more, saying more and more words. Like he still knows them all, like he just can't remember the right way to use his mouth for speaking rather than his throat.
As if on queue, Dean burps loudly and shoots Sam a winning grin. His burger is nowhere to be seen, the fries either. He's already balled up the plastic trash to toss, leaning forward to take Sam's similarly empty container too. Always working to keep the Impala as clean and meticulous as possible.
If Sam needed any clearer sign his brother is still very much his brother in there, the sheer fact he's guarding the trash close like its mere existence will dirty the Impala's interior would be enough.
Sam hasn't been questioning anything though. He would recognize Dean anywhere.
"Food good?" he asks, watching Dean savor the sound of the ignition turning over as he twists the key. Dean hums in the affirmative, still grinning, and Sam backs out of the parking lot.
The needle in the gas gauge hovers a little over a quarter to empty and Sam debates the merits of getting gas before they blow town. He's still not sure if Dr. Richardson ever called the cops about them, if they should be laying as low as possible in their escape.
The Impala rumbles a pleasant hum when she's back on the road, Sam checking what all's left in the small town nowhere. There's a gas station in the rearview, probably the only one around for a good fifty miles at least, but they're heading south and it's the opposite direction.
Baby has a large tank. They won't be at empty before the next gas station and Sam sort of craves the familiar lull of interstate driving for a while. It'll give them some time to digest, relax. Reorient.
"We'll get gas in the next town, I just wanna get out of here," Sam tells Dean, following the signs to the highway.
Dean doesn't say anything, but there's searching hands at Sam's side. Fingers appear at the tail of his shirt, tugging on the flannel very gently. It might even be a bit tentative, almost askance.
Sam doesn't immediately acknowledge the silent question, the quiet request for permission, though he's surprised Dean's even asking at all. Silently, he focuses on getting them to the interstate, glancing over his shoulder as he merges. The Impala growls with the acceleration.
Sticking to the slow lane and cruising a comfortable 60 is probably fine and Sam's already relaxing into the seat. The grassy fields of Maine whip past and the long stretch of tar lulls him into his comfort zone. It's almost peaceful, like a spa treatment massaging his body back into a pliant and satisfied state.
The only thing that could make it better is Dean driving.
Those fingers in Sam's shirt pull more insistently, a soft sound of distress coming from the passenger side.
Sam resists the urge to look over, knows he'll see big green pleading eyes that’ll just distract him from the calming stretch of the road. But at the same time, Dean's sad noises make the tension in his chest ease into something a bit more manageable, a bit more in need of soothing whatever's hurting his brother.
Right now, that's Sam. And his earlier fit at being touched, being bite-kissed.
Sam inhales deep, enjoys the way the oxygen suffuses through his blood and relaxes him further.
He can't stay mad at Dean, never really was in the first place.
Without saying anything, Sam slides his left hand from the steering wheel to rest in his lap, palm up and open. Dean takes it for what it is, dropping the shirt immediately to grab onto Sam's hand, fingers entangling with practiced ease.
A thumb finds the teeth marks naturally, Sam might even call it instinctive. He doesn't flinch this time when Dean digs into the wounds, nail scratching at the healing scabs as if letting it heal isn't allowed. Maybe it isn't.
"Sammy." The sound out of Dean's throat mirrors the purr of the Impala, protective and nostalgic. Real.
Sam's smiling, small and to himself. The road stretches out for hundreds of miles ahead of them.
They're back together.
He squeezes Dean's hand.
Notes:
dean's bites have progressed into dangerous territory smh. sam must remain alert at all times!! (that probably won't help him tho, dean is quite sneaky). chapter 7 will arrive promptly on may 22, pls look forward to it and lmk what u think so far (◕‿◕｡)
Chapter Text
Sam manages to squeeze two and half hours out of the Impala's gas tank before he absolutely has to stop.
Time has nearly rolled into evening, sun setting earlier in the threatening onset of winter. The sky is cast in oranges, reds, and purples where it peeks through the hazy gray of clouds overhead, decorating the interior of the Impala in the same light.
About fifty miles ago, Dean started yawning so hard his jaw would make little popping sounds, groaning exhales from his wide open mouth. Every other glance Sam would catch him in another stifled yawn, all bleary eyed blinks.
Just like Sam, it seemed Dean was lulled by the Impala's tires rolling over long stretched roads, maybe even more so given how tired he suddenly looked. While Sam slept well and hard for the first time in ages back at the motel room, Dean's weary lined face spoke to a different experience.
Sam was tempted to tell him to climb in the backseat and knock out for a while, like they always used to do. But Dean disentangled their hands before he could say something. There was an immediate, smothering sense of loss in Sam's freed palm.
It shouldn't have been surprising when Dean smoothly shifted into Sam's space, crossing the small distance between their bodies. There was little more explanation than a growly, sleepy, "Sammy," and then he tumbled onto Sam's lap.
An hour later and Dean's still laying across the cramped front seat. His cheek is smashed into Sam's thigh and his bare feet are pressed up against the passenger door, bent up to fit well.
One hand is wedged under Sam's leg, wrapped around so that the fingers sprout up between Sam's knees. The other is clutching at Sam's arm where it's braced over his chest to keep him from sliding off the seat.
There's definitely drool on Sam's jeans and every once in a while Dean inhales roughly, burying his nose against Sam's leg and making little grumbly noises.
He looks simultaneously really cramped and super comfy, curled up to fit against Sam. No complaints about the lack of space have been muttered into Sam's thigh, or whines about the way his knees hang off and he can't stretch.
On the contrary, his expression is lax, completely gone. Dean's out out. Like he couldn't sleep anywhere better, and maybe that's true considering he's tucked into Sam's side, enjoying the hum of the Impala. Properly home.
If he could somehow let Dean keep cuddling into him like a tired puppy, he would. But the Impala's fuel gage is almost at E and they'll end up stranded off of Interstate 295 if Sam gives in to his weaker impulses.
The Gas 'n Sip is already lit up for the night crowd, white lights bright and blaring in the approaching dusk. Sam maneuvers them up to a pump, shifting the Impala into park, and the movements to press the brakes make his leg jostle under Dean's head.
Dean adjusts his position, tugging Sam's thigh harder into his shoulder for a better angle. Commandeered like the pillow he is, Sam can't help the chuckle that fights past his closed mouth. If only they had a replacement pillow he could stealthily slide under Dean's cheek, give him the means to sneak away like duping a sleeping bear.
Rather than actively wake Dean up, Sam just shuts off the Impala's engine. The abrupt absence of her familiar rumble is enough to rouse either of them out of sleep and it's no different now. A furled warmth blooms in the pit of his stomach at Dean's unhappy groan, immediately pulled to consciousness in the quiet. Like always.
Tugging the keys free, Sam jimmies his leg under Dean, enough to make his head bounce. Dean squints his eyes shut tighter and clings closer, turning to press his face into Sam's jeans with another dissenting grumble.
"Gotta get gas," Sam says, soft and weirdly gentle as he bows over Dean to prod at the soft spot behind his ear. Dean flinches, a visible shiver running down his neck, shoulder shrugging up.
When he flops over, his green eyes shine under the gas station lights, narrowed up at Sam. Like everything bad is Sam's fault and he definitely blames him for it.
There's a rough, unhappy growl and then Dean's unraveling himself from Sam's leg and pulling himself upright, slow and staggered as if he's got weights on his chest. His hair is flattened on one side and he looks all scruffy and half awake, blinking furiously as he gets his bearings.
Sam can see the beginnings of five o'clock shadow along Dean's jaw, bristling and probably itchy. It only took a day of not shaving for it to prickle up, and yet after being gone for those three months Dean's face had still been bare. What the hell did it even mean, something like that?
All the questions from before—where Dean was, what happened—make Sam's gut clench and he drags his gaze to the t-shirt around Dean's forearm. He needs to finally wrap it in elastic bandages, proper care. Soon as he gets the tank filling.
They've got the first aid kit in the trunk and there might even be shoes wedged behind the old shotguns back there too. Multiple useful things for getting Dean back into a semi-working order, somewhat presentable to the public. They can trick outsiders into thinking Dean's not on the verge of ripping their throats out, at least.
As if on cue, Dean huffs an angry growl with a pointed glare out the windshield. One of his hands has landed on Sam's thigh and it squeezes into the flesh, as if to reassure himself that Sam is still right next to him. Following Dean's narrow eyed stare across the way leads to an idling truck where a man in a windbreaker is smoking.
Just like that old couple, the man doesn't appear to be a threat, leaning against the side of his vehicle as he scrolls on his phone. It seems Sam will have to get used to Dean treating every living thing outside of themselves as some sort of veiled, eventual threat. He might have always been that way, if Sam really sits there and mulls it over, but at the moment he's increasingly more obvious about it.
Sam trails unconcerned eyes past Dean's current enemy to the convenience store he's parked in front of. There's only a couple other vehicles filling the small lot, most of them here for gas rather than the snacks inside.
Sam can see the merits of buying road food here, stocking up on chips and sandwiches for the long drive so he doesn't have to try and drag Dean into a diner anytime soon. It's a little over a full day's journey from Maine to Clayton and ideally they'll make it without stopping. The sooner they get to Louisiana, the better. Dean can't afford to wait.
The urgency of the notion has Sam quickly digging out a credit card. "Dean, wait here. I'm just gonna get gas and then we'll wrap your arm properly," he says and places his hand over Dean's so he can pry it off his leg.
Dean offers the expected resistance, pushing down and away from Sam's gripping fingers. The weight of the gesture makes his whole arm tense up, and the gray cotton of the t-shirt is loose and wrinkled in comparison.
Looping a light hold around Dean's wrist instead, Sam lets his thumb stroke along the edge of the makeshift wrap, the material thin and useless and worn against his callus. He fights the urge to slip fingers up underneath it, to feel at the strange thing inside his brother's skin in search of some kind of explanation he won't find.
Sam asks, "Does it still feel okay?"
Dean's attention is still affixed to the front of the convenience store, distracted currently by a girl exiting with a slushie. But he's still listening, at least somewhat, because Sam feels the muscles flex under his hand, bicep shifting with movement, as if testing the tissue of his arm.
He exhales through his nose roughly, almost a scoff, but doesn't say anything at all. Not even a nod or a mild headshake for Sam's sake and Sam can't tell if that's a good sign or a bad one. It's not exactly out of character for Dean to suffer in silence if he can.
"Dean?" Sam prompts again, just in case Dean thinks glaring at random people is a good enough excuse to ignore him. But Dean's hand just releases Sam's leg, coming away like peeled glue, and then he's blindly grabbing at the collar of Sam's shirt. A sloppy, distracted hold.
"Mm," is the only noise he makes, slight tilt of his head.
Sam sighs. There won't be any answers either way and it doesn't really matter in the end. If it hurts, what can Sam do about it, except speed to Clayton for some kind of solution? The best he can manage is the tentative hope that bandages will keep it tight and contained for as long as they need it to. He can also get them their gasoline.
It's easy enough to unhook his shirt from Dean's absent grip, flannel slipping free.
"Roll down the window if you get anxious," he says and finds a tiny bit of humor in it as he escapes the Impala before Dean can try and snatch him back. There’s a grunt that doesn't sound happy as the door swings shut, and he skirts around to work the gas pump.
Sure enough, he's greeted by the creaking of the Impala's window crank being turned.
He doesn't look behind him to see what expression's on Dean’s face, swiping the credit card and tapping in a random zip code to get the fuel going. All of this is done with his dominant hand, which isn't normally cause for concern, but he feels familiar fingers sneak into the hand hanging unoccupied at his side.
It's occupied now, held rigidly in Dean's grip, as is becoming Sam's new normal. His bite marks burn.
A glance over his shoulder reveals Dean hanging out the window, one arm braced on the Impala's door as his chest presses into the frame. He's still eyeing the random people milling about with a suspicious divot in his brow, but there's also a wad of fast food trash in his free hand.
Dean dunks it one-handed into the can sitting beside the pump. It's a perfect shot, but there's no small celebration Dean might've made before. He merely returns to skeptically assess every single breathing creature in a twenty foot radius with a paranoid attention. The fingers in Sam's squeeze hard, both protective and restraining in kind.
But they can't stay tethered forever, Baby needs her fuel. With a short, calculated jark of his wrist, Sam frees himself and grabs the gas nozzle.
"Stay," he orders in his clipped, don't argue voice when Dean growls and tries to grab back at him. Ignoring how Dean's practically hanging out the window with outstretched fingers, Sam heads to the rear of the Impala.
As the gas fills the tank, he pops open the trunk and drags the first aid kit out. The groan of Baby's door opening has him hurrying back with the box before Dean can completely make an exit. He shoves it into Dean's lap, with an urgent, "hold this."
Dean obediently stays put, feet perched on the edge of the Impala, as Sam returns to the trunk to see if they really do still have an extra pair of shoes. Usually, there's at least something for their FBI ensembles laying around for emergency undercover operations. They can't exactly sport their ragged boots with suit pants.
Half hidden under a bag of rock salt, Sam finds a pair of leather oxfords. Their black sheen is only slightly scuffed from the last time they were worn, wiry shoelaces all akimbo. Sam holds them under the overhead lights to read the size and is surprised to find they're Dean's, with the socks still wedged in the toes too.
Silently, he thanks Baby for keeping them safe and hidden until they were needed.
"Sammy!" Dean commands from the passenger door, his head poking over the Impala's roof to stare. He's got that furrowed, somewhat stern, big brother face on that leaves no room for excuses. You've been too far too long goes unspoken in his glower and Sam shuts the trunk.
Dean's outfit is certainly going to be a choice. Too big sleep shirt full of wrinkles, loose fitting jeans, and cheap oxfords marked up with asphalt. It's the kind of mysterious combination that would spark confusion as to where exactly the wearer is going. Sam can somewhat find solace in the fact that right now, there is nothing Dean could care less about.
The shoes aren't nearly as amazing a find to Dean and he barely even spares them a sideways stare before focusing back on Sam. He's still cradling the first aid kit in his lap, and he raises his hand to undoubtedly reach for any part of Sam he can get. Anticipating this, Sam shoves the shoes into his outstretched fingers.
"Hold these too," he says and can't resist a little snicker at the way Dean's mouth twists into an offended scowl.
The gas pump has clicked off, indicating a full tank, and Sam returns the nozzle to its cradle, almost enjoying his new found freedom. Dean's bare foot kicks at the back of his calves as he does. It's not painful, but it's a demand for attention and Sam could actually laugh. If he wants Dean to keep his hands to himself, apparently all he has to do is fill them up with random junk.
Sam kicks back at Dean's foot when he turns around, meeting accusatory eyes. Dean's diligently holding everything Sam gave him, but there's a rumble of an irritated breath in his chest that makes Sam raise his hands innocently.
"What? We got a lot to take care of," he says, feigning ignorance and taking the pair of shoes back. "Let's finally get you in these. Then the arm. And then food for the road." He gestures with a flick of his head to the convenience store and Dean whips his gaze in that direction to send more suspicious looks at the passersby.
While he does that, Sam digs the socks out from their smushed up home inside the shoes. It occurs to him as he smooths them out that he'll have help Dean with putting them on, if only for the sake of time. Dean did it so often for Sam as kids, this is probably the least Sam can do.
As he crouches down and sets the dress shoes to the side, a warm wash of nostalgia scrubs over his skin, guiding his movements like a memory’s blueprint.
"Foot," he says as Dean always had before, patting his knee. Dean complies without question, leaning over the first aid kit in his lap to watch Sam with big, curious eyes.
He makes a face when Sam folds his foot into a black sock, sliding the ribbed cuff up his ankle as far as it'll go. Covered toes wiggle and stretch, whether in protest or just general disdain, Sam can't tell, but the sock stays on as intended and Dean doesn't appear to be uncomfortable. Sam expertly does the other, shimmying the cotton up Dean's calf beneath his jeans. The thick muscle there jumps when Sam's knuckles graze it as he pulls away.
"Sammy," Dean says on a drawn out exhale and it sounds kind of whiny. Sam can only assume he's complaining about having even more clothes on and he flicks a few squirming toes before shoving them into the dress shoes.
"You're gonna remember to do this yourself later, I hope," Sam says and ties the laces with double knotted bows. Taking care of Dean like this feels surreal and absurd. New. Sam's always so used to being the subject of Dean's smothering attention, coddled and pampered as if he's still Sammy, the chubby twelve year old. Sam's never really had to be responsible for another person, not the way Dean has been for him.
Before, if Sam ever tried anything like this with Dean, there'd be a guaranteed outburst. No matter how injured or in need Dean actually was. Because Dean hates being vulnerable in front of him, always wants to be the big strong unbreakable older brother. In that sense, Sam can admit it's kind of nice to help him like this without having to hear and make all the dumb excuses, upholding that false bravado.
Tucked away in a dusty leather oxford, Dean's foot on Sam's knee shakes experimentally and he makes a semi-satisfied hum in his throat. It's probably as close to approval as Sam's ever going to get.
Dean slides both his feet back to perch on the edge of the Impala and leans forward, careful of the med kit. Immediately, his hands grab the shoulders of Sam's shirt and tug him closer, like the distance between them had gone on for too long and Dean needs a recharge. Sam lets himself be dragged almost into the Impala before breathing a laugh and grabbing Dean's wrists to pluck free.
"Yeah, yeah, move over," he says, leaning through the doorway and pushing at Dean's knees. Dean's all smiles, clearly just pleased Sam is getting back into the safety of Baby's interior. Back at Dean's side.
There's a bit of a racket as Dean maneuvers across the bench seat, pulling his legs in and shimmying out of the way to make room for Sam. He slips behind the steering wheel and Sam falls into the passenger side after him, looking at his brother finally— finally —sitting where he belongs.
Sam's most familiar view of Dean is his right profile, framed against the Impala's window, with the faint shadows of light angling over his skin as they filter through her windshield. Every single iteration of Dean in the driver's seat exists in imprints across Sam's eyes the way a camera commits light to film. Images Sam has never lost, kept in every small corner he can fit them, tucked away like something precious and valuable. Each time Sam sees it, sees his brother settling in where he belongs, Sam knows he's home.
"Sammy," Dean says simply. Still with that contagious smile on his face, but the almost knowing tilt to it has Sam feeling exposed.
He nods, running fingers through his hair as if that'll keep him from getting choked up. When that rush of heat, that affection, bubbles dangerously up his throat Sam grabs the first aid kid out of Dean's arms. It's a suitable distraction, a necessity that will hopefully keep him from crying just because he's gotten his brother back.
As he digs around for the roll of elastic bandages and metal butterfly clasps, he fights away the intrusive thought that says he should just throw road safety to the wind. Just let Dean drive again. Right now, forever, the way it's supposed to be.
With the materials laid out, Sam refocuses on the task at hand, gesturing to Dean's wrapped up arm. Dean offers it with nonchalance, still watching Sam with that perceptive smile that makes Sam want to hide his face.
He busies himself with unwinding the stretched thin material, knot coming undone with too much ease. His shirt falls away from Dean's skin and reveals that eerie, orange glow underneath.
As if aware it's been freed, whatever is in Dean's skin starts to shift and undulate like turbulent waves in the ocean. Something pained and wincing fights out of Dean's throat, his fist clenching tight enough to make his arm strain with the strength of it. The letters of the Latin carved there ripple over the shifting light, shallow scars stretching and curling.
Sam swallows uneasily, stomach mimicking the roiling motions and making him feel sick. He considers the merits of just cutting whatever the fuck it is out with a bowie knife, wishes it could be so easy, so simple. But they've chosen a course of action, one that doesn't involve so many risks. Cautious and tentative and not guaranteed—but safe. For now.
He grits his teeth and applies the elastic bandages.
"Tell me if it's too tight." Sam pushes back against the writhing under Dean's skin as he winds the cloth wrap over it. Dean doesn't make any noise, sitting still and tense, and Sam might even think it isn't hurting him. But his breaths come shallowly through his nose, nostrils flaring, and the pain is obvious.
The bandage is much thicker than Sam's sleep shirt and only takes two layers to completely black out that intensely burning light. He makes it just tight enough to keep whatever is moving in there tampered down while still allowing decent circulation.
As he attaches the clasps at the inside of Dean's wrist, he can almost see the tension bleed out of both of their bodies. There’s relief at the modicum of comfort Sam gets when he can't see the thing that's clearly hurting his brother. Out of sight, out of mind, until they can scour Louisiana.
Beside him, Dean all but collapses against the back of the seat. His arm turns to dead weight in Sam's hands, face slightly flushed with the aftermath of what could only have been serious strain.
"You good?" Sam asks, subdued by the upsetting reminder of what's happening to Dean, how he can't do anything to immediately make it better.
Dean has closed his eyes, head lolled back as he regulates his breathing again with slow and steady inhales. Reestablishing a sense of equilibrium. He doesn't say anything but his right hand reaches out unseeingly to grab at Sam and Sam lets him. Finds his own safety in the fingers that clutch at his chest.
They sit like that for a moment. Sam turns Dean's injured arm over in his hold, making sure the bandaging won’t slip. He can find it in him to be grateful that whatever it is doesn't appear to be killing Dean right there in front of him. It doesn't even seem to cause him too much issue unless it's exposed to the light or air or somehow uncovered.
Sam just hopes that their mission to track down the meaning behind all those carved words in Dean's body is the right path to take. What the hell else could they do if it isn’t? Sam works best when his mind can stay on a single track, one possible course to doggedly follow with obsessive attention. Right now, that's getting both of them to Clayton as fast as they can.
Outside, the sun has almost completely met the horizon. That man with the truck has left but various new vehicles have appeared to take his place. Sam should move the Impala from the gas pumps, park her up in front of the store so he can do that supply run. He entertains the novel idea of grabbing a pack of beer alongside the necessary snacks and coffee, for when they inevitably pull over to catch a few quick hours of sleep. Nothing quite soothes Sam’s anxious nerves like a bottle of the cheap stuff.
"Dean," he says, reaching over to—he's not sure what, maybe pat Dean's cheek for attention. Dean opened his eyes as soon as Sam said his name and he inclines into Sam's outstretched hand, pressing his face against the heel of his palm.
It’s Sam’s left hand and Dean noses at the bite there.
Sam allows this too as he talks. "I'm gonna move the car, you wanna trade spots real quick?"
There's a soft hum of acknowledgment, Dean's lips angled just right to lightly touch Sam's palm. He can feel the sound vibrate into his skin and Sam doesn't imagine the way Dean seems to almost mouth at the torn skin there.
It could be construed as a kiss.
Not for the first time, Sam has the worrying observation that Dean's lips are soft. Especially against his callus rough palm.
Then he's retracting his hand despite Dean's hooded gaze burning on his face. Sam swallows down something solid in his throat and untangles his shirt from Dean’s grasping fingers too.
"I'll go around," he says, already sliding out the open passenger door. He feels Dean watch him skirt the back of the Impala to the drivers side, pulling the door open with its usual groan.
For a short moment, Sam worries he'll have to physically manhandle Dean back to the other side of the bench like last time. But Dean just shoots him a heavy look and slides over. He grabs Sam's wrist along the way, guiding him back into the Impala behind him.
They don't detach in the short journey from fuel pump to storefront, Dean refusing to relinquish Sam's hand. And Sam unwilling to wrest it free anyways. He turns the ignition back over, washing them in that silence that never fails to leave Sam's ears ringing.
"Okay, I'm thinking food for the road and then we can head back out," he says as he pockets the keys, angling towards Dean so they’re eye to eye. "I'll be five minutes tops and you can guard the Impala."
Dean blinks at him under an impressively furrowed brow. The normal color is back in his cheeks, pale under smatters of freckles, and Sam hopes that means the bandages are doing their job. Dean releases Sam's hand—and for a moment it's like he's really going to let Sam go alone. But then he's leaning back to raise his foot in its shoe and point at it.
Pursed lips part to mouth a word before speaking it and he growls, "w… with Sammy.” The words grind out past clenched teeth. He looks ridiculously adamant with his ankle over his knee, gesturing at the shoe as if his bare feet were the only issue before.
"What, Dean, no. Just wait here," Sam sputters out, already dreading the way Dean will act around the strangers in the store. All that external stimuli setting off his fight or flight instincts and making him bitey and nervous.
Dean frowns harder, if that's possible, lips pouting mightily. He smacks his foot for emphasis.
"With," he says again. Sam gets the sense that if he tries to leave him there, Dean's only going to follow. It's not really a new development.
"Fine," is what he says, ignoring the way Dean smirks with triumph.
Leaning over the back of the seat, Sam grabs his jacket and shoves it at Dean with a harsh expression. "At least wear this." Half because it's getting cooler as the sun disappears. But more because Dean's bandaged arm and ill fitting clothes could definitely draw unwanted attention. Hiding it all under Sam's jacket should make them less likely to be remembered if any police come asking. Which is exactly how the Winchester's aim to be.
Dean, still wearing that successful smirk, slides into the jacket sleeves with an ease that's so natural Sam could almost forget he couldn't tie his own shoes ten minutes ago. They've shared clothes plenty of times before, even when Sam has grown considerably bigger than his big brother. In those somewhat rare moments, Dean always manages to look very small in Sam’s oversized clothes. Just like when he would religiously wear Dad's old leather jacket.
It's not going to be said out loud, but Sam finds it kind of endearing. Especially the way Dean seems almost more comfortable in his family's clothing than his own, settling into the jacket like it's a warm, protective blanket. A soldier's armor to keep out the night and all its monsters.
"Sammy," Dean says through his smirky face and cocks his head towards the store with raised eyebrows. Sam steels himself and can only hope he won't live to regret this joint venture.
They climb out of the Impala in unintentional unison, the doors make a loud chorus of squeaks among the noise of idling engines. Dean is at his side immediately, casting narrow eyed glares in every direction as if a pack of demons might jump out at any moment.
Sam brushes off the fingers that slide under his shirtsleeve, ignoring the angry grunt it garners, and leads them through the automatic doors.
It's not a particularly large or busy convenience store, one of the many that caters to the occasional emergency stop rather than truckers or roadtripping families.
There's only two fridges, one stocked with soda and water, and the other filled with various brands of cheap beer. As for food, Sam counts four rows of shelves, one of which appears to be for random items like scissors and cat litter. He's already resigned himself to slim pickings. The place doesn’t even have a coffee machine.
Brushing his hair out of his face, Sam decides the priority is water and then something easy like chips or pop-tarts. He spares a thought for Dean and what he might prefer. But he doesn't even know if Dean remembers his favorite cereal brand anymore.
There's no hands grabbing onto Sam, his limbs weirdly unrestrained as they swing freely. For the first time in a long time, Sam actually has to look at Dean to see where he is. Which is accompanied by an odd and unwelcome feeling.
True to form, Dean is still hovering close at Sam's back, hands shoved so deep into the pockets of Sam's jacket they're straining the canvas. He fidgets, scowl affixed, as his eyes fly from one human to the next. Only two other people are in the store with them, besides the cashier, and they're hovering by the candy on the opposite end. One with a calculating stare and the other typing on her phone.
"C'mon," Sam says after making sure Dean isn't planning the best way to tackle them both to the floor. He taps Dean’s bicep, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Dean presses after the touch when he waves for him to follow along. "We'll get water and a couple of those energy shots."
At the fridges, Sam unloads drinks into Dean's hands, hoping that carrying them will give him something to channel his twitchy energy into, beyond glaring at innocent people. Dean takes them dutifully, but it doesn’t stop him from watching the whole store like they’re on some secret mission and any one person could be planning to stab them.
Sam has filled Dean’s tensed arms with a pack of waters and thrown four espresso cans into the pockets of his jacket. All the while Dean makes unhappy growling noises under his breath, considering anything he deems other through a distrusting grimace.
"Dean, chill out," Sam finally says, resisting the urge to offer him another comforting touch. Just to reassure him that they're okay. Dean only grunts, watching as the two other people pay for their candy.
It’s probably not wrong to assume Dean won’t unclench until they're safely back in the Impala. Any attempts to assuage that thrumming anticipation plainly visible in Dean’s stiff posture will likely go ignored. Maybe it isn’t the worst thing that he's on high alert. As long as he doesn't fly off the handle at the slightest misstep, it’s manageable.
Sam will try to make this as quick as possible either way.
“Snacks, and we can get back," he assures, grabbing Dean's elbow to lead him along. His touch elicits the softest exhale from Dean’s slightly parted lips, not quite relaxing but an ease melting through his tension.
An adjacent aisle has the beef jerky and some jalapeno chips that Sam grabs, on top of a small single serve of Dean's favorite cereal. As he does so, Dean stands close enough to repeatedly bump shoulders, eyes alert like some vigilant sentinel.
The closeness is stifling as Sam moves, but he can't find it in him to begrudge Dean for it, feels that magnetic pull too. That need to keep his brother within clutching distance, near enough to hold onto if he wants. He glances down at Dean, who’s gone to squinting at the young cashier in lieu of any other patrons.
"Dean, there anything you want?"
It takes a good three seconds for Dean to pull his angry eyes away, and he sweeps a searching gaze over the store’s many rows of snacks. After a considering moment, he raises a hand to point and Sam follows the direction back to the fridges. He can't say he's surprised to see the beer at the end of Dean's sincere, longing stare.
"You want beer?" Sam asks, mostly rhetorically, as he steps around Dean to dig into the fridge. Their preferred cheap brand is packed in tight on the bottom shelf and Sam raises his eyebrows back at Dean.
Dean nods enthusiastically, brows drawn together in something other than a frown for the first time since they walked in there. It's quite obviously a please, Sammy look, like he needs the permission. Sam doesn't want him to know he had already considered grabbing a pack for them before.
He hesitates, fingers looped in the cardboard case, to wonder if Dean might react badly to alcohol, with the way he is right now. Dean’s already having to deal with what appears to be some kind of lowered inhibitions, and it might be really irresponsible and negligent to let him drink on top of that.
But that concern circles the drain when Sam pictures the familiar comfort of relaxing in Baby’s dark interior, taking a swig of the cheap stuff to smooth out the bumps and bruises of their day. Like they always have.
Back, finally, with his brother for the first time in three long months.
Sam grabs the six pack and tries not to be amused by the way Dean breathes his name appreciatively. Satisfied with their bounty, Sam heads to the cashier across the store with Dean close behind.
"Evening," she greets, sliding her phone to the side and standing up straight. Sam flashes her one of his quick polite smiles, setting everything down and taking the other drinks from Dean too.
He deliberately keeps himself between Dean and the counter, feels the press of him at his shoulder blade as he unloads the items. It’s not like he expects Dean to leap across the barrier and go for her throat, but the low huff near Sam’s ear is not a pleased one and Sam isn’t taking the risk. At the very least, he can ensure Dean isn’t scaring the poor girl with his warning growls.
The cashier starts scanning the food, immune or otherwise unaware of Dean's looming presence. She looks like a college student, tired and entirely misanthropic. Enough to keep to herself and get rid of them without fanfare, Sam hopes.
Dean, behind him, takes advantage of Sam's current preoccupation with looking normal to the cashier. His empty hands dig into Sam’s shirt, fingers pressing into the dip of his back, just left of where Sam got stabbed all those years ago. The rough points of his knuckles knead into the skin there, hard enough to ache and leave throbbing pressure in their wake.
"That everything?" the cashier asks, glancing up from the register to fix Sam with a straight on stare for the first time since he came in. She blinks at him, lips parting to inhale sharply, apparently struck into expressing something other than indifference.
Her eyes rove past Sam's face, over his shoulder. He doesn't miss the way they widen.
"D-do you two need a bag?"
Sam really hopes Dean isn't making a scary expression as he fishes out his wallet.
"No, we're fine, thanks," he says, using the soft tone he always does for case victims. Calm and inviting reassurance, which will hopefully be enough to counteract whatever the hell Dean is leveling at her.
He presses back into Dean's touch, a subtle warning not to try anything funny, and hands the cashier a credit card. It's Dean's fault Sam's too distracted to realize that he probably shouldn't use his left hand to do so.
The cashier pauses, fingers on the card, and he can actually watch the discomfort creep onto her face, eyebrows raising to her hairline.
Purplish red teeth marks stand stark against Sam’s skin, especially awful under the fluorescent lights. Six little wounds in various stages of healing are torn into the thin flesh of his abused palm, each indent a perfect impression of Dean's teeth. It’s very clearly a bite. A vicious one.
Self-consciously, Sam closes his fist, as if that’ll hide it away, as if there aren’t identical wounds on the other side. He pulls his hand back and tries not to look as awkward as he suddenly feels.
She's still holding the card, watching Sam’s retracted hand and blinking like she can't quite process what she's just seen.
Dean chooses this precise moment to interrupt with a low, exasperated grumble. As if this is taking up too much of his precious time he would rather be spending in the Impala. The cashier flinches and immediately moves to swipe the card.
"Um," her voice is a little squeaky and she clears her throat. "Got a pretty mean dog, huh?"
It's obviously an attempt to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere they just rapidly descended into. Both her and Sam aware that not only has she seen the bite, but that both of them reacted a bit suspiciously to it. He curses Dean for subjecting him to this, shoving his left hand into the pocket of his jeans for want of anywhere else to hide.
Forcing a laugh, kind of loud, Sam intelligently says, "uh yeah.”
He’s trying to keep his face from flushing, because it's very transparently not a dog bite and they both know it. Dean's still standing entirely too close at his back, probably making some ridiculous glower at the poor woman. He doesn’t want to know what they must look like to her, glued together and bitten up and angry.
Sam wishes he could shove Dean back, get his hands off Sam’s skin, take the growl from his throat, dig the teeth marks out of his palm. Pretend they're a completely normal pair of brothers and not whatever the cashier is thinking they are.
"You, uh, should probably put some bandaids on those, dude," she says, carefully neutral, when she hands the receipt and card back to him. She avoids direct eye contact, gaze never higher than Sam’s chest. "We sell those too, they're by the kitty litter."
Resolutely not allowing her eyes to stray from a single fixed point, face a perfect mask of professionalism, she asks, "Anything else, sir?"
"No, no, that's fine, thank you," Sam quickly fumbles out, kicking Dean's shoe with his to make him back up. There's an affronted, unmistakable growl as Sam grabs their items. The cashier picks up her phone, furiously typing with her thumbs without another glance.
Embarrassment like nothing else heats Sam’s face red and he shoves the water into Dean's hands before he can grab at him.
"Have a good night," Sam mutters with his arms full, unable to look at her as she undoubtedly spins a story to her friends about the two weirdos she just rang up. He bolts for the automatic doors without a backwards glance, Dean fumbling after him.
Once they're at the Impala and out of the cashier's view, Sam elbows Dean in the ribs with a hissed breath.
"Why are you like this?" he whisper-yells, dropping the remainder of the snacks on top of the water in Dean's arms to fish out the keys.
Dean has the gall to look confused and a little offended, frowning at Sam like he thinks Sam is the weirdo.
"Sammy," he says, and it actually sounds like an answer to Sam's question. Like he's offering Sam up as the reason.
Sam glares at him, cheeks still warm, shame still freshly burning in his skin. He tugs the backseat door open and takes the water and beer out of Dean’s arms. As he shoves them in the empty cooler with sloppy movements, the bite catches his eyes, glaring and ugly. He can't believe he went out in public with that—that mark on him, plain as day like some kind of proclamation.
Annoyance pricks at his wounds, makes them sting when he slams the cooler shut and pulls back. Dean is standing so close behind, Sam almost collides with him and something is mounting in Sam then, huge and surging in his bones at the stifling closeness.
"Back up a little," he says, throwing the rest of their snacks carelessly in the backseat. Dean frowns, lips pursing, but his free hands are already reaching for Sam's body like it's natural. Like he'll float off if he doesn't anchor himself down in Sam’s skin.
"Get in the car," Sam cuts in, pushing Dean's grabby hands away and casting overly aware glances around. Nobody is looking though and Sam sidesteps Dean to throw himself into the driver’s seat.
He hears rather than sees Dean's predictable frustration, a huffy growl following the slam of the door behind him. Dean at least doesn't try to force it back open, opting instead to stomp around to the passenger side.
Sam refuses to watch him, glaring at his left hand in the shadows cast by the overhead lights. Exactly how difficult would it be to try and cover it up in bandages? Hide it away like some kind of secret?
The bite lines the outer edge of his palm in a wide arc starting from the knuckle of his little finger and rambling down. Wrapping his hand up, the way Dean had when Sam gave himself that scar, it wouldn’t be impossible. Cumbersome maybe, but possible.
Why hasn’t he done that already?
Baby’s door groans noisily with Dean’s entrance and it's a testament to his character that he still gently closes it. Even if he's clearly just as annoyed as Sam.
There's the shuffle of denim sliding across leather, Dean just inches outside of Sam’s space. Another growl rumbles, low and angry vibration that could match the Impala in decibels. Sam breathes so hard and heavy his chest rises and falls with it.
He grips the steering wheel with his injured hand, tries not to relish in the way the bites burn at the stretch and turns to shoot Dean a withering stare. They obviously need to draw boundaries here, real boundaries, not feeble half-talks that solve nothing. Sam doesn't need random cashiers thinking he and his brother are—not brothers. Not to mention this whole lack of physical space thing is really starting to grate on him, needling at his fraying nerves and patience.
"Sammy," Dean says through clenched teeth, upper lip threatening to curl back in snarl. He looks genuinely mad that Sam shoved him back so harshly before, but Sam is too antsy with annoyance and embarrassment to feel bad.
He scoots back against the door, a pitiful attempt to get more breathing room. Dean must take his subtle retreat as some kind of invitation, because he clambers into Sam's space again, almost aggressive, almost daring Sam to try and escape. He's got one hand braced on the back of the seat by Sam's shoulder, a knee pressed into Sam's thigh, face hovering close enough to share breaths.
Sam eases his thigh away, eyes keen on Dean’s other hand where it hovers between them, wary of its intention. "You don't gotta be this close all the time," he says, raising his own hands to yet again push Dean back.
But Dean's quicker, like he was waiting for it, and he catches Sam's bitten hand in his.
Sam can already predict where this is going, that snarl on Dean's face is sign enough, and he thinks about jerking free. He probably could.
"Dean," he says instead, and imbues it with every bit of angry warning he can muster. Jaw tight and drawn, teeth gnashing. Dean grips his wrist so hard it actually hurts, might leave bruises. Another violent surge of irritation flushes Sam's chest. Dean will mark him even more if Sam doesn’t tear himself free and he yanks against the constricting hold.
Dean, exercising a surprising amount of strength, jerks Sam's arm back hard enough that Sam's pulled towards him too. He catches himself from colliding with Dean's chest, grabbing Dean's shoulder to stay upright. Too disoriented to notice the hot breath on the skin of his bite marks.
"My Sammy,” Sam hears, roughly whispered as if Dean isn't saying it for his sake.
Dean's teeth sink in with furious purpose, jaw closing tighter than he ever has before, a bear trap on Sam's hand.
"Dean," Sam protests, wincing as sharp pain lances up his arm. He shoves back to stare at Dean, at the lips on his palm, at the wild-eyed green of his incensed stare.
Dean's mouth is hot and warm against Sam's skin, sinking into place and burrowing deep. The pain that accompanies it is still irritatingly grounding, roots anchoring inside Sam’s skin. His body wants to relax into it, muscles twitching all over in little spasms, warring with the amped up frustration he still feels.
Dean’s bite is a comfort in spite of Sam's best efforts, even when its very existence is coiling something up in Sam's gut. Has him agitated and unwilling to give in, to just lean back and let himself be calmed grudgingly. His hand shakes, tremors traveling along his skeleton and he can't tell if it's because he's pissed or something else. Dean growls against his hand and Sam's skin prickles with the rumble of it.
Alarmingly familiar teeth dig in harder, worrying at the healing wounds with renewed vigor, a renewed need to tear anew. He's gnawing into Sam’s palm as if biting down hard enough will bind them together. As if his teeth can keep Sam from ever struggling free again.
It’s almost instinct to meet Dean’s eyes, where they’re stuck on Sam’s, alight with something furious and hooded. He doesn’t look mad anymore, angry lines smoothing out, giving way to something weighted and intentional. Sam’s seen the look before, but he’s never tried to give it a name. A certain simmering heat, gaze bright like kindling flames beneath long eyelashes, and soft blinks as if Dean wants something from Sam.
Each grind of Dean's jaw has that coil inside winding tighter, teeth working at Sam's abused skin. Sam wriggles uncomfortably in the Impala’s seat, but he can't bring himself to try and pull free quite yet. Dean’s stare pinning him where he sits, restrained at the hand despite that mounting feeling in Sam’s veins. Does he want to jump out of his own skin or press his hand in harder until Dean swallows him whole? Sam has no idea.
He breaks away from Dean’s intense gaze, redirecting to stare at the mouth wrapped around his palm. Those pink lips plush and shiny like Dean licked them before he bit down, before he called Sam his again.
Dean's husky declaration echoes in Sam's head as his stare burns him alive.
My Sammy. My Sammy. My Sammy.
His.
The scar adjacent to Dean's bite runs along the line of Dean’s lip, fainter with age and healing, wet with spit. It’s a reminder, a mark of conversations when Sam was falling off the edge, when nothing felt solid, when he needed buoy, an assurance. This is real, Dean said, pressing into it.
The teeth tearing Sam’s hand bloody suddenly feel very different from that.
He breathes quick, short breaths like he has to gulp down the building realization or he’ll suffocate.
These new scars, this painful pressure in his left palm isn't saying the same thing.
It's not This is real.
It's My Sammy.
Sam's carefully rooted reality shifts slightly and he shakes a little, unsure in Dean's mouth, in Dean’s meaning. He swallows, an audible noise, and speaks past the rapidly forming lump in his throat.
"Dean, what is this?” he asks, voice high and desperate and bordering on something hysterical.
Because he doesn't understand, he thought he did, thought this was just Dean's new way of offering Sam comfort when his world is uprooted, reality unreal. Suddenly, it’s like Sam can't understand anything at all anymore, can't speak the way Dean speaks best now. All teeth.
He doesn't know what Dean means when he sinks into Sam's skin, ensuring a mark is left in his wake, refuses to let him free. Says my Sammy.
It's claiming, almost possessive. It says Sam is owned. It says Sam is Dean's.
Inhaling a shaky breath, a wave of something washes over Sam like ice water, caustic and stinging and making him want to curl in on himself. But he's still clutched tight in Dean's hold, in Dean's possession. The bite hurts, Dean's spit mixing with the freshly retorn wounds, and Dean is watching him still with that intense, hot gaze.
There's no answer to Sam's question, not with words.
Dean pries his teeth free from Sam's skin and something inside Sam comes loose along with them.
A tongue, wet and warm, swipes along each individual impression of Dean's teeth. The bite is tended to, coated and hot, and Sam just catches a peek of the tip of Dean’s tongue under the red of his lip. It’s too much for Sam, electricity shooting through him as if he's been struck.
"Stop," he says weakly, unable to quite meet those eyes that have never left him. Unable to withstand the way Dean stares at him like he might try to eat him.
“Dean," he starts, a little steadier. “Let me go."
There's no move to comply.
Dean's eyes are burning with a challenge, and then he's sucking at the edge of Sam's palm, mouthing at the torn up skin like a wet kiss. Sam sucks in a breath, that coil in his gut tightening so hard, he has to fight down an audible groan from the depth of his chest. And it’s too much, it’s unbearable and Sam’s using all his strength to tear free.
Dean releases when Sam pulls back so hard that his fist jerks away, almost hits the windshield. His palm is damp with cooling spit, red with the blood smeared across the wounds, and Dean's lips are red with it too.
Sam’s heart thunders in his chest, pulse so furious his body shakes, and it has to be anger that he's feeling, has to be sheer outrage making him hot and flushed and unsteady.
"Don't do that again," he says and his voice is foreign in his ears, hoarse and scratchy like he's been yelling.
Dean is staring at him, scowl sliding back on again like Sam's insulted him. He roughs out something growly, something aggressive, that annoyance bubbling to the surface. Dean's teeth are sharp and bright under his reddened lips, a snarl.
For one anxious beat, Sam thinks Dean will tackle him to the door, physically pin him with his whole body and bite him all over, everywhere he can fix those teeth. That fiery, uncomfortable tightness in Sam’s skin winds up at the prospect. It’s apprehension, it’s nervous.
But Dean doesn't do that.
He shoves away from Sam, putting as much distance between their bodies as possible on the bench seat. The sudden empty space is cool, helps with the stifling heat that's been searing Sam clean through. Sam wants to say he's grateful for it, but he can't seem to move, can’t do more than stare, uncomprehending.
Wordlessly, Dean tucks himself as far away from Sam as he can get, angling towards the passenger door and glaring out the window. His arms cross tightly over his chest, Sam’s jacket bunching up at the elbows, and every time he exhales it comes out a growl.
He looks honestly upset, body tense like he'll snap his jaw at the slightest prodding. Sam grinds his teeth, something indignant unfurling, because what the hell does Dean have a right to be mad about?
Sam is the one who's being treated like Dean's personal chew toy, to be bitten and played with however and whenever Dean chooses. Apparently, Sam's not allowed to complain or struggle free or demand a reason. What right does Dean have to act like Sam just smacked him across the face? Like Sam’s the jerk here?
The urge to bitch, to pick a fight and yell simmers alongside that gradually easing coiled up heat in Sam’s gut. But they have somewhere to be, more important things than whatever just happened between them, whatever's thrumming in the air between their bodies. Sam turns and sticks the key in the ignition without saying anything.
The Impala roars to life, offering a distraction from the heated, furious thing radiating in both their postures. Sam wipes his left hand on his jeans before grabbing the steering wheel, pretends not to notice the way Dean's mark stings unpleasantly.
As he drives, the space around him chilled and vacant, Sam fights down the caving in his chest that feels suspiciously like regret.
Notes:
sam/dean and petty arguments, name a more iconic duo lol. but rly sam is having some struggles today with all this dean lovin. what's dean tryna do hah? inquiring sams wanna know.
also thank you for the continued support and feedback everyone (⇀ 3 ↼) it keeps me chugging along here as we pass the 50k mark. the next update will be may 27 so mark ur calendars!
Chapter Text
Sam loathes the way he can't stop thinking about Dean, even when he’s right there in the passenger seat and resolutely ignoring him. They've driven in complete silence for something like three hundred miles now, dark and inky night settling in and the interstate nearly empty.
It hasn’t quite been an awkward ride, but it certainly isn't as comfortable as it was when Dean was cuddling into Sam’s side, content to sleep.
Dean’s still sitting tense up against the passenger side door, slumped down. He’s barely budged, only moving once to jerkily take off Sam's jacket and repurpose it as a pillow between his head and shoulder. Otherwise, Dean's been resolutely staring out the window and not much else since they left the gas station some four hours ago.
His face has been stuck in a scowl since then too, as if he's actively making sure he doesn't go to sleep because then he wouldn't be telegraphing to Sam how pissed he is. Sam would call it a tantrum, except Sam would also consider his unwillingness to give in to it a tantrum too. Which just makes the both of them no better than a pair of angry toddlers.
The thought isn't comforting, and Sam has been switching his time between watching the road, watching Dean, and debating with himself about their pseudo fight. He's come to the conclusion that it's definitely his fault they're currently tense and avoidant. His own outburst is why he's sitting here wishing Dean didn't feel so far away, fingers twitching on the steering wheel.
A ridiculous notion considering Dean's literally in touching distance, but Sam can't manage to reach over.
About a day and a half ago, Sam would've given his life to have Dean sitting beside him in the front seat of the Impala like this. Yet now, after being so wrapped up in each other—closer than they've ever been since they were kids—it feels like it isn't enough. Like there's a cold, clawing chasm surrounding Sam, uncrossable. Not that Dean even wants to cross it, refusing to acknowledge him.
It bothers Sam that it bothers him at all. He's spent the last few hours resisting the urge to bridge the gap between them, even just to smack Dean's shoulder would be a relief. The only reason they're like this is because Sam got irritable about being bitten and clung to, and yet here he is bemoaning how naked he suddenly feels without it. Hypocritical doesn't even begin to cover it.
The whole thing makes Sam want to bang his head against the steering wheel. Why did it bother him so much, back at the gas station with the cashier? Why did he suddenly feel like a spotlight was being shone on them, on all they've done? The clinging, biting, clawing thing that Dean's made of them was suddenly visible, suddenly real.
In the dingy motel room or the comforting enclosure of Baby's interior, what's been going on can be hidden from scrutiny. Out of sight and out of mind. But when that cashier stares at them with wide eyes, when Dean drags his teeth across Sam's hand and calls him his, it's unavoidable and it's dangerous.
Sam has been trying to tell himself for a hundred miles now, it’s because they're brothers. A simple statement of fact that always arrives in the well of Sam's gut like a solution, a reason, and a truth. When he's frantically thinking himself in circles, trying very hard to come up with an excuse or an answer that isn't something he can't handle, his thoughts circle back to this, a buoy in a stormy sea.
We're brothers it says, sturdy and sure, and that's enough.
Or it used to be.
After about twenty miles of Sam satisfying himself with that excuse, reason came wheedling back in with a sardonic and knowing call of bullshit.
Yes, they're brothers. Yes, they sometimes don't look like that to other people. Since when has Sam cared what outsiders thought of them? He's been mistaken for Dean's boyfriend enough now to not take it personally, most of the time he even finds it kind of funny.
If anything, Dean is the one who gets all weird about it. Which only drives home just how utterly off base Dean's recent behavior is. If he hadn't gone through whatever he went through, if he was more in control of himself, Dean definitely wouldn't be doing these things to Sam. He wouldn't be acting like this, making Sam all disjointed and out of balance.
They're brothers, they're close, they've always been attached, maybe unhealthily so. But they don't touch. Not often anyway and certainly not with their teeth. Now that they are, now that Dean has no compunctions about taking Sam in his mouth and refusing to let go, Sam's thrown. He's overheated and uncomfortable and crawling out of his skin, out of his body and right over Dean's tongue.
It wouldn't be a problem, on the surface it makes sense. Sam should be bothered by Dean biting and clinging to him, he should try and escape when his palm is caught between sharp teeth. He should yell and demand some explanation. Being bothered by the treatment is normal, it's expected. Sam tells himself that, and it would help if all of it actually did bother him.
Maybe that's the crux of the problem.
It doesn't.
Or it does, but not in the way it should.
Sam hasn't forgotten showering with Dean, chubbing up like he was in high school again. How he ran away with an anxious, fearful flush just because Dean was traipsing around naked and moaning and overly touchy.
Objectively speaking, Sam knows Dean is attractive. He's thought it before, has been told before by nearly everyone, including Dean himself. A sort of fact Sam simply accepted when he was a kid. Nothing new. The issue is now Sam thinks he doesn't just accept it, he wholeheartedly agrees with it—and so does his libido apparently.
He could sit there, pretend that he wasn't feeling his blood burning, rushing south in a way that almost had him lightheaded, back when Dean was staring at him with hooded eyes and licking into his scars. Sam isn't too big on self-denial, that's always been more Dean's territory, so he can reflect.
He can even come to accept that he might be struggling with some kind of physical attraction to his brother. Or at the very least, he's only human, and if Sam's dick wants to act like it's interested when he's being bitten and claimed then what can Sam do?
Sam can, maybe, blame it on the fact that he lost Dean so suddenly and just as abruptly got him back, but like—like this. Growly, and physical, and too clingy for his own good. But this Dean is still not one hundred percent in his right mind and Sam has larger problems with this beyond how he gets hot and nervous and sweaty when Dean licks and bites at him.
But that’s just it. It’s Sam’s problem, not Dean’s. Not shared between them, for once. Sam clenches his injured hand tight around the steering wheel as a mile marker flies by and there’s something resolute in the ache of it. He has to deal with this weird, internal issue on his own, not punish Dean for it.
Sure, maybe Dean is the one instigating, maybe Dean is the one crawling over Sam and marking his territory, maybe it's Dean's fault Sam even has to feel this way.
But Dean can't be held responsible, when it's pretty obvious he just wants Sam, close and familial and safe. Like he always has, he just has a very different way of showing it now. Sam can be understanding, Sam can take it for what it is and force that heated, uncomfortable fist clenching under his skin to loosen up.
So what if he gets uncomfortably hot at being marked up? So what if Dean likes to touch him constantly, keep him close and warm and in constant orbit? So what if Dean acts like Sam belongs to him? How bad can it be, if that's something Dean needs from Sam right now?
It's Sam's duty as a good brother to give Dean what he needs—to help him, whether that be giving him attention, holding his hand, letting him nip at Sam's fingertips. If it sometimes makes Sam feel kind of strange, well nobody has to know that but Sam.
Finally, something that makes sense is forming in the swirling, circling mess that's been Sam's thoughts since he yelled at Dean.
Sam's limbs, taut from all the worrying, all the needy, regretful insinuations, can finally ease into something a little more manageable. His frantic, aimless mind has willfully come to the same conclusion his body's had for the last four hours.
He misses Dean's touch, and he owes Dean that touch.
Simply that, and Sam's back on course. He's shifted around, reasoned himself somewhere sane, somewhere that makes sense. No longer off kilter.
A furtive glance in his peripheral shows Dean still embittered as ever, drawn stiff against the door. Clearly, Dean hasn't been desperately trying to find reasons, explanations, not like Sam's been.
Maybe Sam should apologize. For pushing Dean away, for getting pissed when Dean can't seem to help himself, for denying Dean access to physical comfort just because Sam felt off.
Sam's hind brain might interpret possessive bites and blatant declarations of ownership as somewhat non-platonic, but that doesn't mean Dean intends it to be that way. Sam belongs to his brother, what else is new? It's not like they've ever consistently had anyone else in their lives. In a way, Sam's probably always been Dean's—his brother, his partner, his only person.
He's just got some marks to prove it now. It’s not that different from the tattoos over their chests.
Sam tilts his head then, suddenly struck with a yearning in the cage of his ribs, a want that sinks in deep like Dean's teeth. Like the point of a needle.
They should match.
The black ink of their tattoos are the same, same place, same design, created at the same time. A mark on each other's skin that's always been a declaration of its own. Over their hearts, they say protection, they say family, they say ours.
Sam's tattoo is Dean's and Dean's tattoo is Sam's.
They should match.
Sam's right hand reaches out to bridge the space between Dean himself, a quick start of movement like if he doesn't go fast enough Dean might escape.
His eyes don't stray from the highway ahead, illuminated by the yellow of the Impala's headlights, so he doesn't see how Dean reacts to his fingers pressing to his chest. It's almost embarrassing how much relief the feeling of warmth, that steady heartbeat brings as it radiates against Sam's palm.
There's a grunt, almost surprised but in that huffy, adamant way. Sam inches his fingers blindly across Dean's chest, far enough that he leans a little across the seat.
Knowing Dean's body as well as his own, Sam gets a tight hold on his right arm easily, digging his fingers in. He keeps his gaze forward facing, ignoring the confused noise in Dean’s throat, and grips hard so he can jerk Dean towards him.
A shocked, muffled growl and Dean’s scrabbling against leather, trying to stay upright. It puts Dean's right hand in front of Sam's face as intended, and Sam slides his fingers down Dean's arm to encircle his wrist. Dean is surprisingly limp in his hold, hand hovering between Sam's mouth and the steering wheel. No attempt to pull free.
Sam glances away from the road for just an instant, just enough to see the unmarred skin of Dean's palm, pale and lined and callused. No scars to be found in the heel of it, not like Sam's—not matching. Sam wants to laugh at the odd feeling that this observation bubbles up in his throat. A sort of jealousy, maybe? Envy? But he doesn't laugh.
He bares his teeth and bites into Dean's hand.
Dean’s skin is salty and rough against Sam's lips, and the way it gives under Sam's teeth is oddly cathartic. The urge to bite down harder floods Sam's system, heady and hot like blood rushing. Dean yelps, a squeaky intake of gasped breath, and his fingers twitch against Sam's cheek, reflexive.
Even that is satisfying. It makes Sam dig his teeth in, breaching the flesh, and he clenches his jaw so tightly it aches. Beside him, Dean is shaking, Sam can feel it where they're connected, skin to teeth, but he doesn't look away from the road to see. To try and gauge whatever reaction he's getting.
"Sammy?" Dean almost whimpers, closer to Sam's ear than Sam realized he was sitting and the sound is pitiful and delicious. Sam should bite even harder to hear what other noises Dean will make.
He does, tastes the smallest bit of blood on his tongue, and that's delicious too. The growls and grumbles Sam's grown used to hearing are long gone, replaced by soft, pained whines in the depth of his throat. Noises that Sam doesn't think he's ever heard Dean make before. Not quite pained, not quite hurt. But desperate and strangled, revelatory.
Dean doesn’t try to escape Sam's mouth. He doesn't even seem to be moving at all from where he's pressed close to Sam's side, bridging the gap as if it never existed. As if Dean has no other place he'd rather be.
There's not even a token struggle against Sam's teeth, Dean's utterly frozen. Something about his stillness, the way it's at odds with those weak sounds past his lips, makes Sam's jaw tremor. It's hard not to take advantage when Dean just allows him to do as he pleases, only makes those quiet little cries as his palm bleeds.
Sam can't help the way his tongue presses against the backs of his own teeth, running against the seam of where they cut into Dean's skin. It sends a strange thrill through his chest, makes him exhale heavily through his nose, and he doesn't try to analyze the unbidden urge to bite down even harder. To sink inside until they can't come apart.
Another vulnerable noise eases out of Dean's mouth and he pitches forward, pressing his forehead into Sam's shoulder. As if he doesn't have the strength to stay upright anymore, or maybe he wants to curl into Sam, thinks cuddling up to him will make Sam stop. The idea of it has Sam feeling vindicated, though he doesn't know for what.
"Sammy," Dean says and it's more like a moan than a whisper, high and rough and choked. Almost needy.
The sound brings Sam to his right mind like a rubber band snapping violently back into place, and Sam quickly pries his mouth off Dean's hand.
His teeth come free and he glances down to assess the damage. The flesh of Dean's palm is dark from irritation. Sam just makes out the red marks of his bite before he looks back at the road.
It makes his gut flip.
He notices he's smiling when his cheeks start to hurt, lips pulling and half out of his mind. A mulled, pleased heat settles inside him. Satisfaction with the results of his hard work bleeding onto his tongue, alongside the riling urge to sink his teeth right back in.
Dean shifts against him urgently, wrist tugging a little in Sam's grip. Sam feels him turn his head, gaze finally sliding off Sam's face and leaving him cooling in its absence. No doubt Dean is examining the aftermath in his palm too, the marks of it. His temple rests on Sam's shoulder, expression hidden by the angle of their faces.
Sam should probably let Dean go.
This makes sense, he shouldn't be holding his brother hostage like this. But it still surges something angry and disagreeable up into Sam's mouth anyway.
He squeezes around the bone of Dean's wrist once, hard enough to elicit another one of those noises. Then he shrugs the shoulder Dean's leaning into, forcing him to sit up straight, slightly thrown. The bitten hand in front of Sam's face clenches and unclenches. Dean's staring at him again.
"Sammy?" he says, in that throaty growl of a voice, but it sounds raw, exposed. Still needy. Dean doesn't usually sound like that, at least not in front of Sam, and it's making him want to bite him again.
He's losing it. Maybe Sam is channeling Dean too much. Is this what Dean feels when he insists on digging into Sam, on claiming him?
That weird protective, desperate need to make Dean the same as Sam, to make them match, is violently thrumming with the heat in Sam's skin. It's sinister and conniving, tells him to match is to be safe, protected. Family. If they share these bites, they're each other's. Just like their tattoos.
Suddenly, Sam wants to feel the marks, the spots he's staked out in his brother's skin for himself. He inches his fingers up to brush his thumb against the bite marks, finding them by touch alone as he watches the highway disappear under the Impala's hood.
The impressions are deep and there's the moist remnants of blood and spit mingling. Dean exhales sharply when Sam's thumbnail presses into one, mimics the cut of his canine tooth. The quiet sound makes Sam's grip tighten, that flip in his gut somersaulting into something else. Something familiar. Sam's overheating.
This definitely doesn't need to go any further, though he's not quite knowing what this or further entails. But it isn't what he should be doing while driving nearly eighty down I-68.
It actually takes physical restraint to release Dean's hand long enough to grab the steering wheel.
He smiles at the soft protesting grunt Dean makes once they lose contact.
With his scarred hand free from driving, Sam can tangle their fingers back together, just the way Dean does lately. Dean immediately winds into Sam's hold and his fresh bite must sting, Sam knows from experience. He hopes it aches, hopes Dean's smarting from the remnants of Sam's teeth. Sam's smug with it.
Dean squeezes Sam's hand in his anyways, regardless of any pain he might be feeling. Both their bites pull with it. Sam's probably forgiven now.
Even if this was just another kind of outburst, it was one that spoke Dean's new language.
Their clasped hands rest on Sam's lap and he chances a quick glance at Dean, who's sitting in the middle of the bench, facing Sam with one knee up on the seat. His lips are parted and his eyes look wet and shiny in the headlights.
Sam can't stare at him too long because he doesn't want them to drive off the road, but he wonders if Dean's about to tear up right there beside him. He's wearing the kind of expression he gets when Baby's been freshly washed or a random dive has that greasy triple patty burger on the menu.
Somewhere between awe and love.
Sam looks back at the road.
"Now we're even," he says lightly, almost casual.
Their fingers are wrapped up at just the right angle for Sam to prod a knuckle at the bite marks he's just made. He does so because he feels like he should, it's practically instinct.
The torn skin is satiating, these injuries that he created, modeled after the curve of his own teeth. Sam can understand why Dean keeps biting him if it feels like this. Why he keeps the mark from healing over completely and enjoys the permanence of it. It's fulfilling, it's a comfort.
Maybe both of them will have to put up with the curious and embarrassed eyes of strangers, but for some reason the idea rests much better in Sam's chest. They're the same now. Both marked like this, matching injuries.
Sam's bites are Dean's and Dean's bites are Sam's. Claimed.
My Dean.
Sam pauses, knuckle pressing hard into Dean's wounds.
The movement elicits a single, short whine past Dean's teeth and he's clenching his fingers into Sam's skin in return. Not a protest, but a reminder, a reassurance.
Dean exhales then, an almost relieved chuff of a laugh, and Sam can't help but look over.
That huge, boyish grin is spread on his face, all the familiar lines, the white teeth. Dean's beaming, good humored, and relaxing next to Sam like everything has finally slotted back into place. Like the world is right again. Home.
My Dean, Sam can't help but think again.
He focuses back on the road, face warm. Maybe he can't argue with the sentiment. After all, they have the matching marks to prove it.
"Sammy," Dean says, sounding soft and low, affectionate even. "S'okay."
It’s easy to understand.
They're okay.
Dean settles in then, getting nice and comfortable now that he's much closer. A knee presses into Sam's thigh, and Dean's shifting to rest his cheek against Sam's shoulder again. He's radiating body heat, all security and contentment, and Sam's stomach eases from those rolling, uneasy flips of before. Muscles he didn't even know were tight come loose as the chasm is crossed, all the empty corners filled up with Dean.
Dean's breath is warm, ghosting over Sam's collarbones. Sam can feel more than hear him whisper. A rough and tender, "my Sammy."
Something simmers in Sam's veins, warmer than blood. Now Sam understands what lies in those two words. The claim, the assurance, the warning. He doesn't think beyond that, he just takes Dean and his new state as it comes.
They're okay. They're each other's.
It’s enough.
Around three in the morning, when the night is as black as it's going to get, Sam is surprised to find he's sleepy. His eyes feel heavier with each blink, dry. They drag against his eyelids every time he forces them back open.
He's been driving for nearly 12 hours at this point, breaking only for quick pit stops like gas and the toilet—something Dean apparently did know how to use, Sam was more than happy to find out.
In the night, highway rest stops are ghost towns, not a soul but tired staff members too busy with their own jobs to give them the side-eye. That's good news for Sam, because it means Dean isn't flipping his shit. It's been rather uneventful to this point, Dean being pliant and good and weirdly engrossed with the new bite on his hand.
Meanwhile, Sam has taken to counting the minutes in between his yawns like lightning and thunder when it’s raining. Except these numbers indicate how close he's coming to passing out behind the wheel. He's driven significantly longer distances in his life, hell, a day ago he was going on 36 straight hours with only breaks for gas in between.
This should've been a walk in the park and yet here he is, blinking away the bleary smudges of sleep in his eyes. He feels slack and lazy. Even though he managed to down two energy shots from the cooler, he's shutting down.
Close at hand as usual, Dean's stretched back out on his side, propped up against Sam's hip with an elbow situated between Sam's thighs to stay somewhat upright. His knees are raised to fit his feet on the seat which makes his legs bow so wide it's kind of funny. He's taken to entertaining himself with their hands, comparing the bite marks, the lengths of their fingers, occasionally nibbling on them when he gets really bored.
If Sam had known how utterly enthralled Dean would become with his own bite, he might not have made it. It's led to a ridiculous amount of staring and poking and, on one memorable occasion, licking. All his attention is rapt on his own palm, rather than Sam's, which would normally be appreciated if it meant Sam was free to use both his hands for once. But nothing with Dean is so easily escaped.
A firm, unrelenting grip on Sam's injured left hand has been dutifully maintained at all times. Dean only swaps it for other parts of Sam when they're leaving the Impala and that's probably just because Sam gives him a look if he tries otherwise.
Overall though, biting Dean back has been a productive means of communication, if only because it means they're no longer angrily avoiding each other. Sam could almost say they're even on the same page now, more or less.
There's still issues with personal space in public, a clingy behavior that makes it difficult to move much less get anything done. Then there's the rapidly upgraded levels of intimacy tricking Sam's body into thinking things are significantly less platonic than they actually are. Not to mention, Sam tucked his teeth into the skin of Dean's palm, marked him up in retaliation, in ownership.
Now Sam can barely look at their matching bites without feeling that inexplicable heat. It's an awkward and suspect turmoil that Sam has been successfully preoccupying his tired brain with. Muddled enough to stay firmly awake.
Until now, that is. With the dark endless stretch of highway ahead of them, and Dean still solid and warm and real against him, Sam's barely keeping conscious.
He should start looking for a shitty motel to hole up in for at least a couple hours, even if the prospect of wasting more time frustrates Sam’s fuzzy brain. Time better spent in Clayton, better spent on fixing Dean.
Not to mention Dean will complain about leaving the Impala as he always does, with his teeth and grumpy sounds.
As Sam finally refocuses his blurry vision to read the nearest sign, he realizes with a start that he's drifted into the opposite lane.
His heart lurches, lungs sucking in, and he rips his hand free from Dean's to grab the wheel at 10 and 4, sharply steering back.
Dean flinches with an unhappy growl, digging his elbow into Sam's thigh as the Impala veers right and straightens out. It's probably less because Dean's worried about Sam, than he is Baby.
Sam huffs a shaky breath.
"I think I gotta pull over a second," he says, defeated, but too tired to muster up anything except half-hearted annoyance with himself.
They need to get to Clayton. Dean's arm isn't going to heal itself, and the longer they take, the more risk he's putting him in. But right now, the biggest risk is crashing to their deaths, and Sam is so tired he could fall asleep right there in the front seat.
Dean makes an affirmative grunt and sits upright, still close to Sam, as Sam carefully pulls off onto the nearest wide shoulder. He lets the Impala idle, headlights bright, and yawns so big his jaw cracks. Dean's eyeing him up and down, assessing.
"Maybe we should find a motel," Sam suggests, stretching his arms up and over his head to pop the vertebrae in his lower back. He flops down with a groan and glances over for Dean's opinion.
Dean's face is half illuminated by the glow of the headlights, pale and not nearly as tired as Sam is. He's still looking at Sam, narrowed eyes and calculating furrow in his brow, like he's coming to a conclusion.
Unsurprisingly, he grabs Sam's hand in his, mashing their palms together in what could almost be an afterthought. Sam is more distracted by the way Dean's lips part to form a word before he says it, just a flash of tongue behind them.
"No," Dean protests, looking quite serious with that frown. "I—" he pauses a moment, staring at the steering wheel intently like it has the answers written in its grooves. A swallow. "I drive."
Sam's instantly skeptical.
Maybe Dean can drive now, maybe they don't have to sit there and relearn something like that, maybe they'd be that lucky. It makes sense considering Dean drives better than he breathes, but the idea of letting him take over when Sam can't stay awake to supervise has anxiety fluttering in Sam's chest.
"No way."
When Dean opens his mouth again, Sam quickly plows on. "Not because I don't trust you, it's the middle of the night and neither of us have been sleeping. You driving isn't any safer than me right now."
Mostly not a lie, but Sam knows from experience that Dean could drive straight for three days if they needed him to. It's mechanical. However, Dean's different now and Sam's currently half awake.
He says, gently like it's a compromise, "let's just sleep at a motel for a few hours."
"No," Dean's response is immediate. He's definitely going to say that word all the time now that he can.
Sam's stalled from trying to come up with a placating excuse by the pull of his hand being raised up into dangerous territory, just a breath from Dean's mouth.
But Dean doesn't bite into him, only exhales a frustrated noise.
"No. My Sammy," he says plaintively in that rough way, as if it's an answer. To Dean it likely is.
Sam's fingers are warm and damp from Dean's breath. He can't tell if Dean is opposed to motels because they're public property filled with Not-Sam, or because he really wants to drive. The possibility that it's both is almost guaranteed.
"Well we're not driving anymore so it's the closest motel or we sleep right here."
They've slept in the Impala millions of times, though less and less the bigger Sam grew. These days it usually happens when they're waiting on their new fraudulent credit cards to appear and the pool money's run dry.
Sometimes too when they're feeling a little clingy and the distance between motel beds sounds too big. Not that either of them would ever admit it out loud.
"Here," Dean says with a head tilt towards the back seat, oddly verbal at night in the middle of interstate nowhere.
Sam raises his eyebrows and shrugs easily, because it's not surprising Dean would rather stay here than anywhere else. Bunking together in the Impala, close enough to reach, alone together.
"Fine," Sam says, turning off the engine and setting the keys on the dashboard. He leaves the headlights on, for the sake of maneuvering around comfortably as well as keeping her black chassis obvious on the roadside.
Dean looks visibly pleased, grin on his face as if he's accomplished some secret mission. Sam is almost suspicious of it, but he can't imagine what for.
"Let me go, I wanna move the cooler," he says and immediately knows it's the wrong thing to say. The hand gripping his squeezes with enough force to make Sam's knuckles twinge.
"No," Dean says, past closed teeth, distraught and demanding as if Sam just suggested he go sleep outside. Sam frowns at their linked hands, unimpressed.
"No what? I can't move the cooler?" he asks, unendingly patient despite how much he would rather be horizontal and unconscious. He yawns again, his body forcing its needs into his lungs and inflating them for a long, tired moment. The next yawn might actually suffocate him.
"No," Dean just says again, unhelpfully. He looks pretty resolute, the familiar pinch in his brow now accompanied by a frustrated pout.
Sam doesn't have the energy to coddle Dean through whatever this is, so he wriggles his hand free with some serious dexterity and turns around to grab the cooler. It's not even a little surprising when Dean makes an indignant grunt and hastens to wrap his fingers up in Sam's shirt instead.
"I'm just moving the cooler," Sam says, already hanging over the back of the seat at his waist. He picks it up, intending to shove it in the footwell, but the lid pops open and nearly smacks him in the face. Inside, the last energy shot and six lukewarm beers stare up at him.
Sam eyes the drinks, suddenly contemplative as the weight of Dean's hand tugs insistently at the side of his flannel.
He's on the verge of collapsing into a happily unconscious state all on his own, but Dean might actually benefit from some beer. It would certainly help him ease up, maybe lull him enough that he'll quit grabbing so steadfastly onto every part of Sam he can get. Finally relax so Sam can clamber into the backseat and pass out.
It's worth a shot.
"How 'bout a drink?" Sam asks, already grabbing two necks in one hand and shutting the cooler. Dean's got the tail of Sam's shirt in a fist, holding on like Sam's leaning over the edge of a cliff and he'll fall to his death if Dean lets go. The prospect is sort of humorous, if only because Sam’s whole life Dean’s treated him like that.
Sam's smiling when he settles back on his ass, and Dean doesn't release him, the material of his shirt straining into a twisted mess of an angle. The buttons look a little desperate, reminding Sam of the last poor flannel that was subjected to Dean's abuse. Using the bottom of one of the beer bottles, Sam shoves at Dean's fingers in a polite request for release.
His effort is successful in that Dean frees the poor wrinkled shirt, but immediately wiggles around to grab at somewhere less easily guarded. Sam anticipates it though and blocks Dean's hand with the beer, satisfied when Dean's fingers close around it instinctively. There's the grunt of mild annoyance and Sam ignores it to pop off the caps of both drinks.
"Here's to figuring it out," Sam says and chuckles because otherwise he'll sigh and overthink their situation to death. He taps the necks together in a toast, enjoying the familiar clink of glass, before raising the bottle to his lips and waiting for Dean to follow suit.
But Dean just stares at him for a long moment, effectively disrupting the little toast as Sam hesitates.
Then his free hand is snatching Sam's beer right out of his fingers.
"Dean—" Sam's gaping as Dean chugs some of Sam's beer like he's trying to drown in it. "What the hell, dude?" Sam's saying, not quite irritated but confused as to why he's suddenly become a victim of theft.
Dean lets out a quenched ahh and puts the beer back in Sam's open hand. It's about half full now.
"My Sammy," Dean states with a grin like that explains it.
He burps, clearly pleased with himself, and holds out his own beer towards Sam. Its mouth is angled forward like Dean's offering to make amends, but Sam just blinks and doesn't take it. He can't quite decide if he should try to rebuke this behavior or understand it. He can only think it's some weird way to assert dominance or else something equally stupid.
When Sam doesn't take Dean's beer in return, Dean just shrugs and starts in on it himself. Apparently, whatever strange new habit this is, Dean's not absolutely set on it, and Sam decides against probing for an explanation. Instead, he takes his own distracted swig of beer, still staring at Dean with a perturbed slant of his eyes.
Dean returns the gaze, smiling, and grabs Sam's left hand again. Rough fingers stoke the open palm, scratching at the bites almost absently, and Sam lets him with a soft sigh. It's not like he hates it, anyway.
"S’good," Dean says after swallowing down what actually looks to be the last of his beer. Downing one and half beers in less than ten minutes can't exactly be considered unusual for Dean, but it might not be okay to drink so fast considering his current indeterminate state. Sam can't exactly do anything about it now though, other than make sure Dean stays hydrated.
In any case, Sam's more interested in Dean's rapidly growing vocabulary, words coming to him quicker and easier the more time that passes.
Smiling around the mouth of his nearly empty bottle, Sam asks, "How much can you really say?" He's half teasing, another yawn fighting up out of his mouth, scrunching his face. "You just growling at me 'cause you're lazy?"
Dean sets his bottle in the little trash collection he's got going and doesn't appear to be preparing any answers for Sam's questions. Not that Sam is surprised really, lately he's gotten quite good at talking into the void and receiving nothing but touchy hands and growling in return.
After tucking away the empty bottle, Dean's full attention falls back on Sam, pinning him with oddly bright eyes under fanned lashes. He licks his lips, maybe catching the remnants of the cheap beer on them, and their hands are still entangled. These two things turn out to be related, Sam finds, as Dean leans forward and slides Sam's palm in between his teeth.
There's the increasingly familiar throb of wounds reopening and Sam imagines he can feel the alcohol seeping in alongside it, warm and honey sweet. It sends a swirl of similar texture through the hollow in Sam's stomach.
His beer is practically gone and he drinks the rest down for want of something to do other than stare openly at Dean's mouth on him. Like he always seems to do. Sam probably won't ever ever grow completely comfortable with this, the weight of it, the strangeness. The way it never fails to make his skin itch and his spine prickle with small bursts of discomfort.
Now, knowing what it feels like to be on both ends of this bite, the sensation is even headier. Dean's teeth cutting into his skin, sinking down like a trap refusing to give is oddly intoxicating. Knowing the way Dean must feel, that ache in his jaw that says bite harder, that says mine, Sam's fingers tremble. He's flushed with it, with this sense of owning and being owned, the potency.
It's a bit like their beer. Swallowed down and permeating through the walls of Sam's insides, always leaving that warm, feverish awareness in its wake. Distinctly pleasing in spite of the heat.
Sam can only hope Dean won't use his tongue again, because he doesn't have enough clarity right now to properly react. Not that he knows what the proper reaction is when your brother mouths at your skin.
He huffs a frustrated breath. This is not what he wanted to be thinking about before going to sleep. He's exhausted out of his mind and his faculties are starting to slow down little by little, everything hazy around the edges.
The beer could've been the one to blame if Sam had actually gotten to drink more than a few gulps of it. On the other hand, Dean must be pleasantly sated, and he looks to be, cheeks slightly pink under the freckles. Sam admires the ruddiness of them, has the half-formed impulse to wipe at those freckles and see if they'll come away.
Dean, under Sam's cloudy stare, finally releases his bite. Sam's palm is awash in damp breath but he's more concerned with Dean's mouth, slick with spit and shiny in the headlights. His lips are redder than usual, plush and soft—something Sam knows for a fact now.
The memory of Dean's teeth in his bottom lip flashes by, uninvited. The sharp bite of them as they nipped at Sam's skin and tugged, just for a quick second, but long enough that their breaths mixed, that Sam could feel Dean's lips on his own. Their mouths were closer than they'd ever been, Sam's pretty sure, and he frowns, suddenly curious if that counted as a kiss.
Another yawn struggles its way out of Sam's mouth, constricting his airways as he considers this. His mind works at half power, sifting around aimlessly before finally resting on the answer, no. But then skipping over to then what does? Followed, quite problematically, by this should be tested.
Sam's not drunk, it was a half a shitty beer, but he's certainly sleep deprived and his inhibitions and general intelligence seem to be hovering just outside his reach. He keeps glaring at Dean's lips like they've personally offended him, because they have. All glossy and red and inviting.
He wants to feel them on his own again.
Impatiently, Sam waits for something to happen, closing his eyes in expectation or more likely to fall asleep. His eyelids are heavy when they drift shut, settling in for the long haul as darkness engulfs him like a nice blanket.
His body is still upright, still slumping lazily in front of Dean, and as his head lolls to the side, callused hands cup his cheeks. They support him easily enough, one brushing his hair out of his face and Sam half smiles because it's so Dean, even when he's like this.
"Thanks," he whispers, blinking his eyes open and debating the merits of just lying down here in the front seat with Dean. They'd hardly fit, at least not comfortably, unless someone lays on the other, and Sam's keeps that tired little smile at the image. He should probably tell Dean to let him go and fall into the back seat like usual.
His gaze refocuses, preparing to do just that, but Dean is much closer than he thought. Sam can actually count his ridiculously long eyelashes, dark over a pair of clear eyes, green and huge and more familiar than Sam's own.
Sam is struck with the ridiculous impulse to tell Dean he's pretty, since he is, he's kind of always been. But he doesn't, because Dean—any Dean—would not appreciate the sentiment, probably.
He stays silent and sleepily lets Dean hold his face. Dean’s right hand is torn from Sam's teeth and he can feel the uneven injury of it on the skin of his cheek. If Sam turned just barely, his mouth could touch the bite there. He could sink in again, never release.
Though that requires more mental acuity than Sam currently has. He should probably be sleeping instead of gnawing on his brother. Same for Dean. They both need to hurry up and pass out, get back on the road as soon as possible.
He wants to close his eyes again, to lean into Dean's touch and drift off, but Dean's breath is hot as it ghosts over Sam's chin. He didn't realize he could feel it until just this moment, the wet puff of heat.
Pulling his lip between his teeth, Sam’s suddenly thinking too hard about Dean biting that lip, about the potential of kisses, about his weird, inappropriate reaction to Dean's proximity.
Sam's drowsy eyes can kind of make out the track of Dean's bright gaze, the way they stop at Sam's mouth like usual, staring. Sam wants to tell Dean he can relate, parts his lips to do that—but there's something warm in the way.
It tastes like the faint remains of beer against Sam's mouth, just on the edge, and it's soft, insistent. At the same time Dean's eyes are closing, eyelashes brushing cheekbones, and he looks good and Sam would tell him but Dean's kissing him.
Dean's kissing him?
Sam's sleep addled brain says somewhere vaguely this isn't supposed to happen, sends dull little alarm bells. But he squashes them down because it's not what he wants to hear, allowing Dean to angle his face to properly slot their mouths together.
It's not gentle, Sam can already feel Dean's lips giving way to teeth, so he sucks the bottom one between his own just to remember the bit of taste that isn't the beer, the bit that's just Dean. A familiar growling hum vibrates up through their mouths, tickles against Sam's lips and it doesn't sound unhappy, less warning than encouragement.
Dean's teeth bite into Sam's lip, just like the last time, hard enough to make Sam hiss in a breath at the sting of it. He starts to recoil, but Dean's still holding him by the jaw, and then Dean sucks at Sam's lip, kind enough to run a soothing tongue over the bite of his teeth.
It's not a new feeling, being kissed and tugged at and bitten through, but it's Dean doing all this, it tastes like Dean, it feels like Dean. Sam should say something, do something and he's about to bite Dean back to get him to let up, to get some breathing room, some semblance of clarity.
But when he opens his mouth, Dean's tongue slips inside like it was some invitation.
Sam feels Dean against his teeth, running along them as if he can taste his own skin there, his own blood from the bite Sam sunk into his palm. He licks into every bit of Sam's mouth, curling along Sam's tongue like it's just another place for him to mark. Like Dean can claim him in this way too, leave his taste and his touch behind for Sam to prod at later.
The idea is as irritating as it is appealing and Sam groans against Dean's lips. He wants to return the favor, wants them to match, wants to shove his tongue into Dean's mouth and leave the feeling behind. Just like the bite, just like their tattoos.
He presses up and forwards so quick their jaws collide jarringly, and a breath punches out of Dean's chest. Sam ignores it, shifting the kiss and pushing his tongue past Dean's lips, over the teeth he's had in his skin too. The bite in Sam's left hand is aching as if remembering with a reverence, the phantom sting of those very teeth tearing through it. Longing for it.
One of the hands on Sam's cheek flies down to grab at his shirt, for purchase or to jerk him around Sam can't tell. He doesn't do anything to escape the clutching hold, too engrossed with the way Dean's tongue feels under his own, overly hot and tasting almost familiar now.
But then they're falling backwards, mouths breaking apart, and Sam's shoulders hit the drivers' door, practically on his back. Dean follows so quickly it had to be coordinated, crawling up Sam's front, and he bites at Sam's mouth again like he can't get inside unless he's using his teeth to do it. Sam only just catches the flush of his face, the way his green eyes are hooded, his lips sucked red, all because of Sam, before Dean's tongue is back on his.
That familiar coiling, tight heat is back, amping up into unbearable territory in Sam's gut and there's no doubt in this moment as to what it is. Not anger or frustration or offense, but a bubbling, simmering overheated need. An arousal that makes Sam's whole body tense under Dean's, angling towards him as Dean sucks on his lips, licks at his tongue.
A growl spills into Sam’s mouth, urging, and something inside Sam solidifies at the sound of it, brought to attention. His hand flies up to grab Dean's hair, buries in the crown of it, just long enough to get a nice grip. He has the intent, semi aware and semi hard, to tug Dean up off him—he's kissing the shit out of his brother and he shouldn't be doing that.
But when he pulls, Dean just groans against him, pulling back enough to lick at Sam's open mouth.
"D-De—" Sam barely musters, voice like rocks in his throat. It's meant to be protesting, some pathetic syllable to give them a second to breathe, give Sam a second to get a hold of himself. Of the interested strain in his jeans.
Dean doesn't wait for Sam to say more, leaning down to bite at his jaw, just where he had last night before recognizing Sam. His lips close to suckle at the skin, ensuring something is left in his wake, and it's almost painful, just this side of a sweet sting.
Sam's panting heavy breaths and he's still got a grip on Dean's hair and he should use it, should pull Dean away. But he doesn't move, doesn't object when Dean's hand skates down Sam's front to the end of his shirt, sliding up under. It's even more heat on Sam's already sweat damp stomach, muscles fluttering under the ghost of Dean's fingertips as they find his chest.
Something even tighter, even hotter chases after the touch, something like anticipation, and then there's the light scratch of fingernails against Sam's nipple. Too deliberate to be unintentional, it shoots a spark directly down Sam's torso, a streamlined connection to his dick.
Sam flinches away from the fingers at his chest, further into the seat beneath him, actively clamping his mouth shut to barricade in the whimper that tries to escape. It's going too far, too heated, too fast, and all Sam can think to do is tug at Dean's hair, sharp and meaningful.
Dean allows himself to be pulled back, coming off Sam's jaw with a wet sound so he can stare down at him with an open mouth, shallow breaths loud in the Impala. Sam meets his stare and is so completely struck at the sight of Dean hovering over him, haloed by the yellow of the headlights. His hair is wrecked in Sam's unrelenting grip, lips swollen from Sam's teeth, soft exhales, nothing more than little growls out of his throat. He looks down at Sam like something regal, eyelashes long over hooded dewy eyes.
His abused mouth slides into a smirk, exposing vicious teeth. Predatory and smug. Sam wants those teeth in his skin again but he doesn't know how to say it, doesn’t want to say it. Dean runs a tongue over his bottom lip, slow deliberation.
"My Sammy," he practically purrs, a confident proclamation.
A noise is strangled in Sam's throat, agreement maybe, and Dean's fingers press back at Sam's chest, clawing in his skin and roughing against the nipple there. Entirely intentional. Another one of those sparking thrums of sensation radiates right down Sam's front, winding heatedly below his navel.
"Dean," Sam tries, and it's supposed to be admonishing, but it sounds like encouragement.
Dean rumbles, practically indulgent, and pushes down with his whole body so they're touching from chest to hips. The weight situated between Sam's legs is a welcome pressure, feels like Dean's solid thigh, and Sam bucks up against him, just a bit, completely involuntary. It keeps that coiled, heated thing simmering, makes his dick jump in the confines of his underwear.
"Sammy," Dean puffs out in a half whisper, almost strained, as that smirk falls to something a bit more affected. "Sammy," he says again, like a plea, desperate and needy. Sam doesn't know the intention, can hardly focus on anything besides that distracting friction he can get if he angles his hips just right.
Dean has a hand planted against the door over Sam's head, leverage so he can lean back in for another one of those hungry, biting kisses. His fingers all the while abusing Sam's chest, making that coiling, damning heat so much worse as Sam writhes helplessly under him, chasing some relief. Sam lets his mouth be taken, enjoys the way he can hide those pathetic little sounds in his throat by moaning them into Dean's.
He's fully hard in his ratty jeans and he feels delirious, feels sweaty and out of his mind as he raises his hips to meet every hard press of Dean's weight over him. Practically rutting against the line of Dean's hip.
A delicious and familiar wave starts to build up under Sam’s skin, burning and sweetly torturous. It's hot to the point of being stifling, Sam can hardly breathe, but he's whining into Dean's mouth, mindlessly straining into Dean's touch, and his eyes burn like they're tearing up.
That coil of tight heat is wound up and aching low in his gut, directly tied to the base of his cock, leaking and obvious. Sam can only think that he wants to get off, wants Dean to moan and cry and bite at him until they're both coming, on each other, with each other—the last thing of Dean's he's yet to have.
The pressure from their hips alone isn't enough and Sam sucks at Dean's lip as he slides both hands down to his ass, maneuvering him into the perfect angle with ease. Dean doesn't object to the manhandling, he never does. When they resettle, Sam can feel the length of Dean's own hardness press into the divot of his hip bone, the way Dean bears down on him with stuttering movements.
There's the wet pop of Dean pulling off Sam's mouth, one last bite at his lip, before he turns to bury his forehead into Sam's neck with a desperate little noise. It sounds no different from the ones he made when Sam bit holes into his hand. Like he was getting off to it before, getting off to Sam's teeth on him, and Sam's cock twitches in his jeans, pressing up into Dean's solid weight with a shock of shivering heat.
Maybe they both have an unidentified biting kink. Sam's injured palm is burning like fuck where it's digging into the rough denim over Dean's ass and he's overwhelmed with the sudden, wanting ache to have Dean's mouth on it again. To have Dean bite back into the marks he made, made just for him. Sam would even take biting down himself, that heady feeling of teeth sinking into the fleshy give of his brother.
He bucks up again, shaking, and can't stop himself from gasping out, "bite, Dean, bite." And he has no idea what the hell he's even asking for, what he wants Dean to do about it, but his voice is all needy and high and whining, and Dean moves.
Thrusting down against Sam's hip once with a rough, tremoring exhale of damp heated breath against Sam's throat, Dean slips his hand out of Sam's shirt. It snakes down Sam's sweaty, oversensitive skin, muscles quivering, and then he's prying Sam's arm up and away in unforgiving fingers.
Sam almost cries when he feels the sharp contact of canines biting back into his left hand, tearing it anew in a rush of spit and pain. Dean digs in hard enough to make Sam groan loud, twitching in his jaws, and feeling the wet heat of blood. It hurts, It hurts, and Sam's whole body is alight with it, searing clean through, adrenaline flooding up underneath and he's so hard in his jeans it almost hurts even more than the teeth.
He can only rut harder, desperately seeking relief in Dean's body, an outlet for the pent up, painful rush of that tight heat. He meets Dean's thrusts one for one, breaths frantic, movements erratic, and his focus zeroes in on that clamping, unrelenting bite in his palm as an oppressive heated wave builds, spikes.
It's embarrassingly quick when it hits him, his whole body locking up and releasing with a rush of warm, sated, honey sweet. He lets out the longest exhale, a moan that tapers out into a pathetic gasping whimper at the end, cock spent sticky in his boxers. He’s shivering, chest still heaving, and Dean doesn't release him from his teeth.
The bite is like a vice, a restraint that keeps Sam attached, keeps him together. Despite the ache of it, the burn and throb, Sam just presses in harder against Dean's teeth, more encouragement. He's practically drowning in a cooling afterglow, that heat seeping out of his pores, but he cants his hips up and gives Dean the perfect necessary pressure he needs. And Dean's hard against him, pressing down like he wants to burrow into Sam's skin, desperate and keening.
The noise Dean makes when he comes is softer than Sam expected, no rough animal growl, but a desperate exhale that gets tangled in his throat and only barely escapes to make a sound.
He collapses down on Sam, prying his teeth free and licking at the fresh bites with a few tender drags of his tongue. Sam tries not to preen under the care, lets himself melt into the bench seat like so much liquid.
"S'mmy," Dean whispers into the quiet of their shared panting breaths, and he's sliding up Sam's body to kiss him again.
He only sucks on Sam's tongue for a moment, seeming to relish in the taste, before pulling back and looking at Sam with an odd expression. It's one Sam recognizes from before, when Dean was still Dean, all soft lines and gleaming eyes. His tongue flicks out to suck in his bottom lip for just a second before curling into a small, private smile that's almost indulgent.
Dean drinks Sam in, here in post-orgasmic sleepy haze, and Sam's seen his expression before.
He doesn't know what that means.
Notes:
"emotional slow burn" indeed >:) so much happens in this chapter i've been dreading posting it since day 1 haha MY NERVES. that's why it took so long to get it out today, my apologies T_T
chapter 9 will arrive june 1! and wow it's almost june :O i was excited for summer trips but instead i'll be watching netflix, reading danmei novels, and editing this fic in the safety of my home haha ur comments/kudos shall fuel me onwards!!
Chapter Text
More thought needs to be relegated to the part of Sam's life that involves getting off with his brother. However, resolutely attempting to skirt around it and play dumb sounds significantly more appealing.
Sam's awake and sore and he doesn't want to open his eyes because then that makes it real. Everything feels shaky, uneven, completely and utterly thrown somewhere off into the distance Sam can't even hope to make sense of. What exactly happened last night between him and Dean—and it sounds terrible when it's put like that—under the haze of dull headlights, shitty beer, and sleep deprivation?
If he tries to pin it down, tries to find it wherever it's run off to, he might have a complete breakdown. Sam cannot afford to have a breakdown right now.
The voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Dad tells him he has more important things to worry about than his mental and emotional stability. Buck up, it says in that gruff tone that leaves no room for dissent, your brother needs you. Surprisingly, it's the only thing that feels solid in Sam's frantic, thudding nonsensical head.
He has to help Dean. His arm is fucked up, and they have to get Clayton because he's in danger, because he might never recover. Sam doesn't have the time or the wherewithal to spend agonizing over something as dumb and banal as rubbing one out in the middle of the night with his brother.
They used each other to get off, sleepy and inebriated, and it didn't mean anything—it can't. Dean's life, his safety and his comfort, that takes priority over whatever existential crisis Sam could overthink himself into. Dean needs him focused, needs him to compartmentalize. Sam can rationally reason last night away into the minor slip-up it was. He can.
If anything, what happened was just a poor combination of separation anxiety, pathetically untended sex drives, and their special Winchester brand of fucked up. Making out and dry humping each other is probably one of the less terrible things they've done before. When it comes to their lives, to the choices they've had to make, the sacrifices and the mistakes, last night's actions seem practically harmless.
Especially when Sam doesn't overthink them.
So, he digs a tiny mental moat around the part of his mind that thinks he might want to fuck his brother, and swims off the island.
A successful suppression.
Outside the Impala, the sun is rising and it hurts Sam's eyes when he opens them.
He can't see the time anywhere, but he's spent long enough on the road to know it's around seven in the morning now. Dew coats the windshield, fogging it up with a misty film, and it would probably be cool inside the Impala if Sam wasn't currently underneath a heavy, familiar weight.
Dean's laying on him, half hanging off the seat, with his face tucked into the crook of Sam's neck. Sam can feel him snuffling against his skin, a little drool and overwarm breath, typical Dean things. He knocked out pretty quickly once he knew Sam wasn't going to try and escape, after—after they both came in their pants, sticky and disgusting and uncomfortable.
Sam realizes he's an idiot, if only because they're wearing the last of the clean underwear and now that's ruined, crusted up and itchy. Somehow, he managed to sleep through the discomfort in his pants. Probably something to do with getting off spectacularly for the first time in years and having Dean's heavy, warm presence crushing him like a weighted anxiety blanket.
It's always easier to pass out when you just finished a half-awake rutting session.
A full body shiver starts from the crown of Sam's head down to the ends of his toes. Suppression isn't working as well as he had hoped. Every time his thoughts stray back over to the fact that he came in his boxers to the press of Dean's hips on his dick, another one of those shivers overtakes him.
The worst part is he doesn't think it's because he's disgusted.
Before Sam can derail again, Dean grumbles at his throat and pouts. Sam can't see him properly, but he feels the lips touch his skin and resolutely does not think about the fact he knows not only what they taste like, but what they feel like sucked between his teeth. Because it's the exact opposite of what he should be thinking about.
No more mulling over this and that about Dean and coming and kissing and—they need to get to Clayton. They've wasted enough time fucking around and sleeping, and who knows what could be happening to Dean's arm as the sun moves in the sky. It would be best if they got the hell outta dodge as soon as possible. There's only about six hundred miles to go if the last sign Sam remembers seeing was right.
"Dean?" he says, and his voice sounds like it's gone through a meat grinder and come out the other side missing some chunks. He clears his throat, tries to generate some spit, swallows.
"Dean," he says this time more firmly. "Get up, we gotta go."
His hand rests suspiciously against Dean's waist and he slides it up to push at Dean's shoulder, instead. It's urgent enough to jostle the heavy weight on top of him, Dean shifting slightly. But he doesn't do anything other than press harder into Sam's throat, tickling up under his jaw with his hair.
Sam resists the ridiculous urge to stroke the back of Dean's head, pet down the fluffy hair, overly affectionate. The implications, under direct sunlight are a bit too much for Sam to deal with right now.
He smacks Dean's arm, platonic and brotherly.
Dean groans with obvious protest, but makes no move to get away from any future attacks. The vocalization vibrates against the thin skin of Sam's throat and another one of those suspicious tremors wracks through him.
"S'mmy," Dean growls out, sounding worse than Sam had when he first spoke. It sounds more like a general complaint, the way Dean's always been when Sam tries to wake him up. Scruffy and displeased and burrowing deeper down with soft, grumpy noises into the sheets until Sam gives up. This time though he's pressing into Sam's body, snuggling close, like if he clings hard enough he won't have to wake up.
Sam smacks his back this time, enjoying the slap of his palm on the flat expanse of it.
"Get up or I'm gonna throw you off," he warns, inhaling a deep breath that lifts Dean slightly with the raise of his chest.
There's another unhappy noise and then Dean is finally shifting to prop himself up on top of Sam. He's all mussed with sleep, the imprint of Sam's shirt collar on his cheek, and his face is red where it was pressed into Sam's skin. His lips still look a bit... rough.
Sam can't stop staring at them.
"Sammy," Dean says and his tone is admonishing, somewhat judgemental too. His eyes look foggy and half open as he squints at him. Sam isn't quite sure what he's being judged for, hopes it's just because he's making Dean get up before the sun's risen completely. Not anything to do with anything else that happened.
As if in answer to Sam's concerns, Dean leans forward without a word and kisses Sam directly on the mouth. No teeth or tongue, just the press of lips on lips and then he's using Sam's chest to push himself fully upright.
It's so casual Sam just lays there for a second blinking furiously while Dean settles back in the passenger side between Sam's bent up knees. His face is still lined with freshly awoken grogginess, heavy blinks and furrowed brows, and clearly not at all affected by what he's just done. With a yawn, he stretches.
Sam doesn't know if he should tell Dean not to do—that. The kissing thing.
He doesn't say anything, just scoots with jerky movements into a sitting position and runs his fingers through his hair a few frantic times. His eyes are glued to the steering wheel in front of him as he sits there, stock still and overly stiff. Sam really did not want to think about it all, didn't want to try and work out the repercussions of what happened with Dean just in arm's reach. Everything's gone totally sideways, Sam included.
Sam's axis is tilted all the way to the left, so far it's completely horizontal. It's so much farther off kilter than it's ever been, off course and lost. So utterly thrown, Sam can't even tell if it's horizontal anymore, maybe with everything going upside down, that axis—that sense of morality—has really just righted itself instead. Locking into the position it was meant to be in.
But that's ridiculous because that would imply kissing his brother is something Sam's always wanted to do. Which can't be true.
He digs the heel of his palms into his eye sockets and decides thinking hard is for people who've had more than a couple hours of sleep—and haven't done questionable things with their brother.
There's the shuffle of jeans on leather and Sam glances up to see Dean digging in the cooler behind them, resurfacing with water bottles and the bag of beef jerky.
Sam watches him fall back into the passenger seat and hold out all the goods, trying very hard not to let his wayward thoughts show on his face. Not that Dean would even notice if he were flushed with mortification because he can't stop prodding at the fact that he and Dean did weird things last night.
True to form, Dean's busily uncapping the water bottle with a serious face, taking a swig as if this is a very integral task. Sam watches him drink, the bob of the adam's apple in his throat, and can't help but swallow too.
Dean pulls the water from his lips with a satisfied little inhale and then offers it to Sam. "Breakfast," he says without struggling for the word, mouth shiny and red.
Sam stares for a moment, because it seems like nothing has changed between them. As far as Dean's concerned anyway. It's almost suspicious.
The water bottle shakes impatiently, Dean eyeing him under his serious frown, and Sam quickly nods. "Yeah, yeah okay."
He takes it and chugs the rest of the water, because he realizes he's severely dehydrated and the lukewarm water's like heaven going down. He can feel it fill his stomach, swashing around in the mostly empty space.
Sam hasn't eaten anything in a while, the last thing being that shitty beer last night. The alcohol that was supposed to help them sleep better, ease Dean's tension, and help Sam sneak off to sleep in the backseat.
It certainly didn't do that. In fact, it did the opposite. With a queasy slosh of water in his gut, Sam has the sudden, anxious concern that everything that happened last night—the actions that led to their post-coital, sticky state—was actually his fault.
Giving Dean the beer, even when Sam has no idea what kind of effect it would have on him, in his current state, did this all happen because of that? Sam chokes a little on the last of the water, pulling it away with a quiet gasp. Did he take advantage of his inebriated brother? Was Dean just buzzed? Did he even really realize what was happening?
A mini panic starts to mount up in the pit of his stomach, uncomfortably mixing with all the water in there, and Sam's eyes sting a little because if that's the case, then it's Sam's fault. If Dean only did those things because Sam stupidly gave him shitty beer then Sam ruined everything, Sam did this. His throat's tight, breaths short, because fuck, did he just completely fuck them up?
"Sammy?" Dean's leaning into his space, staring at him with a concerned pout on his lips. He raises a hand to Sam's cheek, reminding eerily of last night when it was dark and warm and Sam could barely make out his expression.
Sam nearly flinches back, nearly jerks away from Dean's familiar, roughened palm because it's too much, too strange and new. But he manages to restrain it to little more than another one of those discomfiting tremors. Dean presses a thumb under his eye as if to brush something away.
"Okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, and his tone is soft.
It's soothing, or it would be, it usually is, but the last time they were like this Sam got kissed by his brother. He can't do anything more than a simple, jerky nod of his head. Just sharp enough to shake Dean's hand from his cheek, get that familiar callused heat off his skin.
Dean just settles it on the juncture where Sam's neck meets his shoulder, refusing to let Sam completely pull back. If Sam looks down at it, he would see the red and angry remnants of his teeth in Dean's skin. He would see them for the first time in sunlight and his entire body draws up tight, twists around with something Sam will call shame.
So much happened last night, even more than the kisses and the orgasms, and Sam really can't afford these reactions, this aversion. Dean will notice and only cling to him harder, since he clearly doesn't care about what's gone on between them. Or isn't in the right mind to do so, anyways. Sam has to get himself on track, get them on track like Dad always said. He has to be the stronger of the two of them right now. Dean needs him to be.
And—and they could talk about it.
Sam could make sure Dean isn't traumatized, at least not more than he clearly already has been. He could make sure that what happened was, is, a one-off thing that absolutely will not happen again. It was a mistake on Sam's part, letting things go the way they did, but it's not going to ruin them. He can make sure of that.
Sam nods again to himself this time, because yes this is a solution. A talk. They can do that now, the whole talk about their feelings thing. Dean has been more receptive in their old age and especially now, where he can't cut Sam off with some blithe and awkward joke. Where he won't avoid the conversation because he's uncomfortable and Sam's being annoying by forcing him to have an emotional conversation.
Though words might not be easy for him, Dean, at least right now, is pretty good at listening and showing Sam how he feels. Sam's optimistic.
"I'm fine," he mumbles finally, under the watchful stare of his brother, and Dean definitely won't be convinced. But they should eat and get back on the road before they have any kind of sharing is caring conversation.
Sam pulls away from Dean's grip on his shoulder and feels the dry, stiff material of his boxers rub against his groin. He makes a face. They'll also need to change, or at the very least turn their underwear inside out, preferably at the next gas station bathroom and not on the side of the road. It would be kinda funny to Sam if he wasn't so embarrassed.
His cheeks feel warm when he grabs a piece of beef jerky from the bag Dean's already torn into.
Dean's ever present stare bores into the side of Sam's face as he chews, simmering with his usual suspicious and protective instincts. Sam's used to being the target of that stare and he just tries to enjoy his dried meat in silence. It's not easy because his mouth feels like something died in it last night. Probably his morals.
Sam almost makes himself laugh a sad little self-deprecating thing. "We should get back on the road," he starts, trying to throw his thoughts into something a bit less sardonic. He swallows. "We can change our, uh, pants at the next gas stop."
Dean tilts his head, eyes rolling skyward and piece of jerky half sticking out of his mouth. Then he's glancing down at the crotch of Sam's jeans and Sam doesn't miss the smarmy little smirk that slides across his face. The same kind of expression he always gets when Sam and porn are mentioned in the same sentence, or when he's planning on getting off in the next hour and for some reason Sam has to know about it.
Maybe the both of them rubbing one out on each other wasn't ever that farfetched. Dean would probably argue it's almost economical.
"Dean," Sam says, glaring at that stupid smirk, and trying to look very put out instead of whatever's making that flushed heat creep up in his neck. Dean eats the rest of his jerky with a wink and Sam is very tempted to shove him really hard just so he'll quit looking at him like that.
Why is he not surprised Dean would treat last night like it was all some funny joke? It's practically Dean's default state when anything happens and Sam's annoyed because, of course, what they did is more serious than that. But also because Sam wishes he could so easily brush it off.
At the very least, their eventual talk should go well if Dean's not too affected. Though how he can manage that, Sam wants to know. He sort of feels like he'll never really be able to go back to one hundred percent normalcy now that he can remember what Dean's mouth tastes like, the noise he makes when he comes.
Sam rolls his eyes at Dean to keep himself from doing anything else.
He grabs another piece of jerky, shoving it in his mouth before busying with the task of adjusting his poor clothing back to a semblance of order. It got all twisted up and around from all the wiggling around last night and if Sam fixes it, he can wipe away the evidence best as possible.
Dean watches him as he munches, looking pleased as pie. His own clothing is wrinkled to all hell, even worse than it had been when he first put it on, and Sam is already dreading the next gas station visit with the two of them looking roughed up and slightly debauched. Hopefully more like they got in a fight than anything else.
Heaving a sigh, Sam scans the dashboard for the keys. The faster they're heading out, the faster Sam can put everything about this side of the road pitstop in the rearview mirror. Fortunately all the shuffling around in the front seat last night didn't displace them. Sam's fingers have just enough time to graze the metal of the keyring before they're ripped away.
Snatched up in Dean's hands.
"I'll drive," Dean says, wearing that intense this is very serious, Sammy expression, furrowed brow and pouty mouth. Sam scowls at him, already shaking his head, and reaches for the clenched fist Dean has protectively curled to his chest.
Dean lurches his hand back and behind his body, avoiding with expertise. Sam has a distinct case of deja vu.
"Seriously, dude?" Sam says on an exhale that's half frustration and half apprehension. He really does not want to repeat the incident from before, all the wrestling and biting and flailing.
If only because now, after last night, the connotations of it will feel completely different.
Or will they?
Dean growls in his throat, less anger than a challenge. He shoves the beef jerky into Sam's open hands and bolts out the door before Sam can tackle after him. Not that Sam was going to do that at all, he's had enough bodily contact with Dean for at least a few days. But he guesses Dean doesn't know that.
Unsurprisingly, Dean appears at the drivers side, pushing at Sam to topple him out of the way. Sam reluctantly gives in because the alternative is Dean full on scrambling over his legs and into his lap. He does not need that and so he grumbles under his breath as he slides his giant frame into the passenger seat.
Dean also has the emotional advantage, slotting himself behind the wheel where he belongs and making Sam want to get all weepy again. He can't help it, he desperately wants to let Dean drive, let his big brother take over the whole operation and assure Sam everything's gonna work out fine. As long as they have each other and Baby, how bad could it be?
Sam blinks away the dewy shine in his eyes and clears his throat. He still expects to have to give Dean some quick lesson, some direction on how to get started, considering everything else he's had to reteach his brother lately.
But Dean is wearing that oversized happy grin, eyes disappearing in crows feet, and he shoves the keys into the ignition like it's natural, more natural than anything he's ever done.
Sam supposes it is, as the Impala roars to life, comforting both of them with her pleasant and familiar rumble. Dean targets Sam with that grin and Sam involuntarily returns the expression, his worries dissolving in his throat.
The sunlight is bright now, Dean's familiar profile backlit by the glow and making Sam want to settle happily into the passenger seat. Finally at home.
Dean shifts into drive, smoothing his hands over the steering wheel with a loving sigh. He glances over his shoulder, checks the mirrors, tests the acceleration, so casual with it all. The revving of the engine has his grin going all toothy and he laughs when Baby's tires spin in the gravel. They speed off the shoulder and back onto the road with ease.
Sam presses back with the momentum, and he's surprised he's not more frantic at the abrupt roaring Impala's engine and the wind whipping past. It comes so effortlessly to trust Dean with her, he can't find it in him to be nervous.
They tear down the highway at a respectable speed and Sam can't take his eyes off his brother. Dean's ridiculously happy face, the way he's so relaxed, finally back where he's always belonged, finally okay.
"S'good," Dean says through his grin, glancing over at Sam with such a quick intimacy, "bein' back."
It sounds so natural, looks so much like any other day in the life of the Winchesters, Sam can almost pretend. He finds himself laughing, settling into his side of the Impala, his place, a seat he's practically molded to his body over the years. Every anxiety that's been gnawing at him washes off like dirt from his skin. At least for a few moments.
"Music?" Dean asks without struggle, still grinning all big and innocent and easy. He chances a hopeful glance at Sam and Sam wants to immediately deliver, keep the happy big brother that he's always known, always understood, sitting beside him. Pretend it's all fine and they're Sam and Dean Winchester, brothers.
Like he doesn't know how the inside of Dean's mouth tastes or the face he makes after he comes in his jeans.
"In a sec," he says and bites his lips, working through his thoughts to put them into an order that'll make sense to Dean. He doesn't want to dampen the atmosphere, desperately he wants to deny anything ever happened and enjoy the fact that they're here, together in the front seat of the Impala, Dean behind the wheel.
But he can't. He owes it to Dean, he's a good brother and he's going to sort everything out.
They have to talk about it or Sam's going to stew himself into a fit and he really doesn't have the emotional capacity to deal with all of it alone. Dean's still smiling, revving the Impala's engine with a happy little chuckle and apparently unaware that anything's wrong at all.
Sam debates with how best to address the situation, already tempted to back down and shove a tape in. He knows they need to have some boundaries here, knows that what happened last night shouldn't happen again. It doesn't matter if Dean's fine with it, if his hind brain thinks it's perfectly alright to pin his brother down and rut against him like an animal.
Even if both parties are consenting, as much as Dean can anyways, they're brothers. They can't.
Sam clears his throat, runs his hands through his hair.
"Dean," he starts after a deep, preparing inhale, "about what happened last night…." He glances in his peripherals to gauge the attention level.
Dean's grin has shifted, not as wide and toothy now but still quirking up, a little pleased. Sam would be encouraged, but he feels like it only means they're not at all on the same page about this.
"We can't—you shouldn't do that, okay? I shouldn't have let… us do that."
Those words wipe the expression off Dean's face, morphs it into a scowl as if Sam had just reached up and hit him. Dean breathes out an unhappy exhale, loud enough to be heard over the purr of the Impala, and his hand tightens on the wheel. It's the bitten one, the one wearing Sam's mark, and it must hurt and pull when he clenches his fist.
Something flares uneasily under Sam's skin and he watches Dean's clutching hand for a long second. He doesn't know if Dean's resisting the urge to grab onto him or if he is. Either way, it's a good thing Sam decided to start this conversation while Dean was driving and unable to physically tackle him to the seat. To bite him.
"No," Dean says plainly, and it's rough and low and more gravel than voice. He punctuates this declaration with a heavy browed glare directly at Sam before returning his eyes to the road.
Sam scratches at the suddenly itchy bite on his own palm, the barest hints of healing forming at the edges of the wounds. His nail catches and the tug of it sends an unwanted heat down his spine. He quickly drops his hand.
"No what? I get, y'know, needing to relieve tension or whatever, but we can't… do that, okay? If you need to in the future, we can find someone at a bar or something, not—not me."
Dean huffs an angry growl of a sound, lip curling to show teeth, and pressing the acceleration harder almost distractedly. His right hand whips over to grab at Sam's arm and the grip is hard and painful and clinging. The way Dean has held onto Sam when it's dangerous, when he can't let Sam out of reach.
It has Sam flinching, overly aware that it's the very hand Sam sunk his teeth into that's digging into his bicep. He wants to struggle free on principle, because Dean's touch makes him warm and uneasy, because he hates it when Dean jerks him around.
But he also knows throwing Dean's fingers off him now is only going to make their conversation harder than it already is, so he lets Dean skate anxious fingers down his elbow and tangle their bitten hands together. It aches all the way up Sam's arm in a trail of sparking nerves.
"My Sammy," Dean declares, finally letting off the gas a little and bringing the Impala back into a safe speed. Sam can't say he was worried.
The more pressing concern is what exactly Dean is trying to say, clutching at Sam, calling Sam his.
"Okay, but we don't do that, Dean. We never do that," he emphasizes, trying to impress the fact that Dean would not have wanted to do something like that before whatever happened to him happened. Sam banishes the intrusive thoughts of Dean's expression after—after. The familiarity of it, the way Sam knows he's seen it before.
The fingers in his wiggle so they can scratch at his bite marks, tearing into new scabs again, invigorating the scar tissue to stitch itself anew. Dean is still wearing that scowl.
"Want Sammy," he says, guttural and plaintive and imbuing much more meaning into the two words than Sam ever thought they could have. He feels the thing in his gut coil back up, clenching his abs and making him want to squirm out of Dean's grasp.
"That's—I'm your brother," Sam chokes out, not quite sure what the statement is supposed to accomplish. But it's his truth, his fact, the one reality Sam can always depend on when he's distressed, when nothing makes sense and everything's gone sideways. It's supposed to mean something safe and real and grounding. It only makes Dean's grip on Sam's fingers squeeze tighter.
"My brother," Dean says, a simple repetition of Sam's excuse, but when it slides past Dean's teeth it feels different. Like it means something else. He angles his gaze over at Sam, licking his lips in a way that Sam can't say is platonic.
"My Sammy," he furthers, as if building on the first declaration with the logical conclusion that follows. "Mine." His voice is harsh, ripping up his throat and spilling out like razors. They cut into Sam's insides, make his gut roll and flip uncomfortably. The nails in his palm scrape with purpose, like Dean wishes they were his teeth instead.
Sam's whole body is awash with a painfully familiar heat and he's really starting to think he's underestimated exactly what happened to Dean. What's happening between them. He needs to reorient his approach in dealing with this new, strange Dean. Recognizable yet different all the same.
Something instinctive and shameless has overtaken Dean's usual sense of self, making him almost predatory, almost animal in his behaviors. Obviously, Sam knows this. But he needs to take it one step further. If everything is torn down in Dean's head to its most basic level, most bare, then so too, has his interpretation of their relationship.
That sense of ownership Dean's always sort of felt about Sam, it's stripped and laid out, beyond what's normal, accepted—even platonic. After all, what's more basic instinct than sex? It might just be a natural, primal reactionary behavior. The result of something traumatic, a desperate self-defense mechanism that Dean can't help.
The flipping, overpowering force in Sam's gut settles then, into something a bit more manageable.
Dean isn't possessive and clinging and biting like this because he's—he's in love with Sam or something equally impossible.
It's just a result of what's happened to him.
This is supposed to be a relief of an observation, a welcome conclusion to explain away the weirdness of everything that's happening between him and Dean, but it sinks into Sam's chest and leaves something hollow and wanting in its wake. He doesn't prod at the emptiness.
"Okay, Dean," Sam says, diverting his attention to setting boundaries, to getting Dean back on track. "Yeah I'm yours. Your brother, and you're mine."
Dean immediately relaxes at the statement, soft exhale and the gentle slide of his fingers in Sam's. He's not back to smiling, but the angry twist to his mouth has evened out, brows no longer creased. Sam mulls the best way to draw the line between their touchiness and full blown orgasms, where exactly it should be struck down.
They can't be getting off together again. It just can't happen. If Dean desperately needs to blow off steam he can do it alone, or at least without Sam's input. That seems like a healthy enough place to start. No more rutting up against each other, no more coming in their boxers to the press of each other's weight. Sam can't maintain his tentative hold on his sanity otherwise.
Touching though, is probably okay. Dean's grabby hands, his clutching and biting. Sam can survive that. He bit him back, after all. Plus, Dean would revolt if Sam tried to insist on any kind of permanent no-touching rule. Sam gnaws at the inside of his cheek. But what about the—the kissing though?
It can be construed as platonic, family members kiss on the mouth sometimes, Sam's pretty sure. Not them, but some people. Maybe that can be their compromise. If Dean absolutely insists on doing something beyond their usual, comfortable hand-holding and occasional bites, Sam can distract from it with a kiss.
He can handle that much, if he absolutely has to. If it means no longer coming in his pants. Sam's underwear is flaky and itchy and a horrible, disgusting reminder of all the mistakes from last night. All the shame and heated embarrassment.
Sam strokes his own healing bite he tore into Dean's skin like a bratty kid and Dean almost shivers under his touch, a slight stutter in Sam's hold. Something satisfied simmers in Sam's skin, but he doesn't try to understand it.
"Pull off at the next exit," Sam says after clearing his throat. "We need fuel. And clean underwear."
There's the humiliatingly familiar sound of chuckling, Dean clearly still humored with how they blew their loads together and each ruined their only boxers. It would be nice to hear the casual laughter of his brother, something Sam's been without for a few months, something he didn't realize he missed.
But Sam can't quite share the sentiment. He's too busy telling himself he won't let last night happen again.
Clayton is humid and clammy and overall miserable. Sam can feel the change when they roll into town.
It's not unexpected, Sam's been subjected to the swampy trees and mosquitos of southeast America too many times to count in his life. He knew it would paste his flannel to his skin like a wet blanket, clog his airways with soupy mist, but experiencing it first hand is always significantly worse.
It was stupid to hope just because winter was steadily approaching, Louisiana would've gotten the memo. They didn't, and it's still warm and wet, akin to driving through a bug infested sauna. Even Dean is suffering, slumped in the driver's seat, already having cranked the AC up to full blast.
The drive following their impromptu nap on the side of the road has been more or less uneventful. Dean insisted on driving the last two hundred miles, not that Sam was eager to replace him, and this resulted in Sam playing GPS while simultaneously trying to explain to Dean that they couldn't touch 24/7 if he was driving.
Dean kind of got it, at least he couldn't force Sam to cuddle up to him while he drove, and just settled for refusing to release him. This inevitably got old when Sam wanted to shift his position and couldn't without pulling Dean along and risking road safety.
Thus, they spent the majority of the long stretches between pit stops with Sam's socked feet wedged under Dean's thigh, back propped up against the passenger door. It was painfully reminiscent of their childhood, all those hours spent on random, raggedy couches while Sam did his homework and Dean watched crappy television.
Sam was more surprised his body still fit that way in the Impala. Though he's always had flexible hips, his knees were only six inches from the roof.
He alternated between napping, with Dean's hand wrapped around his ankle, and making sure Dean didn't drive them down the wrong highway or into a ditch.
There were attempts at communication. Sam lobbed questions at the side of Dean's head like a kid at a dunk tank, hoping one would hit something useful. Things like "Where did you go?" and "Then what happened to your arm?" and "Well, what do you remember?" and "You're not just acting like you don't know for my sake, are you?" Along with several iterations of those same four inquiries.
Dean, a professional at dodging questions or genuinely unable to answer them, would only shrug. Or give Sam little pouty looks with a grumbling, "Sammy." Or divert attention by messing with Sam's accessible feet and legs. Tickles and pinches and scratches, like they were 4 and 8 again with Dad yelling cut it out boys. It was annoying but it was nice too.
Fortunately, no further mouth to mouth kisses occurred.
The interrogation was fruitless anyway. It only made Sam even more impatient to get answers. What the writing carved into Dean's skin meant, the weird thing happening with his arm, his odd behavior.
Not knowing anything bugged Sam enough to distract from the entire non-platonic ordeal with his overly attached, possessive brother. He focused instead on the more pressing matters, as it should be.
As the night grows muggier and noisier with night insects, Sam hopes at least some of those mysteries will come to make sense.
Clayton has one singular main street where its two gas stations, one post office, and city hall sit in faintly lit buildings. They pass four churches in the five minutes it takes to get from one end to the other. Down a side street, Sam catches a small grocery store and what might be a roadhouse bar as they near the tiny river that brushes up against the edge of town.
It's the kind of place you might miss entirely if you blink too long. Small, empty, and forgettable. Sam can't imagine how anything in this unremarkable place could possibly help Dean in any way.
Even the three street lights barely work, Sam has to squint to make out the signs hanging in the windows of tiny shops and out front of sleepy, practically abandoned old restaurants. At least that's what they look to be, Sam really can't tell and there might not even be a place to sleep tonight.
"See a motel anywhere?" he asks, not exactly optimistic, as Dean cruises down the tiny two lane road at a creeping 15 miles an hour. Dean grunts noncommittally, peering into the darkness with narrowed eyes. Nothing is immediately forthcoming and once they hit the river with no bridge in sight, Sam sighs and pats Dean's arm.
"Turn around. I think I saw a roadhouse back there," Sam directs, sliding his hand back and gesturing in the direction of what he honestly hopes wasn't his eyes playing tricks on him in the mossy trees. A small town roadhouse bar, achingly reminiscent of familiar places, is just the kind of place Sam and Dean work best in, easing in their element like sliding on an old leather jacket.
Dean looks at him sidelong, askance. Probably suspicious that Sam is willing to take them both into a public place. Or suspicious that Sam isn't willing to and will instead ditch Dean in the Impala.
The thought did occur to Sam, even if Dean has been on his almost best behavior at all the gas stations they've stopped in. He still doesn't restrain himself from becoming a permanent attachment at Sam's side, or from staring down any and all other patrons like they might go feral and try to kill them at any moment.
That's all to say Sam sort of trusts Dean enough to bring him into a random dive in this small, nothing town and assume he won't hurt anyone.
"We can get something to eat there and hopefully someone's around who can tell us where to find some beds," Sam explains off Dean's gaze, pointing in the direction of the place in question. "Might find out about Lafitte too." He tacks on the last bit with more bite than he intends, glancing down at Dean's torso where he knows the name is etched.
Dean eyes him for a long moment before pulling a U-turn.
It's pushing ten at night now, and the most Sam and Dean have managed to eat in the last day is gas station food. Sam didn't bother trying to get Dean to hit up another drive thru, he got a dead-eyed stare when he even mentioned craving a fast food meal.
Not many places are going to stay open this late in a town with a population sub a thousand, and even less with fresh food and actual patrons to ply for information. A roadhouse is the best bet, sleepy alcoholics and lonely strangers are bound to be out, especially on a Saturday.
They crawl back down main street until Sam can see the turn off to the shoddy little bar. A scraggly, flat hunk of wood is mounted on the front of a brick building, reading Roadhouse in white paint. There's no other embellishments to the title save for the word "bar" in tinier font beneath that.
The parking lot is unpaved gravel and they don't even have a light shining on the several beat up vehicles scattered about. Inside, the bar's windows still glow with a dim, hazy yellow, serving as the only indicator that they're even open.
Dean gently pulls the Impala up front, parking haphazardly wherever he pleases which isn't anything new. They end up just between a white Tacoma and a Harley with plenty of space so neither can ding her when they go. He kills the engine, silencing Baby's purr, and bringing the angry crickets and faint hum of old rock music to the forefront.
From the amount of cars, Sam can safely count on at least four other people inside aside from employees, and he hopes that a few walk ups are there too. Town as small as this, Sam wouldn't be surprised if everyone followed foot traffic a bit more than tires.
"Sammy?" Dean says with a questioning lilt, sliding the keys in his pocket. He angles his gaze over at Sam, blinking at him in a faux casual way Sam can see right through. Lip pulled between his teeth and apprehensive furrow in his brow, it's clear Dean is not looking forward to leaving the Impala for whatever's inside the roadhouse bar.
Some boundaries probably need to be set here in the Impala before they go into a place teeming with random people that Dean will inevitably take as a threat. Though Dean's probably always determined outsiders to be threats in a generally suspicious way, now that he's basing everything entirely on his most instinctive feelings, he's constantly on high alert. Everything just amped up to eleven. It's Sam's working theory.
"First off, don't growl or snap at anyone inside, okay?" Sam starts, figuring those are going to be the hardest behaviors to explain away should they arise. "This town is tiny and if you do something they think is weird, this whole place is gonna avoid us like the plague. And then we'll never find anything out."
He has the fleeting thought that their FBI threads might be useful here, but they would likely draw even more attention that way and end up counteracting what little advantage they could give. Better to pose as something a bit more innocuous in this case.
"Mm," Dean grunts and it's again neither disagreement or agreement. His overly uptight posture has eased into something a bit more smoothed out, as if he's forced himself to calm down and be the mature big brother.
He's looking at Sam with a lazy expression, eyes dull and half lidded like he couldn't be any more bored with this conversation if he tried. It's clearly an act to get a rise out of Sam, to distract from the fact that what Sam's asking of him is totally valid. Sam hits his shoulder and enjoys the affronted stare he gets in return.
"I'm serious Dean, no biting either." There's an unimpressed scowl at that request. Sam rolls his eyes, already shaking his head. "Look, if anyone is suspicious just tell me. Don't grab me or cling on me, and don't—" Sam really can't believe he's going to say this, but considering the day they've had, he can only assume it's necessary. "Don't act all possessive." He waves his hand in an encompassing gesture at Dean's entire existence.
Dean narrows his eyes at him, still extremely unimpressed and resolutely not opening his mouth to make any sound of acknowledgement at all. Sam cocks his head to the side, lips pursed.
"Dean? Say okay. I can't go in there tryna get info if I have to worry about you drawing bad attention." He realizes he's making it sound like Dean is a burden, or an annoyance, and Sam can see Dean takes it that way when his expression shifts. Displeasure giving way to something a tad offended.
"Sammy," he growls, and it sounds warning, like he's seconds from tackling Sam just for implying Dean could ever be a nuisance.
It's very Dean of him to only take offense to that, among all the other accusations Sam's drawn. Maybe because Dean can't in good faith deny that he's growly, snappy, bitey, clingy, and grabby. He does apparently protest that any of these behaviors are irritating or in any way inconvenient for Sam.
Sam scoffs, because yeah that sounds about right.
"If we have to act like boyfriends in small town, Louisiana of all places because you won't stop touching me, I'm gonna drown you in that river," he hisses, already dreading the cover story he'll have to use if Dean insists on being his usual self. This place isn't exactly the most progressive looking area, and after everything they've done, Sam really isn't comfortable with the idea.
Dean's predictably pouting, glancing out the windshield at the shoddy little roadhouse like it's at fault for the scolding he's getting. He raises his right hand and wraps it up in Sam's shirt collar before Sam can dodge away. Warm knuckles press into Sam's throat and the rough material of his flannel scrapes along that old bite in his shoulder as it pulls tight.
Sam's tugged forward. Slightly chapped lips press against his own, immediately sucking in his bottom lip between sharp teeth. Sam doesn't react, getting nipped gently and unable to force his body into taking appropriate action because he's too busy savoring the feeling of Dean's tongue, slick and warm and familiar now. It runs assuredly along the aftermath of his teeth on Sam's lip.
Dean pulls away, and it couldn't have been more than two seconds of contact, but Sam feels cool in his absence. He can't help that he licks his own lips afterwards. Or that he tastes Dean on them.
His eyes are wide and he can't say anything as he stares at Dean, cheeks feeling flushed. Dean's doing that face that makes those little dimples appear at the corners of his mouth, obviously discontent.
"Be good, Sammy," he says, voice rough and warning. Sam can't tell if Dean's saying he'll be good like Sam wants or if he's telling Sam to be good. Both make Sam feel very weird somewhere below his navel so he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, doesn't miss the way Dean's eyes follow the movement like a hawk, and nods.
"Fine," he offers, avoiding any more eye contact to get out of the Impala. They haven't really reached any sort of compromise on how to act in public, and Sam's pretty sure Dean just kissed him to derail the conversation. To mess up Sam's sense of control. Sure, Sam told himself he would let the quick little mouth kisses slide on a "could be construed as platonic" clause if it means they're not necking in the front seat of the Impala anymore.
But he's starting to suspect his insides aren't going to differentiate between either of those things, and neither is Dean.
Clearly, they need to have another, proper conversation about all this. Maybe one with diagrams and pictures so Dean can't pretend he doesn't know how to answer. Not that he's been pretending anything at all, but Sam can admit it's a little suspect how Dean can say some words sometimes and sometimes no words at all.
At the very least, Dean seems to really enjoy his own willful ignorance, which makes sense if all he wants to do is coast through life clinging and kissing and biting on Sam. In his current state, that sort of seems to be the case, much to Sam's chagrin. Especially given the fact that it's only because Dean's a little traumatized, working on his most basic instincts, and not any other reason.
Sam has to admit, another conversation might not exactly be productive but he'd feel better. If he could just talk to Dean, get him to understand why certain things aren't okay between them, why they aren't this way with each other, Sam could rest easy.
But Sam's beginning to realize he can't communicate with Dean the same way anymore, not without using teeth. The bite in Sam's palm throbs, brings with it to mind the matching one in Dean's.
That doesn't mean he can't try though.
After this, after they glean some info from the roadhouse's patrons and find somewhere to sleep, they're going to have a proper discussion about personal boundaries.
As he climbs out of the Impala, Sam doesn't think about how Dean's never respected those and probably won't anytime soon.
Notes:
i'm even later uploading today than last time :,( this chapter after editing ballooned up to be a bit too gigantic so i moved some things around which took a little longer than intended. also fun fact, the town i work in has a small roadhouse bar literally called Roadhouse Bar and that's the only reason i knew roadhouses weren't just Harvelle's Roadhouse lol
next chapter is up on june 6, hopefully before UTC midnight >.> thank you everyone who's commenting and leaving kudos and subs and bookmarks and things, i appreciate all y'all <3
Chapter 10: Them
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Impala's doors are tellingly loud screeches in the night as always, no doubt alerting the roadhouse patrons of an incoming arrival. Among the incessant buzz of insects, there's the dull hum of garbled music drifting in the sticky air and the faint scent of old cigarettes. Familiar as any small bar off the highway, the kinds of places Sam spent the majority of his youth in.
It's an easy comfort and he skirts passed a motorcycle to the roadhouse's heavy wood door with a casual gait. He doesn't need to look to assure himself Dean is following closely, the rise and fall of a chest at his back is enough.
Old rock music becomes a bit less obscure once they slip inside, guitar riffs strumming from an old timey jukebox in the corner. The lighting is dim and cozy, hanging lamps over the bar shaded by green glass that casts the dark interior wood darker. Sam's relieved to spot a few booths lining the wall to the right, alongside several standalone tables. They do indeed serve real food on top of the usual bar grub and whiskey and that's all Sam can really ask for.
There's a few smatterings of older folks with empty plates in front of them, beer necks and cigarettes in their fingers. Three young-ish men are playing pool together on the opposite side, enjoying their own drinks loudly and fiddling with the jukebox. The bartender is a middle-aged woman with a few tattoos down her arms, splitting her time between restocking bottles and directing a waitress.
"Tend to them, hon," she says in a deep southern drawl, pointing at Sam and Dean in the doorway. The waitress is around Sam's age in jeans and a tank, half apron tied loosely at her waist, and a falling bun of brunette hair at her nape. She reminds Sam of another time, another girl working rounds at a roadhouse, and he offers her a tiny, polite smile as she scoops up a few laminate menus from the end of the bar.
Bridging the short distance, she slips on her own wide and welcoming grin, white teeth and bright eyes. It's the sort of expression that immediately endears Sam to her, only because it looks a little tired, a little forced and he can relate.
"Evening guys, you can call me Liz. Y'all wanna booth or table?" she asks, pleasant enough as she comes to a stop in front of Sam. Within reaching distance, yet completely innocuous. Dean still gets all riled at her closeness anyways, tensing up against Sam's side. He stays blessedly silent though and Sam shifts slightly to the left to keep the waitress's gaze on himself. Just in case Dean's face isn't quite as welcoming.
"Booth is great," he says and smiles wide enough for some dimples to appear. Despite Dean's general attitude towards outsiders lately, Sam still needs their trust if he wants to get any possible information later. Liz and everyone else will already be naturally curious about them, seeing as how Clayton isn't exactly thriving with tourism. The street goes both ways and Sam can use it to their advantage as usual. So long as Dean doesn't bite anyone.
"Alrighty, back there fine?" Liz points at the last booth in the corner, removed from the older patrons as they suck on their cigarettes and talk in husky voices. It's nice and tucked away. Sam offers an affirmative noise and Liz waves them ahead of her. "After you."
Dean's knuckles dig into Sam's lower back, a pressure that has Sam nearly flinching and shooting him a sideways glance. He's easily inserted himself between Sam and Liz, a broad shouldered shield sliding over with a scowl. Dean is apparently just trying to push him along—away from Liz.
It's enough force that Sam almost trips over his own feet, Dean shepherding him past everyone else with an urgency that's mostly protective. His body blocks Sam's peripheral and he can only assume Liz is following behind, other patrons casting them short glances as they pass.
Sam slides into the booth seat against the back wall for the vantage point, easy enough to survey the entire roadhouse. Perching on the edge of the worn red pleather, Sam shoots Dean a pointed look that clearly says Dean's place is opposite him, not beside.
Dean meets his eyes stonily, wound up and tense under heavily downturned brows, and a hand hovers over Sam's shoulder like he wants to grab on. Sam doesn't relent, expression falling into something a bit more akin to an emphatic glare, pushing those outstretched fingers away. With a light smack of his hand, Dean finally huffs through his nose and scoots into the other seat.
"Here's your menus," Liz says, trailing up beside them and seemingly unaware of the small disagreement. She gently places the menus down, nothing more than a single laminated page with some clip art, and folds her hands politely in front of her. "What're y'all thirsty for tonight? Our local brew is great."
"Just two waters, please," Sam says before Dean can try and turn those big eyes on him like back at the gas station. After last night, the idea of Dean anywhere near a bottle of beer has Sam warmer under his clothes than the humidity outside.
"Ice waters," he clarifies, tugging at the collar of his flannel. Liz laughs a small breath of a thing and Sam doesn't miss how Dean immediately turns narrowed eyes on her, oddly intense.
"Not used to Louisiana weather, I take it?" she asks, still wearing that professional smile. Sam understands it for the question it is, y'all aren't from around here are you?
As usual, the polite questioning begins. All small curiosities and harmless boredom, the kind that begets easy conversation and shared information. Sam quirks his lips. "Yeah, new to the area."
"I could tell," Liz says through her wide smile. "Staying long or just visiting? We don't get many newcomers here. Surprising, I know." She looks back and forth between the two of them as she talks, but it's obvious she's focusing more on Sam than Dean. Hopefully not because Dean's unwelcoming, somewhat strained posture is noticeable.
The small talk is nothing but polite interest as far as Sam can tell, not quite interested enough to be prying, but Dean is clearly not having it. He shoves his feet between Sam's hard enough for the toes of his shoes to knock against the booth audibly and Sam shoots him a startled frown. But his eyes are still on Liz, angry dimples over his mouth, as a shoe hooks around Sam's ankle.
Liz's eyebrows are raised in a casual expectation, still smiling, and Sam does not react to the press of Dean's legs against his.
He sits up straighter and clears his throat.
"Just passing through, we're actually on a road trip." It's usually the go-to excuse when they're not necessarily under cover.
Dean snorts, leaning back into the booth and crossing his arms. He draws Liz's curious eyes, but makes no move to vocally elaborate even though he's clearly making a statement. His silence doesn't surprise Sam, though Liz blinks somewhat confusedly. She glances back to Sam with a polite little laugh.
"Well, he's on a road trip," Sam acquiesces, looking appropriately put upon. Because he is thanks to Dean's obvious attitude and general prickly demeanor. He's certainly not making it any easier to endear themselves to the locals, not that Sam didn't expect to have to carry the bulk of the heavy lifting here.
"I'm doing research for a grad paper." He rolls out a decent cover with practiced ease, one that gives them a reason to poke around, and resists the urge to kick Dean.
"Wow, so you're one of those smart college boys," Liz says, sounding only slightly sincere. "What're you writing about? The misery of small town folks?" She laughs after she says it so Sam figures it's safe for him to laugh too.
"Mostly family history," Sam says easily, the flicker of Lafitte unsettling his empty stomach. "Like surnames and ancestry, things like that."
He wishes he could outright ask if she's heard of the name carved into Dean's side, be blunt and obvious and get it over with. But it would be stupid, put them at unncessary risk. They can't just blindly poke around and not expect to prod at something dangerous.
Liz nodded as he spoke, lips pouting out as if to mull over the information and come up with a response that isn't a vague expression of mild interest. Sam's played the game plenty of times. When she opens her mouth, settling on something to say, there's a sudden slap of sound and both she and Sam startle.
Dean's hand has slammed palm down on the menu like an unhappy brat demanding attention. Sam and Liz both glance at him, and Sam finds Dean is watching him through sharp eyes, two points pricking into his. Almost assessing.
Dean picks up the hand he smacked down and points to the menu, slowly pulling his gaze away from Sam's to meet Liz's. Then he's smiling, the wide boyish one that immediately endears him to strangers. Crows feet and all.
"Roadie burger, please," he says, all gravelly drawl that has never failed to draw people in. Liz giggles, almost nervously, and Dean winks.
"Oh sure hon," she says, sounding immediately endeared, before turning to look at Sam. "And you?"
"Sammy wants chicken salad," Dean continues, grin sliding lopsided into a lazy smirk. He draws Liz's attention back like a fly to honey, easy and natural.
Sam frowns so hard a vein somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead might burst. He hasn't heard Dean say a full sentence since he disappeared, especially not so effortlessly, and he doesn't know what the hell this is, doesn't like it at all.
It's as if Dean is how he's always been, how he usually acts with cute waitresses, with his comfortable flirting that's never failed to get him laid. A fist clenches in the pit of Sam's stomach, tight with something like suspicion, like betrayal.
Dean doesn't look his way, very obviously avoiding Sam's unamused scowl, and annoyance overtakes the other things Sam's feeling. He wants to kick him really hard where their legs are tangled under the table, maybe smack him upside the head too.
"Alrighty," Liz is saying and Sam can't even bring himself to school his expression into something more presentable. "Anything else, um?"
"Dean, sweetheart," Dean lays it on thick, grabbing both their menus and handing them back to Liz. She takes them with an entirely intentional brush of their hands, and Sam can't help but note the way Dean doesn't recoil, almost welcomes it. Sam really wants to hit him. Even more when he says, in that low drawl, "and two beers, too."
When Sam finally manages to tear his eyes away, he sees Liz's slightly reddened cheeks as she tucks the menus under her arm. "Dean," she says lightly, and then spares Sam only the shortest nod of acknowledgement. As she leaves, she offers a parting, "I'll be right back with those waters."
"Thank ya," Dean calls after her, still looking like Sam's smarmy older brother with that smirk and lazy confidence.
As soon as she's off, Dean drops the face and turns back to Sam, expression already back to that unhappy scowl from before. He's reaching across the table to grab at Sam's hands where they rest on top, having been purposely angled to keep the bite mark unseen. But Sam pulls them into his lap before Dean can dig his claws in, eliciting an even unhappier exhale of a growl from Dean's throat.
Sam has absolutely zero patience for the caveman act, hands curling into fists on his thighs.
"Dean, what the hell?" he spits out through clenched teeth, because if he doesn't demand answers he's going to seriously strangle Dean. "Since when can you say all that, like whole sentences? Are you fucking with me?"
Sam's leaning forward, over the table so the other patrons don't hear him, and maybe so he doesn't reach over and start shaking Dean. His tone is plainly accusatory, acidic words on his tongue. He can't tell if he's more annoyed because Dean can apparently talk better than he thought or because Dean's entirely capable of flirting with women despite his current state.
Dean shrugs, staring at the edge of the table where Sam's hands are hiding out of his reach. There's almost a pout on his face, as if he's the one who's being wronged right now, and Sam wants to scoff at the idea. Dean's glancing back and forth between Sam's face and where his hands should be, green eyes wide as if that'll somehow engender pity.
"Sammy," he says and the annoyance twisting in Sam's gut gets stronger because Dean can clearly say more than that to explain himself. Or at least more than that to hit on randomly hit on waitresses.
"Oh, so you can talk to Liz but not me?" he says with an angry huff, leaning back against the booth. "That's awesome Dean. I'm sure the two of you will be more than happy tonight while I'm driving around with my head up my ass tryna help you get better."
He's aware he sounds like a jealous brat, but he's not. He's always been tired of Dean's tendency to fuck around when they have bigger, more important things to worry about. If Sam can put aside his issues with Dean's need to bite and kiss him for the greater good than Dean should do the same with his apparent sex drive.
Dean's frowning outright at him, but it's not an angry expression. He looks more confused than anything, like he has absolutely no idea what Sam's saying, like he doesn't speak the language anymore. His feet, where they're entangled with Sam's under the table, move against Sam's ankles and he leans forward, elbows on the formica.
"No," he says in a tone that implies Sam is being absolutely ridiculous and Sam glares back at him because Dean is the ridiculous one here, the one who's been keeping secrets, who apparently can speak. Who still has the capacity to be himself, despite everything he's done to them, to Sam. The mounting frustration has Sam whipping his hands out from under the table to throw an accusatory palm against it, just shy of Dean's fingers.
"You can drop the selective mutism act, sweetheart," he says in a harsh whisper, feeling so unbelievably irritated. Betrayed, even, by the fact that Dean had spoken complete sentences worth of words to Liz, yet with Sam it's all single word phrases and growls. Sometimes not even that, sometimes it's just teeth.
"Obviously you can say more, you asshole, just been hiding it from me then, huh? Biting and growling at me like you can barely speak. But talking to the waitress is no problem, sure okay," Sam's practically ranting now, resisting the urge to reach all the way across the table and grab Dean by the shirt collar.
"No," Dean repeats, still with that confused face, and then he's taking advantage of the proximity of their hands to grab Sam's bitten palm. As is becoming their normal, he digs into the healing scars, scratching a thumbnail under the skin. Sam can't help the way he flinches at the sting of it, as if he isn't rapidly growing used to the feeling. Dean's eyes burn into him, focused.
"My Sammy," he growls, so low and rough and entirely unforgiving.
Sam's too fed up to try and interpret how that statement is at all relevant. "What even—" But the question dies as Liz heads back over with two waters. Sam quickly tears his hand free from Dean's, ignoring the extremely displeased noise he makes, and pastes on a smile. Liz returns the expression as she sets the glasses down.
"Here's this, and the rest'll be ready right quick," she says, pulling straws from her apron to place beside the waters. She aims a wink at Dean, no doubt carrying the energy from before, but Dean is still staring at Sam. His hand is sitting open and reaching on the table top. The bite in his palm is practically displayed and Sam has a heart thudding fear that Liz will notice and think something strange, something a bit too real.
But Liz only glances back at Sam, smile a little smaller, and Sam hurriedly covers the regular human interaction for them. "Thank you, Liz," he says lightly, dimples in his cheeks. She nods and heads off at the call from the bartender, but not before leveling Dean with one last curious look. Dean doesn't even notice, eyes on Sam as if Sam will disappear if he even blinks.
The angry, quelling thing inside Sam stutters under the undivided attention. He wants to go back to being pissed, to demanding Dean give him an answer that isn't just a grunted word or a huffy growl. But Dean's eyes are shiny and huge and his hand is still splayed out, all of it looking very wanting, very imploring. It's off. Strange.
Dean's not making any move to defend himself, to explain, or otherwise offer up an excuse and it feels weird. Instead of bitching at him some more, Sam asks, "what's up with you?"
The fingers Sam ripped free of twitch at the sound of his voice, Dean shaking his hand like he wants Sam's palm back in his grip, but doesn't want to actually ask for it. Sam stares at the pleading hand and doesn't move to take it. Even though it does look pretty pathetic laying there, practically begging to be held.
Dean makes a needy little noise in the back of his throat and Sam meets his eyes, sees the way he's looking at him from under a creased brow. Still pleading, still desperate. His jaw's working like he's grinding his teeth and despite the frustration and sense of mistrust Sam's still faintly stirring under his skin, he wants to assuage him. Take his hand and let him cling, or bite like he clearly wants to do.
But Sam squashes the impulse and decides to wait him out. If Dean can talk—and recent events show he can—then Sam will wait until he does.
"Sammy," Dean groans in a miserable way that's almost as frustrated as Sam feels. It's also a little whiny, a little vehement. He keeps his hand within Sam's reach, splayed and defenseless, like bait trying to lure a fish.
"My Sammy," he says, eyes darting all over Sam's face like everywhere they land will be marked. "Nobody else's." The two words grind out through teeth, but they're clear and enunciated, the meaning distinct and obvious. Dean's gaze finally leaves Sam to sweep over the roadhouse and all of its patrons as if they're surrounded by enemies, as if they always are.
He looks back at Sam with that dewy eyed expression, framed by long lashes and punctuated by pouting lips—the hook, line, and sinker all in one. It gnaws at Sam's chest, guilty and pleading for Sam to understand, to take everything as Dean's presented and make sense of it.
It does make sense. Like most things between them somehow manage to do, even when they live in the most nonsensical reality.
From the bite in Sam's palm to the way Dean's legs are bracketing his under the table, the injured hand desperate to have Sam back in its clutches. The my Sammy that's always been another mark, that Sam has recently learned is a claim. All of it falls right in line with the easy, distracting flirtation Dean affects when a waitress smiles at Sam.
It makes sense. The more eyes that are looking at Dean, interested in Dean, curious about Dean—the less there are for anyone else. If Dean's the target of affection, then Sam isn't.
And Sammy is Dean's after all.
The scowl permanently affixed on Sam's face melts away into something a bit smoother, lighter. "What part of 'don't act all possessive' didn't you get?" he says and doesn't try to analyze why his annoyance has nearly evaporated right out of his pores.
Because Dean wasn't trying to seduce poor Liz for a quickie in Baby's backseat, he was trying to make sure Sam didn't. Or rather make sure Liz didn't get any ideas about it. Pulling out all his words, all his efforts to wear that familiar air of casual flirtation, was just Dean's way of keeping Sam. Staking his claim without grabbing and biting and growling.
Somehow this makes Sam feel better for reasons he can probably just blame on convenience. It would've been extremely inconvenient if Dean were bothering waitresses in an attempt to get laid when they're on an unidentifiable time crunch.
Dean's hand is still there on the table, forlorn and naked but for the irritated bite Sam tore into it. He's fixing Sam with a needy stare and Sam reaches over to push those splayed fingers into a closed fist. "Do me a favor and try to keep this covered, huh?" he says, fingernails lightly ghosting over the bite before pulling back.
A slight tremor wracks Dean's fist until he also pulls it back and makes a face like what Sam's said is a personal offense. "Don't wanna," he huffs out, childish, but settles his hands out of sight obediently anyway. "M'sorry, Sammy." The words are husky in a whisper and he sounds contrite, blinking widely at Sam.
He doesn't need to elaborate. Sorry for not saying as many words, sorry for being a pain in the ass just now, sorry for not quite lying but sort of. Sam heaves a sigh that fills his lungs to bursting and shakes his head.
"Use your words if you can," he says on an exhale. He's long since suspected Dean's vocabulary is still in there, that it's more to do with his instinct to use it rather than get a message across with bites and grumbles. This incident just confirms it, really. "But don't force yourself if it's hard, especially not to flirt with people for stupid reasons."
It comes out of Sam's mouth weirdly petulant again and he pretends not to see the pleased, knowing grin on Dean's face.
Their food and two beers arrive quick enough, not much else to compete with in the nearly empty roadhouse on a lonely Saturday night. Although, Sam gets the feeling this might be the busiest it gets. Liz made a commendable effort to carry both plates and the beers in her two hands, performing some serious finger dexterity to place them down on the table.
"A burger for the handsome one," she says with a tone that implies good natured flirting rather than any serious intent. Dean smiles at her with teeth. "And one salad for the brawn and brain," she finishes, a conspiratorial smirk shot Sam's way. He smiles back, no teeth.
"You two enjoy now." Her tone is almost daring them not to as she heads off to wipe down recently vacated tables.
Dean focuses his full attention on the double patty cheeseburger on the plate before him, goopy and greasy, beside a heap of french fries. His eyes are bright, anticipatory, but he spares a quick glance up at Sam through his lashes and then picks up the biggest fry. Holding it out to Sam, he uses his words. "Eat it," he demands in such a rough tone it's still somehow more like a growl anyway.
The urge to protest just for the hell of it is always present on the back of Sam's tongue, probably the little brother in him, but he decides it isn't worth it. One fry won't kill him and Dean seems very obstinate about keeping Sam fed so he takes it from Dean's fingers.
While he eats, Sam watches Dean finally tear into his messy slop of a burger without care, juices running down one of his fingers. Sam's face twists in disgust.
He follows the grease as it dribbles to Dean's wrist, soaking in the edge of the wrap around his forearm. It still seems to be suppressing whatever's in Dean's skin, keeping him more or less out of pain. But Sam will definitely spend some time tonight digging into the lore now that they've finally reached Clayton and can settle in for the case of it all. Finally at the start of the strange puzzles that make up Dean's body.
"Your arm still okay?" Sam asks, digging a fork free from a paper napkin to get in on his own dinner. After Dean swallows a mouthful so large his cheeks were stuffed, he licks his lips all shiny.
"S'good," he manages with little concern, reaching for a beer and swigging it down. For a moment, Sam's awash with the familiar concern he always feels when it comes to the way Dean practically inhales greasy food and crappy alcohol. If they don't get killed by the things in the night, undoubtedly heart and liver failure will get Dean eventually. At least Dean's very much still Dean.
"Does Clayton look familiar to you at all? You ever been here?" Sam decides to ask then, since he won't be getting any further elaboration on the state of Dean's forearm. Not that Sam expects really expects to get anything else out of Dean, if the last 24 hours of casual questioning are anything to go by.
Sam's figured since the interrogation in the Impala that Dean honestly has no memory of what happened to him. Or he's incapable of properly enunciating the words he needs to explain. Or he just doesn't want Sam to know. The fact that it could conceivably be any of those options doesn't escape Sam's notice.
Dean belches, wadding up his napkin to clean the burger juice from his fingers. He shrugs.
"No and no," comes his simple reply as he drowns a fry in ketchup. Sam bites into his salad with a curious frown. So no, Dean hasn't been to Clayton and no, it isn't familiar.
If Dean's memory is to be believed, he wasn't taken here when he was missing for all those months. Sam wants to believe that, finds reason in it. Clayton's a tiny town with half a main street and even less of a Wikipedia page. How could they possibly have anywhere to even hold Dean for that time? Not to mention, the trek Dean would have had to make to get from Clayton all the way to Maine. Surely, he would remember that at least.
But then that makes the fact that this place is carved into his skin all the stranger. Sam figures, biting through a crouton, that once they can find out what the hell Lafitte is all about, everything else will fall into place. The easiest way to get information when the internet isn't forthcoming is personal interviews. A couple have already left for the night, leaving one booth still occupied and the young men at the pool table still laughing.
Asking about Lafitte outright would certainly be Dean's strategy, and Sam's too if he wasn't a little wary of the town and its inhabitants. Lafitte could be anything, anyone, and Sam can't afford to let whatever it is know they're here before they even get a handle on the situation. If Lafitte is made aware of their presence, at best it will get the hell out of town and out of their hands. At worst, it'll try to kill them.
Their best bet is to reach out feelers once they've established a home base somewhere, and projected "well-meaning strangers" vibes as much as possible. Going in with guns blazing or decked out in FBI covers is certain to send Lafitte scrambling.
Sam just hopes if it really is someone's name, an actual person he can find, that they're still alive and here in this nothing town. And that Sam can pull what he needs to know from them, by any means.
Until then, which Sam is thinking will begin bright and early tomorrow morning, they'll both just have to hope whatever's happening with Dean's arm continues to remain unproblematic. The ominous spell etched over it is another thing Sam's going to spend the night looking into, though the Latin is basic enough. He imagines he won't find much but maybe cross referencing the sentence with the name Lafitte could be a lead.
The feet that bracket either of Sam's shift against his jeans, nudging him into a tighter cage, and Sam glances up from his food with raised eyebrows. Dean is looking none the wiser, gorging himself quite happily on fries, clearly not asking for attention or trying to bother Sam at all. Lately when Dean brushes up against him, clings and holds and grounds himself, Sam assumes it's more a comfort than anything.
Letting it happen, Sam focuses on ticking off the remnants of a mental checklist as he finishes off his salad.
There's the first matter of where they're going to bunk, Sam plans to ask Liz for any suggestions when she comes back with the check. If she's got nothing, they'll have to drive a half hour back down the interstate for the rickety looking inn they passed on the way to town. Which is not ideal, if only because it would mean even more driving and leaving Clayton altogether. Even if only temporarily.
They've finally got here, the holy grail, and hopefully the well of answers Sam's been hoping for. Picking up and turning around is the exact opposite of what Sam wants, makes his stomach knot.
They also desperately need a laundromat. Sam can't keep wearing his meager collection of dirty clothes, not even to mention the inside out boxers. Dean doesn't look too great either in his wrinkled up shirt that's starting to resemble a damp dishrag. It's surprising Liz has treated them like paying customers considering how scrappy they are after the straight thousand miles drive. Sam's honestly just grateful they don't stink yet and a shower is definitely in order too. Preferably not together.
Sam gulps down the beer Dean got him, dreading the future conversation that'll undoubtedly lead to. It's not like any other boundary drawing attempts have been particularly successful, Dean's fingers and legs and mouth on Sam as if Sam never even tried to get him to stop.
Vaguely, Sam knows that among his list of things they should try to accomplish tonight, a proper talk impressing with conviction that Sam does not want anything overly touchy happening again should be sitting around number 1 in priority alone.
But it's becoming increasingly impossible to come up with a convincing rebuttal when Dean just derails everything by pressing his lips to Sam's. What else he might do in the privacy of a motel room makes Sam's skin feel tight, like an ominous warning.
Burying the feeling of Dean rutting up against him into the deepest recesses of his brain is much easier when Sam downs the beer.
The bottle makes a hollow thunk when Sam plops it back down, nearly empty. Dean is watching him with assessing eyes, steak fry poking out past his lips. He chews slowly, gradually eating the potato slice while refusing to look away and making Sam distinctly aware of his existence.
"What?" Sam prompts finally, curious as to what Dean is trying to read in his face right now. Hopefully not the embarrassing track of his thoughts, Sam really doesn't want Dean to know he's spared last night even a single iota of attention since they discussed it. Dean would be entirely too pleased to know that, which is awkward enough to digest.
Rather than answering, Dean reaches over and grabs Sam's beer. He tilts it back almost upside down to get the last dregs and the movement exposes his throat, pale and finally showing signs of stubble. Sam does not stare at that expanse of naked skin or the way Dean's lips pillow around the mouth of the bottle or the way his adam's apple bobs when he swallows.
Dean licks the last of the beer from those lips and drops the beer down beside his own empty bottle. The entire time, his eyes haven't left Sam and Sam meets them, that same hooded, assessing stare.
Sam abruptly feels exposed, heat burning up under his sweaty flannel and making him wish he could retract his legs from where they're tangled with Dean's. Completely stop touching him.
Instead, he leans back in the booth, putting as much distance between their faces as physically possible. It's not exactly easy to pretend Dean isn't pinning him with that strangely intent shine in his eyes, isn't licking at lips that Sam knows the taste of. As if there's an ulterior motive. As if Dean's actively trying to make Sam uncomfortable, remind him of what they've done, what he sounds like when he comes.
This is not what Sam wanted to think about tonight, at all.
He clears his throat, focuses his gaze on the last of the dressing smeared on his salad plate. This existential brother crisis is exactly what he didn't need on top of the other, regular brother crisis. Dean's acting all strange and yet still the same and Sam's body is reacting in stranger ways that definitely aren't the same, but he really does not have the time to analyze it any deeper than he already has.
Sam almost selfishly wishes Dean's arm would hurt a little bit if only because it might distract him from looking at Sam like he's a piece of tasty meat.
"Anything else I can get y'all?"
Liz's abrupt presence almost makes Sam kick Dean's calf in alarm. She's materialized beside the table, familiar smile looking between the two of them.
Sam clenches the fist with all the scars, digs his fingernails in to calm his thudding heart, and internally berates himself for getting so distracted by Dean he didn’t notice the approach of a waitress. Dean is still watching him, apparently content not to offer any pleasantries Liz's way.
"Just the check is fine, thanks," Sam manages after a breath, gathering his and Dean's plates and stacking them on top of each other for her.
"Y'all enjoy?" she asks conversationally as she tugs her booklet out and sets it down in front of Dean. Sam tries not to overthink the subtle implications of not being asked if they're splitting the cost. Or the apparent assumption that Dean would be paying.
Dean grins up at her then, laying that charm on thick with a slow bow of a nod. "Real tasty," he says in his growl of a voice, licking his lips for show and annoying Sam immensely. Although it certainly works well to derail any incorrect, unbrotherly takeaways about their relationship.
"Glad to hear, babe," Liz says with a light laugh, grabbing the stacked plates up along with the beer bottles. "The Roadie's our number one around here. We take pride, y'know."
"The salad was delicious too," Sam inputs, feeling like he should at least contribute to the small talk. He very obviously drags the check from Dean's side of the table and flips it open. It's pretty inexpensive all things considered, not that it really matters to Sam and Dean's finances, or lack thereof.
"I hope that means y'all will come back soon," Liz says and it sounds mostly genuine as she glances back and forth between the two one last time before taking off back to the kitchen. Dean watches her go but he's no longer smiling, face a bit more pinched now. Sam just shoves a credit card into the sleeve of the booklet and props it up for Liz who's already returning.
"I'll get this back to you right quick, anything else y'all need?" she asks again, picking up the check. "I actually have a super interesting surname if you pay for interviews." She taps Sam's shoulder with the black book, all friendly and good natured joking.
Sam smiles at her, ignoring the way Dean's calves flex around his legs. For a moment, he wishes he could just ask her about Lafitte right then and there, throw caution out the window and see how she reacts. But the rapport they've managed to build will be useful once Sam manages to dig out a more concrete idea of what Lafitte actually is.
Though, they have more pressing problems than the origin of the name in Dean's skin tonight, and Liz can immediately help with one of them.
"Actually, you don't happen to know about anywhere we could crash for the night, do you? We didn't see a motel coming in."
Liz taps the book against her chin, considering, and then glances over at the men who are still knocking around billiards across the roadhouse. "Well, we definitely ain't got a motel, but I do know Marley rents out a room for fishing on the river. His son's over there, I could ask him for y'all?"
She winks at Sam, all sweet and southern hospitality and Sam offers her a grateful smile. "That would be awesome, Liz," he says earnestly, wide puppy eyes out in full force. She shakes her head.
"No skin off my back, just make sure you sleep deep 'cause I heard Marley's snoring's loud enough from next door over." She snorts more to herself, stepping back to wave at the men by the pool table. "Hey, J! These boys need to sleep, your daddy got that room still?"
A tall and bulky guy dressed in flannel and a canvas vest hands the pool cue over to his friends, and heads their way. He looks a little younger than Sam, maybe mid twenties with a bit of a beard scruff over his jaw. Dark hair peeks out from underneath a cap with a fishing company emblazoned on it, and he looks about Dean's height in thick boots. He seems amiable enough.
At least, he doesn't ping Sam's threat radar as he nears. The same can't be said for Dean, who immediately has his hackles up as soon as J is in reaching distance. His upper lip is pulling back, teeth peeking out, and the muscles around his nose jump like he's barely restraining himself from straight up snarling at the man.
Sam quickly hooks his foot under Dean's ankle with a hard tug that hopefully goes unnoticed by the new arrival, and Dean side eyes him in his peripheral. Thankfully, he remains in his seat and doesn't make any angry, animal sounds that Sam can't explain away. He does, however, angle his body so he can directly face J and Liz, potentially fling himself at them if he has to.
"Putting me on the spot here, Lizzie," J says through a frown, voice baritone and just as loud up close as it had been all night as he heckled his friends.
He reads as a young country kid, the kind they come across plenty in the hunting community, of both animals and supernatural creatures. Meaning he's their kind of people, the type of guy Sam and Dean are used to ingratiating themselves with when they need to.
He glances away from the face Liz is undoubtedly pinning him with to look over Sam and Dean appraisingly, "what can I do y'all for?"
"I'll just get the check sorted," Liz says, quietly excusing herself and slipping away. J waves after her, turning curious eyes on Sam alone.
Sam smiles, tries to look disarming and unintimidating, and sticks his right hand out to the guy. "I'm Sam."
"J, but I'm sure y'all heard. Nice to meet you," he says with a quirk of his lips and goes to take Sam's hand as expected. Perhaps Sam should've anticipated the way Dean intercepts, shooting his own hand out to grab at J's midway. The clap of their palms hitting is surprisingly loud, and Sam can see his knuckles white, gripping firmly.
J blinks wide-eyed over at Dean, clearly taken off guard, and Dean smiles but it's not friendly at all. Barely a muscle twitch away from a snarl.
"Dean," he says, almost a growl in his throat, and Sam resists the very strong, increasingly common urge to kick Dean in the shin.
Their hands shake twice, looks more like a weird tug of war, and J glances down at where they touch with raised eyebrows. Sam tracks the trajectory of his gaze, pinpoints it to the bite marks in Dean's skin, reddened and angry and obvious. J can no doubt feel that roughened injury against his own hand and Sam's gut lurches.
Dean breaks the handshake first, throwing J's hand down like they've both been burned, still wearing that challenging scowl on his face. J frowns down at him for a long moment, possibly debating if the behavior and bites are worth commenting on. But then he's refocusing on Sam.
"Alight, Sam and Dean, y'all need a place to get some shut-eye I hear?" he says carefully, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. There's the not so subtle shift of his weight from foot to foot, like he's preparing to dart away at any moment. As if Dean might launch himself out of the booth and tackle him to the ground. Which isn't that far from the truth, J can pick up on that at least.
This behavior isn't helpful at all and if Sam could get away with smacking Dean like he's punishing an unruly dog, he would.
"Yeah, we've been driving for two days and I was planning to do some research for a grad paper in town," Sam starts to explain their cover, offering a laugh at his own expense and trying to telegraph harmless, oversized puppy. "Guess we didn't plan for the whole 'no motel' thing."
J nods, pursing his lips. "Yeah, we're a small ass place, no doubt about that. Be lucky to see three or four tourists a year, honest. My dad's only got the place on the river for people here who ain't got waterfront and wanna catch a few trout on the weekends. It ain't much, just a bed and a tiny bathroom. Probably worse than a motel room, but real convenient."
Sam flattens his mouth, bunches up his cheeks, drawing his eyebrows together. He knows he's big and sometimes that intimidates the hell out of people, but thankfully, he's blessed with the dewy eyes Dean hates and he'll use them to their full effect. Especially because he has to make up for Dean's current lack of personal charm.
"That sounds perfect, seriously. Going back out of town isn't ideal if we don't have to, and we'll gladly pay your dad."
His words appear to land just where they need to, easy and earnest and offering money. It's all anyone in a roadhouse in America can really ask and J's no different. He smiles and steps closer to Sam's side of the table, likely sensing Sam's the less hostile of the two. Dean jerks a little as he does, but J doesn't appear to notice.
"Well then, you got yourselves a weekend at Marley's. No one's fishing this time of year, so it's empty and ain't no way Daddy's saying no to paying men in need, y'know?" J says, raising a hand to pat Sam's shoulder like they're old pals. Sam doesn't really mind the contact, takes it as a compliment to his ability to interact with normal people despite everything his life's become.
But Dean makes a low noise in the back of his throat, loud enough to draw attention from J. He's forcing himself upright and out of the booth with sharp, angry movements. Sam feels his legs disentangle from his own and he inhales sharply, starting to follow, but J's mostly blocking him.
Sam can't do anything to cut Dean off unless he wants to shove J out of the way and he watches with no small amount of dread as Dean steps into J's space with the deepest scowl, jaw set. J backs up immediately, almost tripping on his boots, hand coming off Sam's shoulder.
But before Dean can do whatever he's planning on doing, Liz cuts in between them, all customer service smile and polite disinterest. Her presence stops Dean in his tracks, visibly pulling back so as not to stumble into her. Liz glances over at him with a quirk of her head, curious.
"Here's your receipt," she says, holding out the black book to Sam and looking between Dean and J with curiously raised eyebrows. Sam takes the check and doesn't bother trying to catch Dean's eyes to wordlessly telegraph back the hell up. Dean's way too engrossed with staring J down to notice, that warning scowl twisting his face.
J tries for an awkward chuckle, still keeping his distance, and probably trying to determine if Dean was about to attack him just now. He would have to be an idiot not to pick up on the serious intent to maim coming off Dean's overly tensed up posture. Sam hopes he's an idiot.
"You giving these pretty dudes somewhere to bed down, J?" Liz asks, either hanging around for a bigger tip or to ascertain the source of the weird tension she's slid into. Her presence seems to serve a nice distraction as Sam signs the receipt and gives her a big tip too.
"I'm not gonna let anyone sleep in Frederick's Inn if I can help it. Nobody deserves that place," J says with an easy grin, seeming to shake off the strangeness of the encounter with Dean. Sam internally praises his ability to bounce back despite the way Dean's glaring at him.
Liz smacks J's chest. "Leave ol' man Fred alone, you know he's going senile," she says through a snort as Sam closes the booklet.
J crosses his arms over his vest. "That ain't no excuse not to hire a real cleaning crew. Betsy can't do all that, there's bedbugs."
On that note, the tension Dean caused seems to have dissolved easily enough. Thanks to Liz's uncanny ability to diffuse it, which Sam's grateful for. He takes the chance to exit the booth too, hoping his height won't give J any more reasons to be intimidated out of giving them a bed to sleep in.
Dean's gaze is like a collar tightening on his neck, looped and dragging, and Sam hurriedly steps around Liz to stand closer to his brother. Just to assuage the tension obvious in the lines of Dean's broad shoulders and not because Dean wants him to. It doesn't help much, but he feels fingers grip into his elbow, hard enough to ache. It feels less like a clutch for comfort and much more like a restraint.
Sam wants to shake Dean off, but that'll probably draw eyes better than ignoring it. Clearing his throat, Sam cuts back into Liz and J's derailed conversation.
"So what's the protocol for checking in to Marley's?" he asks like Dean hadn't advanced on J with obvious intent to harm. If they're lucky, J isn't good at reading body language and will just interpret Dean's oddness as the character defect it is.
J fixes Sam with a grin, not sparing Dean a glance from where he's mostly hidden behind Sam's shoulder, an intentional move on Sam's part. "I'd just give y'all directions, but there's a code lock and I ain't allowed to share that. Ya got cash, right? We don't really do cards around here."
Mentally Sam takes stock of the bills he has left in his wallet, sparing a sad thought for Dean's lost wad of cash due to his disappearance.
"Uh, depends how much you're asking? Otherwise we might have to bet on some pool," he says with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the billiards. J's buddies have apparently been listening in, an excited cheer coming from the pack across the bar.
"As fun as that'd be we're closing in fifteen so be nice to them, J," Liz says, patting J's bicep and tugging a scrappy rag out of her back pocket. "And move out of the way, I got tables need cleaning. Thank ya."
J sidesteps as she moves to wipe Sam and Dean's table down. He gestures for Sam and Dean to follow him, giving Dean a wide berth when he rounds them for the door.
"Nah, Dad likes to keep it cheap, we ain't businessmen. An easy fifty a night will do it. Y'all can handle that without losing everything to us in pool, right?" he says, wiggling his eyebrows at his friends and joining in on their hooting.
Sam doesn't take offense, though Dean growls under his breath, twitchy like he wants nothing more than to wipe the floor with all of them at pool. That or beat them with their pool cues, Sam can't really tell from the press of his fingers.
"Can definitely do that," Sam says, following after J and pretending he can't feel Dean's claws in his arm that squeeze just enough to keep Sam closer to him than J. "We don't plan to stay for more than a night or two if research goes well."
J comes up short at the door and offers Sam a satisfied nod. "Alright then, y'all got yourselves a bed. I figure since I came up here in the boys' car, I can just ride with y'all to the boat house and let y'all in. It's just a ten minute drive and my place is down the way so it ain't a hassle."
He waits for Sam to nod and thank him before waving at his friends and Liz. "We're heading out then y'all, see everyone bright and early at service tomorrow."
"Thanks for the food and the help," Sam says first to Liz and then the bartender who's been closing up. Both of them wave him off and Sam gives the men at the pool table an acknowledging nod, hair falling in his face with the gesture. He goes to brush it away, but Dean's death grip on his elbow prevents free movement.
Dean's apparently lost all will to play at being human, snarl curling his lip and holding onto Sam like he might try and run off at any moment. He doesn't take his eyes off J, staring at the side of his head with a warning intensity that threatens violence if J so much as looks at Sam weird. Boundaries are nowhere to be found and Sam suspects their conversation in the Impala has been entirely forgotten.
"Guessing that beauty's y'all's?" J points at Baby with an appreciative face when they step out onto the gravel of the parking lot. Sam wishes it would be enough to make Dean quit treating the poor guy like he's an evil outsider who'll kidnap Sam for ransom. But Dean just grunts in his chest, rough and confirming, as he tugs out the keys with his free hand.
"Yeah, '67 Chevy Impala, she's all Dean's," Sam explains, already dreading how uncomfortable this ride is going to be. With J giving Dean directions from the backseat, tucked together in an enclosed space, and Dean looking about two seconds from going for the guy's throat.
It's pretty clear J isn't a threat to either of them, and honestly neither was Liz, yet Dean has to treat every single person that isn't Sam like they've got suspicious intentions. A very clearly drawn line. Sure, they've always considered the world in us and them, especially Dean, but up to a point it's just being childish, right?
Dean finally releases his claws from Sam's arm once they step up to the Impala's side, wordlessly unlocking the driver's door. Sam points to the backseat for J. "Feel free to hop in, there's just a cooler," he says, and watches J comply easily, suitably awed by Baby's interior.
As soon as the door closes, Sam smacks Dean's shoulder hard enough to jostle him and now Dean's scowling up at him instead.
"Chill out," Sam whispers, feeling like an unwilling parent. Dean just bares his teeth, seemingly divorced from the concept of acting normal anymore.
Sam can read his face pretty easily as he rounds the Impala, dodging fingers that try to stop him from stepping away. He can practically hear Dean's grumbling complaints, something like bad enough I gotta interact with this asshole who's all friendly with Sammy, now I have to let him in my precious Baby? Or something like that.
"Be good, Dean, it's just ten minutes," Sam says harshly over the Impala's roof, trying to impress just how stupid Dean's being. Dean just snaps his teeth at him before yanking the door open and sliding in.
On the opposite side, Sam does the same and ignores the sinking feeling that this is going to be the longest ten minute ride of his life.
Notes:
i had to move abt 3k words to the next chapter AGAIN!! editing is supposed to trim down on the fic not make it grow (°ロ°) anyways, chapter 11 will arrive on june 11~ i hope all of you are staying safe and healthy out there!!
commenters may have noticed i've been waiting to reply to them until i upload the latest chapter. this is bc ao3 is still having subscription email issues and delays, so if you comment, u can think of me and my reply as a personal alert for a new update (°▽°)/
Chapter 11: Body
Notes:
those of you who aren't subbed to this fic and therefore do not get to see the word count per chapter, this one is 13k (abt 5k longer than usual) so start at ur free time's own risk. this chapter is for everyone who said they liked long chapters hahaha look what you've done, you've FUELED ME
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
J runs a hand along the back of the Impala's seat, just shy of brushing Sam's arm. His eyes are wide with wonder, face pulling up in an open-mouthed smile. "Wow, she's in perfect condition. I'm impressed."
Rather than being pleased like usual, Dean darts out and grabs J's wrist, throwing it off with vicious noise. The act is a violent, sharp jerk of movement that has J flinching back, palms up and open like Dean's got a gun on him.
"Dean," Sam hisses, very much in the way he might scold a dog for trying to bite well-meaning strangers. He turns to apologize to J, for what exactly he can't quite express, but J's already waving him off.
"Nah, she's his baby, I get it," he says easily, apparently not offended by the rough treatment. Dean just huffs a harsh exhale and starts the engine, very obviously ignoring the way Sam's glaring at the side of his head.
J continues, unperturbed. "I'm actually working on an '82 Corvette and I love her like she's my own child. Can't say I wouldn't act the same, man."
J's patience with Dean's extremely bad behavior is certainly unexpected, but Sam's not going to complain. The two of them could probably get along well if Dean wasn't so… unwilling to share anything he thinks he owns. The bite in Sam's palm throbs with his dull pulse, and he's acutely aware of how Dean's philosophy applies to him.
There's already a safe distance between Sam and J for the sake of peace, and it annoys Sam that he's even willing to go that far.
"Alright, y'all know where the river is? Down Main?" J asks, leaning back.
"Oh yeah, we went down there before." Sam lightly taps Dean's arm, gesturing for him to get on the road. He pretends not to notice how tense Dean is when he does, how he's gripping the wheel with white knuckles and shooting J furious stares through the rear view mirror. They're just lucky J's too distracted by the Impala to notice.
"Cool, just go down that way and take a right. The shack's across the bridge and about a mile up river," J explains as Dean pulls onto the road with a bit more spray of gravel than is strictly necessary. Her engine purrs, loud and unmistakable, and J’s suitably awed, unaware of the sporadic, angry glances he's getting.
As they drive, Dean follows J's directions with that irritated mask plastered to his face like he's seconds from pulling them off into the dirt and throwing J out. Normally, this short ride with a local resident would be a great way to get any information they might need. But Sam’s hesitating to take advantage, if only because he doesn't trust Dean not to intentionally ruin the process. He can't even catch Dean's eyes to try and silently shout at him to relax.
So Sam settles for smacking him again, right in the thigh, and Dean's leg jumps at the contact. It stutters towards Sam, as if following his retracting hand, but that's all the acknowledgement Sam gets for his efforts. Dean refuses to cut him even a sideways glance, sternly facing the road the way a petulant child might. Very resolute and very grumpy.
Sam just sighs and twists his body in the front seat to see J better. He can deal with Dean as he happens.
"Clayton doesn't happen to have a laundromat around, does it?" he asks over his shoulder, because they're in great need, and if Dean tries anything he can kick at him from this position. Not that he would kick his brother while he's driving, but Dean will definitely sense the implied threat.
Dean does sense his shifting posture and, without looking, drops his right hand on Sam's knee. It's a solid, heavy press of weight that's overly warm in the humid Louisiana night and Sam wiggles once, trying to shake free. Dean only digs his fingers in, hard enough to hurt a little.
Sam does not look down.
"Yeah 'course we do," J says from where he's reclining in the backseat. "It's just off Main over there." He points out the window, down a dark street, and Sam takes note. "But it ain't 24 hours. Think it opens around 7 and closes the same. Y'all shit outta get-ups?"
Sam snorts. That's one way to put it.
"You're looking at the last of it," he says, appearing appropriately put upon. Reasons and excuses roll out with an ease born out of decades of practice. "Lost a suitcase along the way, so we're kinda running low on clothes in general. I was sorta hoping to solve that issue tonight, but I guess it's one more day like this."
J laughs, removing his hat to run his fingers through dark hair before replacing it. "Damn, that's some shit luck y'all got there. If you weren't so big, I'd lend you some of my old stuff. They’d probably fit him, though," he offers, jerking a thumb in Dean's direction.
It's a surprisingly kind offer considering how Dean's been treating this guy from the moment they met.
But Sam doesn't miss how J is very clearly only speaking to him, never so much as glancing in Dean's direction. Not that Sam can really blame him for choosing to not directly interact with the big ball of tension behind the wheel.
"Thanks, but you don't gotta do that. We can last the night," Sam says truthfully and he does mean the gratitude. J couldn't lend them what they need most anyways. "Our main problem is underwear, to be honest."
It could fall somewhere over the line of too much information but it's out of Sam's mouth before he can overthink it. The grip on his knee presses in a little harder, a thumb digging into a divot under Sam's kneecap and Sam resists the urge to buck Dean off him. More because he doesn't want J to notice and make things awkward than the way it makes his leg buzz.
Fortunately, J's busy nodding at Sam's comment about underwear like he understands their woes. "Been there too, dude," he says sagely, leaning an elbow on the cooler beside him. "Take a right here and you'll see the bridge."
Dean does as directed without any sneering, easily navigating the Impala one-handed. Though he's still wearing that permanent scowl, eyebrows impressively furrowed, and a familiar muscle jumping in his jaw. It would be kind of pitiable if it wasn't so over the top. Sam can't even figure out where exactly this behavior falls between Dean's general mistrust of strangers and straight up, unabashed hatred.
The hand on Sam's knee hasn't loosened, in fact it might be trying to tear into Sam's skin through his jeans. J hasn't even done anything to either of them, but Dean looks like he'd rather be pressing that hand into the guy's windpipe. Sam really can't make sense of the behavior, mulling over what makes J so much worse than anyone else they've run into so far. Dean was much nicer to Liz and he didn't even go at the cashier.
"So what's this grad paper you're writing about Clayton?" J asks as they reach the bridge's entrance and the Impala bumps heavily over its metal framing. Sam shrugs one shoulder and lies again.
"It's a lineage thing, y'know, like family trees and stuff. Important last names in Louisiana and where they came from." He amends what he told Liz just a little for clarity. The simpler the cover the easier it is for locals to buy, and nobody questions much when it's for college.
"Oh really? What's the important names in Clayton? Mine's Fontenot, by the way." J leans forward and wiggles his eyebrows. "Am I secretly a prince?"
Immediately, Dean tilts his head to level another glare at J, now that he's gotten slightly closer. That hand on Sam's knee starts to finally let up, but Sam isn’t dumb enough to believe it’s a good thing. He slides his own palm over to press into Dean's knuckles, keeping him there before he can do something like fling his fist into J's unsuspecting face. Another huffy noise escapes through Dean's nose, but his hand stays put.
"Could be," Sam says to J, good-natured, but his eyes stay on Dean. "I can tell you all about secret royal bloodlines if I can get Clayton's historical records. Don't suppose you know where I should start?"
J whistles low through his teeth and cocks his head to the side.
"Not something I usually look up, but the library ain't a bad place, right? It's across from city hall at the end of Mainstreet. Ms. Carey's real nice and I bet she'd be pleased as punch to help y'all out," he says, nodding to himself. "She's also been in Clayton since the Titanic sank. If anyone knows about Clayton's history, it's her."
In Sam's experience, most towns this small don't have their own local library so this is actually a pretty pleasant surprise. When it comes to research that the internet isn't willing to provide, there's no better place than a library full of dusty files and ancient microfiche. An old librarian willing to help is definitely an added bonus.
"Sounds promising," Sam says, already adding it to the itinerary. "Guess that's where I'll start tomorrow."
J smiles at him. "After the laundromat though, right?" he says with a wink. "Glad to help y'all out. Like I said, we ain't really get many strangers here so we like to come off all nice. Make y'all wanna come back amd spend money, y'know, tourism. Tell ya friends."
That gets an honest laugh out of Sam and he agrees, finding his own morbid humor in the fact that they really don't have any friends to tell. At least not these days. Poor Clayton got the worst tourists in the world if word of mouth is what they're counting on.
"Oh, here! Go right, we're four houses up," J says hurriedly, pointing out the turn through some fronds. He nearly hits Sam in the cheek doing so and Sam feels Dean twitch under his hand, a sharp leap of muscles. Sam knows Dean very much wants to grab J's finger and break it. For the very petty infraction of daring to invade the sacred front seat with his limbs. He keeps a tight grip on Dean's hand.
The Impala inches along the dirt road at a careful pace, all three of them squinting out the window into the darkness to count the houses as they pass. Each small home stands up on thick stilts, a little less than a story high to avoid rising river waters. Thin winding stairs descend to dirt driveways, scarce but for wood and iron. The word quaint comes to mind, as Sam eyes them in the faint lights of their porches.
"Right here, right here," J says as Dean stops the Impala just in front of a similar house.
It's much tinier than the others they'd passed. Where those seemed like comfortable single-family homes, Marley's is about half the size. More of a little tree house with wooden posts beneath it rather than a tree. It's leaning slightly left wise, but probably not enough to be especially noticeable inside. The stairs look a little unforgiving, a board sticking up near vertical. So not the worst place they've had to squat in.
"This is the end of the road, so y'all can just leave the car here," J says, already sliding over to the door. Sam nods at Dean who's busy glaring up at the house with narrowed eyes like he can't decide if he hates it just because it's J's. He's probably not going to let up any time soon, and Sam reaches over to put the Impala in park as J climbs out. When he twists the keys and shuts off the engine, he notices Dean's staring at him, likely surprised Sam's leaning so near.
When Sam angles back and away from him, that hand clutches at Sam's knee like he might try to completely escape. Wide eyes blink owlishly over at Sam, that fury he reserves for J washed away for something a little more concerned, clingy.
"I'll do the code, y'all grab your things," J says from outside, with a casual lightness. He very gently closes the door behind him as he goes.
"Hate him," Dean spits out in the immediate silence, dragging his gaze past Sam to glare at J's retreating back through the window. Sam fixes Dean with a very unimpressed look.
"Seriously?" Sam doesn't say it understandingly.
There's not a single reason Dean could offer up to make this make sense, at least not one founded in reality. J's done nothing but help them out, and Sam isn't about to let Dean ruin this for them just because he's territorial. Or whatever. If it wasn't for this nice dude, the both of them would be backtracking all the way out to an inn with bedbugs. The least Dean can do is act civil.
"Grab a bag and don't maul J," Sam says, pulling that no-nonsense Dad tone back out. He doesn't wait for the surely mutinous expression on Dean's face, leaning over the backseat to fish out the duffels that have wedged into the footwells.
"No," he hears Dean grumble on an exhale and Sam refuses to ask what he's protesting specifically, just tosses a bag at him. He takes it despite the disgruntled pout on his face, bundling the canvas duffel up against his chest like Sam will try and take it away. A long second passes where Sam debates if he should assure him in some way so he doesn't seriously kill J.
But the light tap of knuckles against the passenger window interrupts that thought, J leaning down with raised eyebrows. A growl tears loud and angry past Dean's lips and all empathy Sam managed to muster up disappears into the night.
He shoves at Dean one last time with his left hand, narrowly avoiding the fingers that swipe for it when he retracts. As soon as J takes a step back, Sam pushes the door open. "All good?" he asks as he quickly exits before Dean can try to climb out after him. The groan of the Impala's door masks Dean's snarl when Sam swings it shut.
"Yep," J says, none the wiser. "Everything's in working order. Got electric, running water, and heat. But I doubt y'all are gonna need that last one."
The sweat already beading at Sam's hairline definitely agrees with that sentiment.
Dean's noisily escaped the Impala from the driver's side, skirting around her front to appear at their sides as fast as possible with his chest heaving. Sam doesn't think it's from exertion, Dean's face all twisted up in that familiar, supremely annoyed glower. He presses their shoulders together, maybe unconsciously, and makes Sam sway a little with the force.
"You said an even fifty, right?" Sam says to keep J from staring too obviously at Dean and all his pissed off posturing. There's a nod, and Sam swings the duffel in his arm to the shoulder Dean isn't touching so he can tug a billfold out of its side pocket.
Last he checked, there were more than a few twenties from the last time Dean hustled, totalling in the mid hundreds range. He doesn't normally take it out in full with people he doesn't know. It isn't exactly smart to advertise how much cold hard cash you've got lying around.
But if J got greedy and decided he wanted to take it all, he'd have to go through Dean, who's practically begging for an excuse to hurt him. Subconsciously, J's probably aware of this.
"Want everything up front?" Sam asks, sliding the money free. He's not sure how long they're going to hole up in this town, but he isn't exactly looking forward to tracking J down every day to pay him more. The alternative, though, is paying for a few nights ahead of time and in the likely event they end up skipping town earlier, Sam would essentially be burning their cash supply. Neither sounds ideal, so he'll let J set the terms.
"You said you're not sure how long you'll be staying, right? 'Cause of research?" J confirms, mulling over their options as his eyes roll skywards.
Sam doesn't get to answer because J snaps his fingers with a smile and continues. "Tell y'all what. I'll take the fifty for tonight, and if you plan on another night just stop by Clayton Baptist around noon tomorrow. It's right off Main, can't miss it. I'll be there for late service. Liz too actually. Y'all can say bye if you ain't gonna stay."
J looks pretty proud of himself, dopey grin on his face that sort of reminds Sam of Dean. The plan of action seems reasonable, and an invite to church service is an invite to interview the townsfolk without sticking out in Sam's opinion.
"We'll definitely be there." Silently, he thanks J again for being helpful in this respect too as he counts out the money and hands it over.
J's rough fingers brush against the bites in Sam's skin, a rough stinging sensation, and in that horrifying moment Sam realizes he really needs to start paying attention to this shit. Recoiling or twisting his wrist to try and hide them isn't exactly an option, not without dropping the money, and Sam visibly cringes, frantic excuses bubbling up into his mouth.
He can pinpoint the instant J realizes what he's touched. He squints down at the wounds and then he's grabbing onto Sam's fingers to try and expose more of his palm, pulling the bites out into full view of the porch light.
Before either of them can say anything, Dean is growling, something rough punching out of his chest when he lunges forward. He reaches out, quicker than Sam's ever seen him, and rips Sam free with enough force to send both J and Sam stumbling over.
The poor money flies out from either of their hands. It's hot, humid, and swampy, but they're just off the riverbank and there's a light soupy breeze that catches the bills immediately. It carries them up over the hood of the Impala with surprising speed.
Both Sam and J scramble after the cash, a string of mumbled expletives in their wake.
Sam's stopped short by the stranglehold on his left hand, arm jerking awkwardly and he almost rounds on Dean, vicious scolding on the tip of his tongue. But J's loudly flopping onto the dirt road with a victorious shout of, "Got 'em! Got 'em!"
He jumps back up to his feet, waving the wad of bills like an excited kid who's just scored the winning goal. Sam breathes a sigh and offers a relieved smile to keep himself from using his trapped hand to properly strangle Dean for this.
"Sorry about that," Sam says to J, trying to go for a mildly confused and unquestionable tone. He really has no idea what excuse to give for what just happened. He can't just brush off Dean's extremely weird behavior without sounding like he's in some kind of trouble. The fingers digging into those bites like they want nothing more than to disappear underneath are a reminder of how strange they must look from the outside.
J only laughs and shakes his head, dusting off his clothes.
"No worries, s'all here," he assures, counting the bills and folding them in his back pocket. The tiny instant of chaos was apparently enough to distract him from Dean's actions and the bites in their palms, more concerned with the money than anything else. He takes his hat off to run his fingers through his hair again, casual, and not at all like he's seconds from condemning them for their weirdness.
"That would've been god awful, huh?" he says good naturedly, still laughing a little in disbelief.
Sam returns the expression, grateful for more than one thing in that moment. "Yeah, good reflexes."
Shoving his hat back on, J grins. "Thanks, man. Used to play football in high school," he says in that proud way only small town football guys can. "Anyways, my place is just two houses down, the one with the spirally stairs. If y'all need anything or something busts in the night, just come by. You ain't gotta lock up in the morning either, 'cause of the code."
The smile on Sam's face falters as J speaks. His hand burns where Dean's wedged several fingernails into the scarring bites like he's trying to anchor himself in, refuses to leave. He has to clench his jaw to keep from wincing, breathing in deep through his nose.
With a nod at J, still wearing his affable smile, he says, "Got it. And thanks a lot for this, man, really."
"No problem, like I said, tell ya friends and we're square." J shoots them some fingers guns with a click of his tongue, ever so cool with everything somehow. Or just impressively unaware. "See y'all tomorrow at church, alright?" He's already turning to head back the way they came, keeping the Impala between them as he goes in what might be an unintentional move.
"Sure thing," Sam calls after him, waving his free hand. J salutes back with two fingers, heavy boots crunching in the muddy dirt of the road, and then it's too dark to make him out.
Assuming that the faint light of the little shack's porch gives them the same veneer of privacy, Sam spins around. He's ready to tear Dean a new one for acting like an idiot, struggling to pull his hand free with maybe more force than he needs but he's too irritated to tamper his strength. This undoubtedly contributes to the way he's toppling backwards.
Knocking Sam off balance has always been Dean's specialty and he does it now with a practiced ease, dropping his duffel bag to slam Sam bodily into the side of the Impala. A solid chest presses hot and weighted against Sam's own, pushing him hard against the passenger door, and preventing Sam from shoving back. Sam grunts more in surprise than any actual pain, hand jerking free from Dean's claws with a sharp sting.
"Dean, wh—" he starts to say something, he doesn't even know what. It doesn't feel like a protest. But it's cut short anyways when Dean's hands find his face, rough and scarred palms sweaty against his jaw. In the yellow light, Dean's hooded green eyes shine under those long lashes, staring up at him. Not as angry as Sam thought he'd be, more desperate, anxious.
Dean tugs Sam close, a grabby, clingy jerk of movement and his fingers knot in the hair at the base of Sam's skull. It hurts, it's distracting enough that Sam just lets him do it, pulled down so near he can count those dumb freckles again.
When Dean drags Sam down and mashes their lips together, Sam lets him.
Somehow Sam is still surprised when their mouths meet, gasping in a sucking breath like some abortive attempt to rear back. Because he should stop this, because he should tell Dean to knock it, because he should do literally anything other than kiss Dean outside on a dirt road by a crusty shack. He should, but he doesn't.
Every bit of meager resistance melts right out of him when Dean's tongue slips in his mouth.
The air is hot and humid and swampy, and the damp, heated line of Dean's body is solid and heavy where it's mashed against Sam's. He feels like he's inhaling nothing but water, lungs aching with each unsteady little intake Sam manages to get for himself, between Dean's growls against his open mouth. His head is light and he lets Dean push him back into the Impala, pin and keep him and clutch at him. With his hands, his body, his teeth.
Dean licks inside, familiar now with every bit of Sam like he owns him, like he's always owned him and only just now gets to taste. And Sam lets him do this too, Sam can't even move, pressed between two unforgiving surfaces and taking it all as if he's drowning, as if he's never known any better.
When Dean pulls away just enough to bite Sam's lower lip, it's just the way he did that first time. Sam's lip tugs free with a spit slick sound, hurts, and another rough noise rattles through Dean's chest and into Sam's own. It echoes in Sam's ribs nicely, feels good, and Sam just keeps letting when Dean laves across his bitten lip.
Sam should do something, vaguely he knows he should, in this panting incremental break away Dean's given him. This tiny moment of air that isn't coming straight from Dean's lungs. But he just stares at Dean and Dean's flushed, eyebrows still drawn in that fretful way, and then he's licking over Sam's open, breathless mouth.
"My Sammy," he rasps against Sam's lips, damp heat of his breath ghosting over Sam's tongue. A snarl that exposes those sharp biting teeth twists his face and there's finally that anger Sam expected, that righteous indignance.
Maybe Sam should refute Dean's words, should finally fucking do something other than let Dean, pressed up close and suffocating. His lips are smarting and all he does is wordlessly run his tongue over them.
Dean's eyes track the movement, like they always do, and he mimics it. Licks at his own red mouth and Sam's just as distracted, sweat soaked and foggy. He can't even pull himself back together enough to protest when Dean grabs at his hand. It was his only brace against the Impala's window and Sam slips further down, almost of a height with Dean.
His wrist is clutched tight in those fingers Sam's rapidly grown used to. It's becoming more comfortable to have them on his skin than not and he doesn't try to pull free. Lungs burning in his chest, Sam just lets Dean raise his hand to hover just shy of his mouth.
"Mine," Dean grinds out against Sam's palm, quieter than a whisper as he leans back just enough for Sam to see clearly. The bite marks are fuzzy and black in the night and Sam can only watch, unresisting, as Dean presses them to his lips. That softness ghosts over the wounds, now so painfully familiar, and it wracks a tremor down Sam's spine, crumbles it to jelly in his skin. He's grateful he's leaning his whole weight on the Impala's chassis, all but collapsing onto her, held up by nothing else but maybe Dean's mouth on him.
Inside his ribcage, his heart thuds almost painfully, ramming into his sternum like it wants to burst out of his chest and into Dean's. Each wet beat pumps blood south at an alarming rate and Sam's finding it exceedingly difficult to breathe without hiccuping, stuttering, fumbling.
Dean's green eyes are intent on his, oddly bright in the dark, and Sam is riveted despite himself. Like always. Baring his teeth, Dean sinks hard and angry and claiming into the skin of Sam's palm and doesn't look away. Like always.
It hurts. It hurts more than it's ever hurt before, the scar tissue giving way to sharp incisors, blood budding up to meet them so fast. Sam's nerves are buzzing, muscles clenching up under his skin, and making it all feel too tight, sealed to his skeleton. He wants to crawl out of it, wants to escape, wants to shove his hand harder into those cutting teeth until he can't feel that trap anymore.
He's heated up, his clothes are damp and clinging, and it's so fucking hard to get a clean breath. He's heaving into the wet air, desperate with it, and Dean's thigh is pressing in between his. It's a feeling Sam's body remembers all too well, hot tension swelling low and anticipatory in his gut. Everything's winding up, tension mounting, and Sam knows exactly what it'll lead to and he should push Dean off, tear his hand free, stop it here.
They're still holding each other's stare. If Sam breaks the contact now, he'll break this fuzzy, filmy bubble Dean's forced them into. The one Sam can't bring himself to fight out of, the one that separates them from the outside world and greets Sam's hesitance, Sam's fear, with a murmured and secretive, so what?
Dean grinds those teeth harder into his hand.
The growl that rumbles in his throat then is just as vicious as before but it takes on an almost satisfied cadence, lilting into something like a purr. It tickles Sam's palm, tears into his bites, and makes his knees give. He sinks further, might just totally collapse if not for Dean's thigh, and Dean senses it, presses in between Sam's leg with purpose.
He's already chubbing up in his ratty jeans, underwear flipped inside out from this exact scenario, and Sam wants to protest on that fact alone. He doesn't though, just tug his own bitten lip in his mouth to keep from making the embarrassing sound that surges up alongside a wave of warmth. He has to lean back, take in some air that isn't just their recycled breaths, maybe use it to clear his head, get out of that fugue state that's mussing up his thoughts. Use it to pull free from Dean's hold on his wrist, in his bites, through his gaze.
It doesn't work. Nothing new sucks into his lungs but that same fevered heat that clogs up his airways, makes it impossible to focus. He shakes then, in Dean's grasp, and his palm jerks under Dean's teeth, shooting a stab of pain down his wrist and straight to the base of his cock. He's half hard, a repeat mortification of last night, and there's no mistaking what exactly brought him to this state, what he's hard-wired for.
His brother's mouth on him, biting into him, marking and owning.
Sam's breaths barely escape that cloying thing in his throat, come out punched and whiny. "Dean," he gasps, trying to keep his voice quiet and stronger than he feels. They're still outside, J can't even have gotten that far, anyone could see them here in the porch light, and it's terrifying and his dick twitches anyway.
"Dean." He tries one more time, maybe more for his own sanity, but Dean's only encouraged by the sound of his name falling from Sam's mouth. His tongue runs against Sam's scars, behind the teeth, soothing a slick wet heat along Sam's oversensitive skin. It's heady, thrilling, connected directly to his interested cock and Sam nearly doubles over. His stomach muscles flutter with the need to buck his hips up, to chase any kind of friction he can muster against Dean's leg.
Dean presses his tongue into one of the wounds, no doubt tasting blood, and it burns. Sam's fingers flinch, involuntarily curling into Dean's cheekbone, nails scratching. Dean blinks, heavy and slow, still staring at Sam but now he's got that look. The one Sam's seen before but never placed, having and wanting in turns. Inexplicable, familiar, and Sam can't handle it.
At his nape, Dean's other hand still clutches into the muscle there, the mostly healed bite he bit in that same spot days ago in that motel bed. It was a comfort then, something Sam tried to imbue with innocence, platonic and familial. So very different from the one willingly trapped between Dean's clenched teeth right now, fingers gripping bruises into Sam's wrist to keep him, as if he would leave now.
That hand, the one at Sam's neck, releases and slides down. The cool air that immediately fills its absence is a welcome reprieve, sweat having soaked through his flannel. It's a momentary relief. Dean's hand skates down Sam's front, dragging across a nipple on its way southward and eliciting a choked exhale and the unintentional rise of Sam's hips. His dick rubs up against Dean's thigh, an even greater relief, and he's about to start grinding into him in earnest, desperate for even the smallest release.
He almost whines out loud when Dean pulls his leg back, breaking the small amount of friction he's grasped at. Sam immediately wants to complain, glaring hotly into Dean's eyes with every ounce of resentment he can drum up, but he draws up short. Dean's smirking into the bite, lips red, and Sam shivers up from the heels of his feet when a hot, callused hand dips past his waistband.
Eyes squeezing shut, Sam barely keeps a pathetic and needy thing from clawing up his throat. Those rough fingers just grazing his cock is enough to force his hips into an upthrust, lifting his ass off the Impala behind him. His mouth is hanging open, that broken off whimper dying before it can escape and ruin him. He's forcing his eyes open to stare down, uncomprehendingly at Dean's wrist where it disappears beneath the band of his boxers.
"Dean, wh—" he's forcing words past the desperate weight in his chest, a hand flying to grab at Dean's forearm. Some kind of blind, scrambling sequence of actions that'll prevent what's happening from happening. Foolproof. Doomed to fail.
Dean's got his hand around Sam's cock, pumping once in its rough, unfamiliar grip.
Sam chokes then, stomach trembling hollowly as Dean brings him to full hardness, the ache bone deep and fraught with a need Sam can't even begin to parse. It contrasts so starkly, so nicely with that biting pain in his palm, and he curls his hand into a half fist against Dean's face, flexing under the teeth. It only tears the skin deeper, burns harder, and that flaring swell of mounting heat flashes up to meet it in Sam's gut.
Dean strokes his cock with an expert hand, like he's done this before, like he's made to do this. His thumb brushes over the head, already beading with precome and Sam's entire body shakes against the Impala, groaning and writhing under the attention. Dean's eyes are intent on him, searing hot into Sam's skin, but Sam can't meet that gaze again. He focuses on Dean's hand in his clothes, under his layers, rubbing heat into Sam's skin with every stroke.
The teeth in his hand pry free when Sam's seconds from crying, bucking up against Dean like he can't do anything else. Dean's abrupt release mangles Sam's bites with a sickeningly pleasant throb that forces Sam to look up.
He sees Dean, in his flushed and focused haze, running a tongue along the bleeding wound, lapping it up in a soft way that's almost forgiving, almost reverent. His lips are stained dark and Sam wants to kiss them, to taste that iron he knows so well.
Dean's bridging the distance for him, reading his intent. He licks into Sam's mouth, leaving behind bitter metal and the familiar bit that's just Dean. Biting at Sam's lips again, Dean eats every little sound he gets for working Sam's cock.
When he pulls back for breath, panting almost as hard as Sam is in the damp night, he murmurs, "my Sammy." It's much gentler than the first time, almost on a moan. All sweet affection laced up with that grating sense of ownership, that entitlement. Sam's hips stutter in their thrusts at the viscosity of it, the way it clings to the sweat on his skin and congeals. Sticky.
Dean huffs a growl of a thing, pleased, against Sam's jaw. Hot breath fans over Sam's already burning skin, sweaty and overheating. He's practically smothered with it, Dean's body, his hand, his mouth, everything's too much. It's consuming too much and Sam feels like he's going to asphyxiate as he chases that building, overwrought thing with each cant of his hips.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean says, soft and encouraging, tongue at the corner of Sam's mouth. He's making his fingers a circle for Sam to thrust up into, stuttering of their own accord, cock slick with so much precome. It's all so disgusting and sweltering and amazing and Sam wants to fucking cry, that tension coiling up so deliciously with every brush of skin.
But Sam's faltering to a stop with a harsh groan, screwing up into a tense ball to keep himself from coming apart as his ass falls back against the Impala. A semblance of sanity penetrates the foggy, endlessly pursuing thing in his head, along with it an itch, a complaint, and he squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see white.
"Not comin' in my pants again," he forces out past grinding teeth, aching so badly he can't keep the tremor out of his voice, out from under his tight skin. He bites his lips hard, restraining because he absolutely cannot afford to move in Dean's hand, cock jumping. He can still feel the press of Dean's lips at his jaw, and his bones rattle when Dean growls into him, frustrated and harsh.
"I'm not," Sam repeats, voice absolutely wrecked as it comes out, all high and thin like he's been sobbing. Dean, clearly disapproving of Sam's valiant efforts to save the last of his clothing, slides his hand down Sam's cock without permission. A pathetic, needy little noise fumbles out of Sam's mouth and he wants so badly to meet Dean's movements with his hips, to come all over Dean's hand, make him sticky with it, he deserves it but—but.
Sam jerks hard against him, savors that hot contact for just a beat and then he's yanking at Dean's arm to stop him before he comes. He doesn't get far, Dean moving to capture Sam's mouth again in a hard, sucking kiss, tongue hot and familiar now against Sam's. There's a punitive snarl feeding into Sam's mouth from Dean's and then Dean rips free completely like tape on skin.
A brief moment of instant river air cools Sam's damp clothes, abruptly unbearable, and it seems Dean has done as Sam's requested, pulled back and let go. Something suspiciously like disappointment eats at the edges of his sanity, voracious.
But Dean’s dropping to his knees in front of Sam, exhale rumbling off his tongue.
Sam's brain stutters, staring down at Dean with huge eyes, flushed and sweaty and incapable of coherently processing what he's seeing. The flannel tails of Sam's shirt are pushed up his torso, exposing his waist and the tops of his pants. Dean's fingers are like brands on Sam's navel as he undoes Sam's jeans effortlessly, tugging the material open as if he's unwrapping something addressed to him.
Something husky and rough and whispered escapes past Dean's lips, Sam can't make it out, but then the waistband of his boxers is flipped down and he can't really focus on anything else. His cock springs free, standing hard and swollen up against his belly in the muggy air and it's as relieving as it is agonizing.
Never in Sam's life has he seen his dick so close to Dean's stupid pretty face, especially not when he's so hard it hurts and Dean's face is flushed red. He can't look away, can't hardly breathe. Dean glances up at him, dragging his eyes off Sam's cock in a slow deliberate move that has a rush of heat following the track of his gaze.
He smirks, wicked and satisfied, at whatever he sees in Sam's expression, and Sam's leaking fresh precome against his navel.
Dropping his jaw, plush lips stretched and puffy, Dean takes Sam's cock into the moist heat of his mouth.
The noise that escapes Sam's throat sounds almost like an actual sob, strangled and loud. He quickly flies a hand up to his mouth, shoving his knuckles into his teeth to shut himself up because they're still outside and he isn't that shameless. The embarrassment is like being boiled alive, Sam's whole body burns pink and his eyes are wet, stomach jumping, but he doesn't look away.
He doesn't want to forget the way Dean looks right now, on his knees for Sam, eyes fanned by those dewy long lashes, and lips wrapped around Sam's cock. His tongue licking around the head, a gentle suction that has Sam involuntarily thrusting into Dean's mouth with another one of those whining, desperate noises he tries to keep in.
Breaths come heavily up out of his chest, heaving his whole upper body and making it near impossible to stay quiet. He's almost crying at the silky drag of Dean's lips over his cock, always so soft everywhere else and just as good here, this way, better even. Dean's tongue brushes the underside, tastes, and the sensations are familiar, Sam's been sucked before, this isn't new. But it's Dean, it's fucking Dean, his brother Dean, taking him in his mouth and taking care of him and swallowing him down. Nothing is like this.
Sam's shaking so hard, he can barely stand up and nothing but a senseless litany of Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, My Dean overrides any thought that might protest otherwise. It floods up, a wave cresting over something monumental, something extremely fucking important, and Sam's thrusting into the wet heat of Dean's mouth once, twice, chasing after it with his fingers curling.
Whimpering out a warning, "Dean—" is all Sam chokes out before he's coming down his brother's throat. It's fast and hard and sends him reeling, system saturated with liquid heat that melts his bones useless. He bows at the waist, hardly able to stand, and throws his head back to gasp in the night air.
Panting hotter breaths into the hot night, Sam feels Dean swallowing around his spent dick, sucking everything down, and it's too much, too good. He lets out a whiny protest, trembling too hard to function properly. His thighs are quivering like he's carrying concrete inside, and he just wants to lay down, to collapse onto Dean and be carried to bed. Taken care of, like Dean always does.
Dean—who just sucked Sam off. Dean who just took Sam's load down his throat and didn't even cough.
The urge to apologize comes slamming into Sam almost as hard as his orgasm and his eyes shoot open, see the stars above them. He's frantic, fervent with a second wave of some kind energy, swinging his gaze back down fast enough to make him dizzy.
"Dean, Dean, shit, I'm sorry for—sorry, Dean, god," he's rambling out without thought, stalled by the sight before him, those familiar eyes that stare up at him through dark lashes. Sam's dick slides free of Dean's wet, abused lips and he immediately moves to tuck it back into his boxers, trying very hard not to stare at how utterly debauched Dean looks crouching there. His mouth is swollen, glossy and defiled after taking Sam's cock to the back of his throat.
His voice is ruined for the night, comes in unbidden through Sam's flickering, delirious thoughts and he fights it away, tries to pretend it's concern. "Dean, what the hell, get up. Are you okay? I'm so sorry, shit," Sam's talking and he doesn't even really know what he's saying but he's pulling Dean up to standing with his own shaky, unbalanced legs for support.
Dean's face is flushed a dusty shade of pink, freckles glowing from underneath with the yellow of the porch light. His parted lips are even worse up close, shiny with spit, maybe come too.
He looks absolutely fucked. Like the loose guy he usually is, but this time it's because of Sam. All of it is because of Sam, for Sam, and Sam wants to kiss him again, is suddenly overwhelmed with it. He wants to taste the aftermath, himself and Dean inside Dean's mouth, he wants to lick it all clean.
He doesn't.
Like he has some modicum of control, Sam doesn't so much as step towards his brother. But he does dart his eyes all over Dean's body, every bit of his fucked out face. Sam documents it all, commits the image to memory, knows he'll never jerk off again without bringing this back. Without remembering the way Dean sucked him off on the ground of a dirt road in the Louisiana heat.
Spit pools under his tongue and chokes him when he tries to swallows it. He practically blanches, trying to get his brain to crawl the fuck back out of whatever nasty place it's descended to.
"Dean?" he manages to sound somewhat human and redoes his jeans, tugging his rolled up shirt back down. Dean hasn't said anything since—since before he sucked Sam off and Sam's completely fucking thrown, delirious and half out of his mind with nonsense thoughts, practically begging Dean to say something to make all of this normal again.
Dean finally spares him, glancing down at his own jeans for a brief, almost contemplative moment. In an absolutely ill advised move, Sam follows his gaze, and doesn't know if he's disappointed or not to find Dean's not sporting anything in his jeans. As if sensing Sam's stare, Dean adjust his pants, and then he's shooting Sam a very concerned look. His eyebrows furrowed as if something very egregious has occurred. Sam's stomach twists up in ugly knots.
When Dean speaks, his voice sounds absolutely fucking destroyed and the thrill it shoots straight down Sam's front has him upended, grateful he's not as young as he used to be and his dick won't try anything.
"S'mmy," Dean barely manages to say, cracks and scratches ruining his enunciation. It still makes Sam's skin feel too tight again, knowing he's the cause. Hot and so pleasant it hurts.
"Yeah?" Sam encourages, sounding just as fucked. Dean swallows, Sam can see his adam's apple bob in his throat, and he's sucking in a deep, preparing breath.
"I came in my pants," he says and the look on his face is honestly regretful.
Sam laughs so hard to avoid the impending crisis he would otherwise have.
Arguably, the crisis is somewhat averted. It faces a temporary delay over the course of an arduous and robotic fifteen minutes wherein Sam accomplishes various necessary tasks before allowing himself to succumb to the terrifying reality of what he's done, what they've done. In that time span, their things have been carried in, Dean has been stripped of his bandages and thrown harmlessly into the shower.
Maybe in Dean's head it would be better to shower together, and some climate minded individuals would agree, but Sam can't do it. Not right now, while his mental state balances precariously on the edge of a narrow cliff. He forced Dean into that tiny stall and closed the curtain on an autopilot so perfunctory, even Dean couldn't argue. Sam would actually be quite proud of himself if he had the working brain cells to notice.
The steam from the hot water threatens to suffocate both of them in less square feet of space than Sam's ever encountered, including his years bunking in dorms at Stanford. Sam's skin is crummy with dried sweat and his hair is greasy and his clothes are sticking to him. He feels absolutely disgusting for multiple reasons, the least of which being how filthy he is on the outside. But he's not thinking about that, he's enjoying his crisis prevention techniques by sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor.
Marley's place is nothing more than an efficiency apartment. A single room with no kitchen in sight and a bathroom that somehow managed to be even smaller than the one at the last motel. Sam hadn't paid too much attention at the time J described the place, but the singular bed takes up the most room in the little house by far. Which is saying something, because it's not even a queen size.
There's a stack of wooden boxes serving as a side table beside the woefully small bed. Sam alone would have trouble fitting, even if he was squeezing himself into a shrimp shape, and he's trying equally as hard not to fret about that situation as he is the other situation. A tiny basin sink sits beside the front door, not even inside the bathroom. Probably because there wasn't room in the actual bathroom, wherein stands nothing but a toilet and a shower as wide as the breadth of Dean's shoulders.
Not unexpectedly, Dean grunted and groaned and made other generally displeased tones when Sam shoved him under the hot water. But, perhaps sensing Sam's impending shut down in his perfunctory gestures, Dean dutifully got to washing himself without any further complaining. More likely though, it was only so he could get back to Sam's side as quickly as possible. Sam isn't entertaining that idea though, he's pretending it's the first reason.
Ideally, the best reason would be Dean choosing to shower obediently and without complaint because his unwrapped forearm is essentially a ticking time bomb under his skin. It's decidedly not, but for Sam, that would be the reason. When they pealed the wrapping away, the orange glow was dull, almost calm, and Dean wasn't flinching into a ball of pain. Who knows how long that'll last though, and Sam isn't keen to find out.
Things like this should be occupying Sam's headspace completely, taking over that—that other part and thoroughly shoving it down until Sam is a master at repression.
Perching on the corner of the bed that's probably a full size, Sam glares extremely hard at the duffel bag, open and haphazard on the ragged wood flooring. Yet another issue Sam and Dean have that completely normal, average, and platonic brothers must suffer from: lack of clothing. Sam has to somehow procure outfits for the two of them to sleep in among this heap of dirty, scraps. It's a suitable distraction from other things, from that warm, sated pool in his gut—from who put it there.
"Sammy," comes Dean's husky, croak of a voice over the sound of the shower. As if summoned by Sam's derailing train of thought alone. "M'clean."
He turns the water off, peeking out from around the shower curtain to grab the towel Sam left on the toilet seat. Reluctantly glancing up, Sam meets Dean's eyes, which of course he does. He's unprepared for how his frame goes melty at the way Dean smiles at him when they connect, all soft and happy like Sam's presence is a rare and valuable comfort. It's too much. Right now. In light of certain things.
Sam forces his eyes away when Dean steps out fully, naked and dripping wet. Instead, he resolutely returns his attention to the task at hand, assorted clothing in messy piles on top of the duffel bag, deciding what to make Dean sleep in. Underwear is out of the question unless Dean feels like wearing Sam's used pair from two days back, when he hit Dean with the Impala.
Dean probably wouldn't mind, Sam's pretty sure, but he isn't going to let it happen because it's disgusting. Dean's own underwear is similarly unavailable, covered in dried spunk on both sides now, and Sam definitely does not pursue that rabbit down the hole.
With any kind of boxers completely nixed, there's only Sam's previously worn cotton sleep pants. Sam notices the shredded end of some denim, but Dean would rather sleep naked than wear jeans to bed. Which is disallowed, utterly banned, not happening. Sam swallows, thinking there's spit in his mouth, but it's dry and his throat hurts.
Stooping down to swipe up the dark blue pants, he gives them an experimental sniff and deems them satisfactory. When he bundles them up to hand over, he finds Dean standing just within reach, dry with the towel hanging over his arm. He's watching Sam with that same, familiar-unfamiliar expression, warmly affectionate and sincere and my Sammy.
He's also still naked.
Sam's internal organs squeeze inside the cage of his taut flesh and he shoves the clothes into Dean's chest as he stands. Refusing to let his eyes stray any lower than Dean's face, because he's a good brother and that's what he should do. But worryingly, Dean's stupid face isn't much better, mouth still looking all defiled and rough. Sam stares for two beats too long, feels something simmer back up underneath and gets the hell out of there.
"We're out of boxers, so just wear those," he grumbles and tries not to sound as scandalized as he feels.
The water pressure is pretty terrible. It's doubtful the spray can even reach through to Sam's scalp and he has to stoop pretty far down to even wiggle underneath the pitiful spray, though that's not rare. He can't even be happy the water actually gets hot because he wants a cold shower right now, maybe forever. The knob twists easily enough, instantly pelting Sam with a deluge of ice. It feels amazing on his skin, beating out the heat that just wouldn't seem to leave him.
Sam ensures his thoughts stay perfectly aligned, blinders on, as he makes quick work of scrubbing the grime out of every inch of his exhausted body. He absolutely, can't afford to ruminate on anything dangerous. Anything to do with Dean—on his knees, cock in his mouth, moaning Sammy all low and possessive and—fuck, he absolutely cannot.
He needs to focus solely on the mission ahead, like he told himself he would last time. The "case" is priority, his extremely dubious encounters with Dean are not, and that's it.
There's still basic research to do, fundamental elements of the mystery that Sam can only guess at, namely that spell in Dean's arm. Or what Sam's been assuming to be a spell. For all he knows, it could be nothing more than a Latin student's homework.
Roughly, he can parse a decent translation out of it, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything concrete until he's dug around in the lore. Not for the first time, Sam wishes Bobby's essentials hadn't literally gone up in flames last year. Even more so that Bobby was on the other end of a phone call.
The best he can do here in Clayton is a seriously thorough internet scrape and hope digitization comes through. He just needs enough information to make sure Dean won't drop dead if they try and work the "spell" in his arm. It really isn't reaching for the stars here.
A chill seeps in alongside the cold water, but the numbing effect it has on Sam's bitten hand is satisfying so he doesn't turn the heat up. Dean's teeth impressions have been mauled slightly, torn wider and deeper and overall nasty looking. It's still very clearly a bite, but all the gnawing and scratching has only made it seem as if it's come from a feral dog rather than Sam's human brother.
Whether that's better or worse, Sam can't say, but at least it's not actively bleeding anymore.
Sam can't stare at it for too long or he starts to think too hard about the feel of Dean's tongue laving over them and then he gets itchy and hot and wants to channel it out by biting Dean back.
He scrubs himself clean with an invigorated fury, banishing thoughts from his head to get clean and get the hell out. In the end, this is the worse possible decision to make when Sam is the size he is and this shower is the size it is. One desperate wiggle to reach his upper back has his elbow slamming rather violently into the wall.
"Ow, shit!" he hisses, more angry than hurt as he cradles his arm to his chest and glares furiously at the shower around him.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice is distraught despite the way it scrapes out. It's the only warning Sam gets before the shower curtain is thrown aside, Dean standing there with wide eyes under very concerned eyebrows. "Okay, Sammy?"
He's looking Sam up and down, checking for injuries, checking for assassins in the tiled corners. Sam's still got his elbow held aloft, smarting and red from the hit, and Dean immediately zeroes in, reaching under the spray to try and tend to it. Those fingertips, rough points of pressure Sam's memorized, just barely brush the inside of his arm and send something blazing up through the ice water to heat Sam's face.
He recoils as much as the tiny shower will allow, flapping wildly like his life depends on it. "Dean! Quit, water's getting everywhere," he's protesting in a high voice, tugging at the curtain in Dean's other hand.
Dean pulls back, uncharacteristically hesitant in the face of Sam's refusals, but he won't stop staring at Sam's elbow like Sam's five and needs him to kiss it better still. Somehow, parts of Sam flare up even brighter at the implications and he wants to smack sense into himself but Dean would only get mad.
So Sam shoves at Dean's bare chest to get him away. The icy cool of his palm must be pretty shocking against Dean's warm skin, because he stumbles backwards, sputtering. The curtain is thankfully released and Sam whips it shut in much the same way he slammed doors as a teenager.
"Go back outside, I'm fine and it's cramped enough in here," he says over the sound of the water, peering through the tiny gap in the curtain to squint warningly at Dean.
"Sammy—"
"No, get outta here, I can handle a shower on my own." Sam flicks some freezing water at him like he's shooing a bad cat. It has the intended effect, Dean scrunching up his face and dodging out of the mini bathroom. He keeps the door wide open, as they often do, and Sam would bet good money Dean's right outside it, waiting.
It's enough to motivate him to wrap this up immediately, quite a feat in a shower built for children, but he achieves it with minimal finagling and a few unhappy grunts. Dean does as told and maintains an appropriate distance even when Sam steps out of the shower to dry off.
With the towel fashioned around his hips in a lazy knot, Sam finally exits the claustrophobic bathroom, gaze fixed on the pile of dirty clothes on the ground. If he had even one extra pair of sleep pants he'd just go commando like Dean and call it a day, but of course he doesn't. He isn't sleeping in jeans either, and going completely nude is out of the question with Dean right here.
The very real urge to break into that laundromat like some nude bandit and aggressively wash all their clothes is floating up in Sam's periphery. But he isn't about to get arrested in a towel so Sam just stands there, morose and naked and at a loss.
Only the faint, uncomfortable clearing of a throat pulls Sam back out of his misery. Dean sits on the side of the bed, just as Sam had before, wringing his hands like their emptiness is personally irritating him. He's raking his eyes up and down Sam's body without a care in the world, red lips parted enough to show teeth and the pink tongue running slowly along them.
Sam displayed chest flushes with heat and he doesn't know what's happening, or what the hell someone is supposed to do in this situation. The craziest thing is Sam doesn't think this is the first time Dean's looked at him like this, in this exact scenario. Fresh out of the shower and trying to find his clothes. That sits under Sam's pinkened skin quite warmly and it feels like it means something but Sam just wants to turn tail and hide in the bathroom until dawn.
Before he can manage to put the plan in action, Dean's shoving something black into Sam's front. His knuckles brush Sam's stomach, just like—like before and Sam steps back so fast he actually stumbles over his feet. Which only makes everything worse, Dean flying up to grab his wrist with that same worried, save Sammy face.
"What're you doing?" Sam's rushing out, tugging free immediately and deciding that his attention is better focused on whatever's in Dean's other hand. Looks like clothes, actually, quite like a pair of boxers. Dean's probably making some pouty expression but Sam is not checking to see.
"Here," Dean says gruffly, and pushes the underwear back into Sam's hands. "Mine."
He can't tell if Dean's talking about the underwear or him for a bleak moment and he instantly redirects. "From where?" he murmurs, not quite sure if he wants to know, as he unravels the ball of fabric and vaguely recognizes them as Dean's usual generic brand. They even look clean and just smell like gun oil.
Dean kicks at the second duffel, now lying unzipped beside the first one. Usually duffel A is for clothes and toiletries and the like, and duffel B is for weapons, salt, or whatever else they might need for a hunt. Sam had no clue Dean stuffed his underwear in the latter at some random, forward-thinking point in the last few years. He almost wants to ask where, seeing as he never found them in all his uses of the tearing canvas bag.
But Sam isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he says a serious, "thank your past self," as he tugs them on underneath the towel. He pretends not to notice the way Dean's still eyeballing him when he tosses the towel over the bathroom door to dry. He feels much more secure if he simply chalks it up to general interest that is entirely unrelated to things that have happened between them in the last few hours.
While Dean's distracted on the bed, Sam gives his forearm a thorough onceover. He hasn't seen it free of the ace bandages since yesterday, nearly forgot how horrifying that orange, undulating light looks under the skin. It shifts lazily, almost subdued compared to the last time it made Dean double over in pain. But it's still pulsating, bright and strange, the Latin lettering rolling over it as it moves back and forth.
"The arm hurt?" Sam asks, already stepping over to the table where he set the roll of bandages before Dean's shower. Dean blinks, slow and heavy, clicking his mouth shut with an audible clack of his teeth. He drags his gaze away from Sam's torso with visible effort, glancing down at the arm in question.
A light shrug, and then he returns his eyes back to Sam's general person, openly roving over every available expanse of skin without an ounce of shame. Sam's still flushed but he keeps his own expression neutral as he waits for Dean to elaborate.
"S'alright," he finally says with his even gravelier voice. Sam is actively choosing not to remember the source of it.
"Not as bad as yesterday?" Sam asks, sitting next to Dean. He just gets a muted head shake for an answer, Dean's attention anywhere but Sam's face, as if cataloguing Sam's entire person to direct memory is a very integral task he's set himself to. Sam just breathes an exasperated sound and grabs his arm.
Dean's all pliant in his hands as he rotates it at the wrist, holding it up in front of his face for a closer inspection. Whatever it is inside Dean's skin swirls like a galaxy, pushing up against flesh but not breaking, and Sam gently touches it with light fingers. The skin raises and dips like a living creature pushing into Sam's hand and goosebumps raise the hairs on Sam's arms. Could this thing be sentient? Could it be living inside Dean?
The possibility only makes Sam yet again wish he could take a knife to it. Cut it out of Dean and watch it die.
He can't though, not yet. Not until they've exhausted all avenues. Sam nods.
"I'm gonna wrap it up now," he says for Dean's benefit, assuaging the discomfort bubbling up in his stomach.
As he's winding the bandages back around Dean's forearm, glaring at the orange smog in his skin like it'll personally feel his ire and apologize for hurting his brother, Dean's busy making Sam victim to his whims. Dean's free hand raises between them to touch a bare collarbone, unimpeded when Sam's diligently tending to his arm.
He smears his thumb into the bone, forceful enough to ache, and murmurs, "wet."
Sam takes it to mean he missed some water before and tries not to zero in on the rough callus of Dean's hand on him, the warmth of it. The way something deep and buried and entirely ignored wants nothing more than for it to leave a mark.
They sit like that, Sam working to bind Dean back up and Dean staring openly at Sam like he's a particularly good re-run of Scooby Doo. Gradually, Dean's fingers creep up his collarbone to his neck, and Sam has to physically suppress the shiver that his ticklish touch elicits, among other warmer reactions.
Then there's a hard tug on the damp ends of his hair, tilting Sam's head to the left. He rolls his eyes at Dean. "Ow," he mutters, tacking the metal clasps back into Dean's bandaging.
Dean snorts, tugging again but less harshly. He flips the ends around his fingers and Sam's about to ask him if he's entertained, but Dean speaks first. "Long," he whispers, masking his hoarse voice. "Really long."
Sam considers the last time he cut his hair and realizes he can't remember. It must've been before Dean disappeared, in some amorphous blur of time when Sam and Dean were together and not separated. The good time when Sam bothered to take care of himself.
Lately, he's been feeling it brush his shoulders so he supposes even he would consider it pretty long now. Dean fans out his fingers to comb through the ends, helping them dry faster with not a small amount of humor.
"Sasquatch Sammy," he says gently, and there's that look he's been wearing lately. Soft and warm and inviting. Content.
It feels too raw suddenly, directed at Sam like this, after what's happened lately. What's shifted strangely and terribly and what Sam's very securely not addressing. He's overwhelmed by the fondness of it, the trust that sits easily in the crow's feet of Dean's eyes. Sam very much needs to do something else.
"Wrap's done," he's saying unnecessarily, tugging completely free from Dean's orbit as if the pull of gravity itself is against him. He comes away fumbling, Dean's fingers releasing his hair to try and hook him back. But he dodges quickly, getting some much needed distance, clearer air, eyes darting around in search of anything to take his attention away from Dean.
His phone is on the bed and he scoops it up with jerky movements, checking the time. It's just brushing up against midnight, but Sam can't say he's tired. Keyed up, antsy maybe, thrumming with a second burst of energy, and he can't decide if it's the cold shower's fault or Dean's.
Dean who's still sitting on the bed, staring at him through his lashes, back at that vantage point Sam has seared into his id like he'll ever need it again. Those bruised lips, shiny with fluid, the flush of Dean's freckled cheeks, the way he swallowed everything down, greedy—Sam is very successful at not letting his gaze track down Dean's naked chest, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the body heat melting off him.
Sam clears his throat and holds his phone up between them like a weapon of chastity. He feels like he's spiraling somewhere very, very not good.
"It's late," he says with vocal cords that shake more than he'd prefer. "But I'm gonna search up what I can find on the Latin," he points at Dean's arm with a finger holding the phone. "This bed is tiny so if you wanna sleep first, that's cool."
With that, Sam's scanning the small room in search of a comfortable spot to prop himself up against. The corner where the end of the bed meets the wall looks sort of cozy, Sam has worked with worse, and he's rounding Dean to test it out, blinders back on.
As he tries to, Dean grabs his left hand, tangling their fingers together with practiced efficiency. Sam's successfully caught, reaction time blunted too much to spin out of reach in time. Or that's what Sam tells himself.
Dean's green eyes are staring hard at him, not particularly heated but definitely warm.
"Here," he says easily, angling his head towards the pile of pillows on the far corner of the mattress. His hold on Sam's scarred up hand is surprisingly gentle, considering how he usually treats those bites. No nails or teeth try to slice back into the fresh marks, there's just the delicate entrapment of fingers in his.
The bed is still way too small for Sam, let alone Sam and Dean.
"It'd be a tight fit," he says plainly, making a face. Sure they slept all wrapped up in each other the last two nights, one of those post-orgasm in the front seat of the Impala and Sam worked his mental gymnastics through that one. But this time, he's not quite sure he can do that, especially when his skin burns up every time Dean's fingers press against him, every time his eyes drink him in, every time Sam sees those lips and remembers them stretched around his cock.
Sam would actually rather perish there on the hardwood floor than go through the torture of forced proximity with Dean right now. He's seconds from a spontaneous physical and mental combustion at the drop of a hat and those boundaries have been completely, utterly obliterated. Sam isn't up for functioning like a brother, he desperately needs their usual few inches of distance.
Please, can't Dean tell he's going through it? There's research that needs doing, a case that needs solving, an arm that needs saving. A brother that needs help. Sam fixes Dean with soft, pleading eyes and hopes it sends the desired message.
But Dean's just skeptically looking at him, clearly undeterred by verbal and silent messages. Sam exhales heavily through his nose.
"I don't wanna bother you while you sleep, working on the floor's fine," he adds, only sounding a little bit pathetically hypermasculine. It's not even that he explicitly does not want to share a bed with Dean, in fact, in a perfect world he really, really does. Why wouldn't he? It's warm, safe, protected, just like when they were kids. Dean fights the monsters away.
No, the specific problem here is Sam really does not want to squeeze into that tiny space of a bed when the both of them are barely dressed. When they've just come off an event Sam hasn't even gotten around to properly rationalizing away yet, the results still plain as day in Dean's bruised lips, his rasping voice.
Just the hint of it has Sam's whole body flashing hot again and it is way too humid in Louisiana to deal with that. Not to mention, he's only got a thin pair of boxers between his dick and the world. He doesn't even want to imagine his shame if he sported any kind of reaction to their proximity like this.
As Sam barely treads water in the torrential flood of excuses filling his mouth, Dean unravels his hand from Sam's and Sam's absently reaching back for it before he even realizes. Dean's slid off the bed to dig around in a duffel, squatting in Sam's too long sleep pants. He procures Sam's laptop, safe in its hard case, and pulls it free.
"Research, Sammy," Dean says, hoarse as hell, and pushes the computer all the way across the bedspread so that it presses up into the furthest corner, out of Sam's immediate reach. Sam looks back and forth between Dean and the laptop, unmoving, because it's obvious what Dean's trying to do and he's not going along with it.
Dean's got one knee on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and they have a mini staredown where neither of them says a word, waiting. Sam flutters his eyelashes, like he still thinks it's a good idea for him to huddle on the wood floor instead, because he does, and Dean squints at him.
In the end, Dean breaks first. He practically bodyslams Sam down onto the bed in a surprise attack that has Sam flopping like a sack of potatoes. Sam's head bounces when he lands on the mattress and he needs a second to properly find his center of gravity again. But Dean growls in his rough throat, the sound coming out strangled and a bit weak, and then a palm smacks Sam's ass.
"Dude," Sam's squeaking out with as much dignity as he can muster, the sting burning through his threadbare boxers. From his peripheral he sees Dean raise his hand again and he's practically rushing up the bed with a frantic instinct to avoid a second hit. He puts his back to a pillow that's wedged against the wall, ass to mattress in case Dean's on some kind of war path. He fixes him with an incredulous glare, suppressing the embarrassment that makes him want to slide under the blankets and die.
"Good Sammy," Dean says, still in that smoky voice Sam wrecked, and the smirk on his face has Sam going hot and cold in turns. Before Sam can try and kick him for it, Dean flops onto the bed beside him, landing on his belly and nearly tossing Sam's laptop off with the force. Sam snatches it out of the air, clutching it tight and shooting Dean an unimpressed glare.
"Do you know how expensive this thing is?" he gripes, avoiding looking directly into Dean's pleased as pie grin for a variety of reasons he's not fit to divulge. Dean shrugs a shoulder, utterly uncaring, and Sam doesn't admit he actually doesn't know how much the thing costs either.
"Move, Sammy," Dean requests, rolling into a sitting position so he can tug at the duvet under them with grabby hands. Sam does no such thing, firmly rooted to his spot and watching Dean struggle for a solid few seconds with an amused expression. It's revenge for the earlier attack.
Dean looks at Sam with pouty lips, flapping the blanket obnoxiously in their faces, clearly getting frustrated. "Sammy," he admonishes, pulling the big brother card with the authoritative tone. Sam has no intentions of budging, but perhaps he should've recalled their fraught childhood before Dean gave one last huge jerk. The blanket slides under Sam's ass and sends him toppling sideways into the wall, yet again thrown around like he weighs nothing.
"Ha!" Dean exclaims, having ripped the blanket free in one fluid motion. He's entirely too happy with his success, tugging the duvet free from the corners it's tucked under and wrapping it around his shoulders like he's the king of IKEA. His teeth flash at Sam, feral and pleased.
"You played dirty, don't smile at me," Sam complains, rejecting the abject happiness glowing at him. His head and shoulder are still smushed hard into the far wall and Sam's perfectly fine with sequestering himself as far across the bed as he can get from Dean. With the explicit intent to never look up from his laptop screen until Dean's totally unconscious.
Dean has other ideas, dragging the oversized blanket along with him as he knocks Sam's thigh to the side with the back of a hand. Before Sam can close his legs in protest, Dean's flopping down between them like an oversized puppy, all winning grins. Sam has to lift the laptop again to keep it from getting knocked by Dean's flurry of movement as he spins around. His back slots perfectly against Sam's chest, molding to him with natural ease, and pulls the duvet up over the both of them.
Sam's honestly at a loss for words, holding the computer out with one hand and floating the other. Dean busily snuggles back against him, resting his head against Sam's right shoulder, not a care in the world for the silent brother he's using as a bed. At this height, Dean's forehead is level with Sam's chin, pressing into the side of his jaw in a surprisingly comfortable way. The blanket is pulled up to Dean's ribs, just shy of the pink of his nipples.
"Night, Sammy," Dean sighs happily like he's settled into Heaven, balling his fists in the fluffy duvet. His hair tickles the side of Sam's face and Sam wants to knock their heads together as punishment for this ridiculously cuddly position. Bring some brotherly banter back to whatever the hell they're doing.
But he can't bring himself to do it.
He rests his arms back down on either side of Dean and is once again reminded of how easily they fit together like this, just like the time Sam helped Dean with his jeans. The width of Dean's broad shoulders fill in the space between Sam's arms without spilling over.
Sam props one knee up to support his elbow, caging Dean in between his legs. "Where am I supposed to put this if you're all over me?" he asks, weirdly subdued now that he's been commandeered like a giant stuffed teddy bear. He waves the laptop in front of Dean's face.
It's grabbed and settled on Dean's abs simply enough. "There," Dean mumbles, rough and already sounding sleepy. He fumbles with opening it up for Sam and soon as it boots up, he sinks his hands under the blanket, settling in. It seems he might really intend to fall asleep like this, all wound up in Sam as he researches.
He feels Dean nuzzle his forehead into his jaw, burrowing close. An inhale raises Dean's chest then, deep and slow. Content.
In the sudden quiet of the room, Dean whispers soft enough for his voice not to catch, "okay, S'mmy?"
It's a bit like Sam's adopted a large dog again. How his last puppy, Bones, would crawl into his lap and sleep all over him at any given opportunity, no matter how cramped or awkward the positioning. Just happy to be near and warm.
With Dean, now, the position isn't uncomfortable. Sure it's overheated, will get sweat sticky after a few hours, and there's a heavy weight of another body, bony in some places, stiff in others. But Sam feels strong like this. He's barred Dean up in his protective limbs, holding him close and safe from the outside world, protective.
For once Dean's let him be the wall between them and everyone else.
"Yeah it's okay, Dean," Sam finally says, just as quiet.
He finds he's smiling a little into Dean's hair as he fiddles with the browser, transcribing the Latin into a search and scouring through the plethora of occult books helpful e-witches have scanned online over the years.
In his arms, Dean breathes gentle and loud, snuffling and twisting occasionally under Sam's jaw, but otherwise blessedly immobile. As Sam's eyes start aching with the blue light of his screen, he can't even bother to stop the dumb grin still pulling at his cheeks, all pleased and comforted against his will.
Maybe something like hours roll past as Sam flips through what must be hundreds of highlighted passages in various Latin texts. He's going cross-eyed and starting to get too warm under Dean. While he's entirely unwilling to do anything about the latter, he mutters a soft, "last one."
Resting his cheek on top of Dean's slumped head to get a break for his tired neck, Sam blearily clicks the arrow that sends him cascading through walls of text. So far, he's come across generally relevant ideas about the Latin, but nothing concrete and certainly nothing new to Sam. His patience and resolve wore thin 62 textbooks back and now he's blinking at the screen to follow through on just one last thread. One last ditch effort before he gives in to his lazy limbs' will and cuddles Dean into unconsciousness.
A spellbook is the last result in his very last tailored search and he clicks around the digitized pages, squinting as lines of texts start clumping together into nonsense.
One line specifically has him raising his head back upright, frowning hard as he tries to wrap his brain around the language that's pinging differently in his half conscious hind brain. The Latin is hard to parse, particularly flowery, but it word for word explains the importance of key phrases from Dean's arm. Things like body and soul and reunification.
These words, the same words carved into a spell on Dean's arm, when used in tandem can bring together a soul and its original body. Blood to bones, life to flesh.
A resurrection.
Sam blinks once, hard enough that starbursts appear in his vision, exhaustion making him fuzzy and disbelieving.
But when his eyes focus back in, there it stays. Resurrection.
Lafitte repeats louder and louder in his head, echoing in a vacuous chamber and Sam knows it's connected, knows the spell is about Lafitte, even for Lafitte. His mind is racing and he presses his lips to the side of Dean's head to keep from cursing out loud because fuck, he understands, of course he does, it makes sense. He has a clear route, two pieces of the puzzles on Dean’s body that fit together and create something San can hunt.
The thing inside Dean's arm, the instructions carved in his skin, the name.
Lafitte.
They're not looking for a person. They're looking for a body.
Notes:
sam dealing with new sam/dean developments: i pretend i do not see it
and we're finally digging into the first heap of plot which is exciting for me bc there's much to be revealed. anyways i hope y'all liked this oversized update!! chapter 12 will be landing on monday june 15 and it will not be as long as this one (i hope)
Chapter 12: Truth
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The night passed in a frantic, hyper focused blur until exactly the point that Sam fell asleep, mid-research with his laptop slipping sideways off Dean's belly. There's no telling when exactly that was, just some vague predawn hour, Sam's eyes slipping shut without his permission to the uncomfortable swirling anxieties of digging up graves and scouring obituaries and finding whatever the hell did this to his brother.
He doesn't tell Dean about anything until they're standing outside the only laundromat in Clayton. Mostly because he spent the better part of the morning furiously working out exactly what everything meant, getting it all into a working order, making coherent plans.
First and foremost, they need to find the body. Because whatever is in Dean's arm, according to the Latin inscribed in his skin, seems to be a soul. A living, sentient soul.
That prospect alone was enough to keep Sam's mouth sealed when he woke sticky and gummy underneath Dean's suffocating weight. Dean, dead asleep yet still somehow clinging tightly to Sam's chest like Sam would have snuck away in the night. Sam didn't miss how his laptop mysteriously sat, safe and undisturbed, on the makeshift night stand.
The soft thing inside him, the thing that melts to goo when he looks at Dean for too long, solidified into something protective and angry.
Whoever, whatever, took Dean away from him those three months ago, apparently stuffed him with some dead thing's soul and now they want Dean to bring it back to life. They want him to return it to its body. Resurgent, the Latin said, to rise again.
It must be Lafitte, though Sam can't say if it's human or something much worse, more dangerous. Instinctively, viciously, he wants to do the exact opposite of what they want, wants to cut it out of Dean's pale skin and watch it float up into nothingness or whatever the hell happens to a soul without a vessel.
But he doesn't know what that could do to Dean, the repercussions of it. Not to mention, that soul must know something. About what happened to Dean, what made him like this. How to help him.
It has answers.
Sam's going to get them.
He decides all of this before he tells Dean, furiously working it over in his head and laying out a comprehensive and doable plan of action. Now, they're both standing outside Clayton's only laundromat at 9:27 in the morning.
After throwing a bag's worth of Sam's clothes into one of only three washing machines, Sam and Dean obtained breakfast via taco truck across the street. Sam got the one with egg and Dean got the one aptly called a Hippo, stuffed to the brim with every variety of meat imaginable.
Since waking up, Dean's been just as pliant and easygoing as last night, following after Sam without any questions. The most annoying thing he's done is insist on holding onto Sam's fingers when more than a foot of distance opens up between them.
(Which was actually helpful when they left Marley's and Sam nearly tripped to his death over the brick J used as a doorstop.)
Sam waits until the precise moment that Dean's mouth is stuffed full of taco fixings to finally update him. "Think I found out what's in your arm," he says easily, holding his foil wrapped breakfast in one hand to pick at it with the other. Dean hums, glancing up at Sam with cheeks puffed out and curious eyes. He doesn't look particularly surprised at the admission, maybe even a little proud.
When he smiles, he has to quickly stop to keep food from escaping, and Sam reads him loud and clear. Knew you would, geek boy.
Ignoring the swell of warmth in his belly, Sam continues. "The Latin seems to be a spell for resurrection. At least that's what it looks like based on the translation and some notes I found. If it is, it's meant to put a soul back into a body."
He lets the words hang between them for a moment, watching Dean's face for any kind of reaction. Dean's brow only furrows and then he's chewing hurriedly so he can swallow and clear his mouth.
"So?" he says without struggling, and cocks his head to the side, taco aloft.
"So, the thing in your arm is a soul, Dean," Sam enunciates through his teeth. He squeezes his own taco a little too tightly, a bit of egg toppling free from the tortilla. Dean watches it escape, stares morosely at it on the concrete, and then holds his Hippo out to Sam with raised eyebrows.
It's the only reaction he gives, seemingly more concerned with keeping Sam fed than the fact that some strange thing could be living in his arm like a parasite.
Glaring at the offered taco, Sam shakes his head and keeps the conversation on track. "You know what this means, right?"
Dean is still holding his food out and he wiggles it sharply. One last check to make sure Sam is positive he doesn't want the last two bites. As if the loss of a mouthful of egg rendered Sam's own taco completely inedible.
With an irritated breath, Sam shoves Dean's hand out of his face, narrowly resisting the urge to slap the poor Hippo to the concrete too. "Dude, seriously."
Finally, Dean shrugs a shoulder and returns to eating, apparently giving up on the mission. Before Sam can decide if he needs to reiterate points of their one-sided conversation so Dean will understand, Dean holds up his wrapped forearm.
He doesn't say anything, eyebrows still slightly raised, as he uses his opposite hand to make a stabbing motion. Cutting into the skin and forcing the soul out, it's a question and a suggestion at the same time. A possibility Sam also debated but ultimately scrapped.
"No, we don't know what that could do to you," Sam says quickly because it's true and because Sam has settled on a much more productive course of action. Dean frowns as if it's not the answer he wanted to hear and unhappily drops his arms at his sides. "If there's a soul inside you, that means we have access to information. Whatever that thing knows, it can tell us. We can get answers."
As long as they can find the body, and as long as the owner of the body is something they're equipped to handle. Sam's safe in the knowledge that they're equipped to handle quite a lot.
Dean, apparently, is not.
"Sammy, no," he says, frown giving way to a looser, more distraught expression. His eyes look big under those downturned eyebrows, scowl prominent.
"If we don't, you're in danger," Sam impresses, because in Sam's mind that's enough. "Don't you want to know what happened to you? Where you've been? Who did this?" As the questions roll out of Sam's mouth, much more rhetorical than earnest, it occurs to him that Dean's answers might very well be nope. All this time, Sam still hasn't quite pinpointed what all Dean knows about his situation, hasn't gotten more than vague non replies and disinterested shrugs.
What exactly that means, Sam can't quite say.
"S'not safe," Dean manages after visibly working the words around in his mouth, lips twisting. Because words don't come as easily now, or at least not as easy as they used to. Though, they do come. Sometimes in full sentences, depending on how urgently Dean needs them. Sam remembers the roadhouse, how pissed he was at first to find out Dean could speak a lot more than he implied.
Pulling back to his full height instead of the slight stooping he usually does, Sam realizes there might be even more than just that. Not so much that Dean is deliberately hiding things, just that there are clearly things Dean remembers, things he's capable of that, he hasn't fully explained. Things that might make him more reluctant to go head first into a mission to bring out whatever that soul is and interrogate it.
But if Dean isn't willing to explain, Sam can't really force anything out of him.
"It's never safe," he just says on an exhale. The thought of trying not to do something just because it's dangerous is so completely against what they do, it's almost funny. "But we did—we're doing all this to help you, remember? We came here to get that thing out of you and figure out what happened."
Dean asks under his breath, low and rough, "Why, Sammy?" He's dissident, glaring at the window of the laundromat instead of meeting Sam's gaze anymore.
It's almost petulant, almost willful, and it immediately kindles Sam's frustrations because Dean knows why. Because he's different now, because he's traumatized, because he needs help.
They can't stay like this, Sam can't keep dealing with Dean like—like this. Clingy, and biting, and growling, and vicious. Dean who doesn't care about anything but Sam, Dean who pulls Sam's lips between his teeth, Sam's skin. Dean who sucks Sam off next to the Impala at night and smirks like he's proud of it.
"Why?" Sam repeats and it escapes in a higher tone, incredulous. "Because you're not—you're not you right now," he starts and doesn't miss the way Dean's face muscles twitch under the pouting mask. "We need information from whatever that soul is so I can get you better, so I can fix you."
The implication rings loud and clear. Whatever Dean is right now, whatever they are, needs fixing. Sam does believe this, Sam has to believe it, because otherwise the precarious balance of maintaining his sanity and keeping Dean close will fall apart. Especially after last night. More so, after last night.
Dean is gnawing on his lip, still staring off at the laundromat's window, eyes skimming over the painted hours of operation almost distractedly.
When it's obvious Sam isn't going to get any answer at all, he lays out the rest of the plan and can only hope Dean is cooperative.
"I found two cemeteries in town and one just fifteen minutes out, but no online death certificates. So we should stop by the library and city hall first to search for a paper trail on Lafitte," he pauses just enough to give Dean an opening should he have some kind of opinion. But Dean stays silent.
"I still don't know if Lafitte's who did this to you or what we'd be bringing up, but it's the only lead we have," Sam finishes, and he leaves it open ended enough that if Dean were to provide any other kind of lead maybe they could change directions.
He watches Dean carefully, searching for some kind of acknowledgement, but the only thing he gets is a heavy, displeased exhale Dean forces through his nose. It could almost be a scoff.
"We just have to find where the body—" Sam cuts off when Dean grabs his bitten hand and jerks him sideways, near enough to topple him over. He stumbles on his feet, more taco egg jumping to the ground, and scowls at Dean for constantly resorting to yanking him around.
But the laundromat door has swung open, before Sam can complain, and a polite voice is talking. "Hey y'all, your wash is done running if you wanna throw it in the dryer."
Sam spins around, pulling on his well-intentioned smile to greet the laundromat owner. He lets Dean hold his hand behind his back if only because Dean apparently saved them from a very awkward, unintentional eavesdropping situation.
"Oh thanks, we're just finishing these tacos," he says and holds up the sad breakfast in his free hand, more tortilla than egg. "We'll be right there."
The owner is a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair that's big and curly. She's not been overly conversational since Sam and Dean arrived, which Sam appreciated. Up close, Sam sees headphones hanging from one of her ears and assumes maybe that's the reason she's minded her own business.
"Sure thing," she says lightly, waving her hand as she slips back inside.
The fingers in his hand scratch and tug at the bites. Somehow they've managed to scab back over, constantly fighting to heal despite Dean's best efforts. It hurts but it's a familiar hurt, almost a comfort now.
Or it would be if it didn't bring up things from last night Sam would rather not be thinking about. A flare of warmth burns up his wrist and Sam doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with all of that, so he just turns and offers the last of his taco. "You want this?"
Dean blinks at it, eyes jumping back and forth from Sam's face like he isn't sure what Sam's goal is. For Sam, it's as much a peace offering, as it is a bribe to behave later when Sam insists on interviewing the owner. Plus, if he's busy eating Sam's breakfast, he can't auspiciously cling onto Sam and make the poor lady draw curious conclusions about their relationship.
"Take it," Sam finally says, pushing the taco at Dean and shaking his injured hand free. He waits just long enough to make sure Dean's biting into the last of their breakfast, before heading inside. Dean follows close behind as usual.
The laundromat is suitably abandoned on a Sunday morning in the small church town. It's a small place, only has three washers and two dryers, plus a couple drying racks in the back. All of them were empty when they arrived and all of them were bought in the seventies.
Every last bit of Sam's clothing that isn't on their bodies sits in a heap inside the washing machine nearest to the exit, successfully wrung out and ready for a quick dry. For a brief second, stuttering in his step, Sam debates the merits of tasking Dean with unloading and loading the laundry so he can focus on getting information from the owner where she sits, perched behind a counter.
But one short glance over at Dean by his shoulder, close enough that they're still touching, tells him all he needs to know about the possibility of that plan. So he goes to task, moving all their clothes around and slipping in a few quarters to get the ancient appliance going.
As he does, Dean hovers nearby, taco eaten with nothing but foil to remember it by. He's rolling it up into a ball and Sam's at least grateful for the distraction, because it means he isn't grabbing at Sam's fingers.
Looking beyond Dean, Sam catches the owner squinting at them through black framed glasses more than once as he shuts the dryer door. They're attempts at covert glances, not subtle at all, and every time Sam accidentally meets her eyes, she hurriedly stares back down at a small paperback book in her hands. Dean notices too and the suspicious scowl on his face is anything but pleasant.
Once the dryer is humming noisily, throwing their wet clothes violently around, Sam guides them over to the set of chairs up against the entrance's wall. He plops down with a sigh and gets another curious little glance from the owner for his efforts. When their eyes meet again she quickly looks away, clearing her throat and scribbling in her book.
There's a snort of a sound from Dean and Sam feels him shoulder into his side just enough to knock Sam slightly. Dean's actually situated himself so that the both of them are pressing hip to knee and Sam should probably scoot away but he doesn't, easing back. Dean's got his arms crossed, right leg bobbing up and down like there's too much energy and nowhere to send it.
Per their earlier conversation, Sam's not sure if Dean's angry or dissatisfied about what Sam said. About Sam's insistence that they get Dean better, fix him. Even if he is in some way unhappy, Sam's already decided on the course of action and that's what they're going to do. Dean's inexplicable reluctance be damned.
Because Sam just wants this whole thing over with. The arm, the holes in Dean's memory, the odd behaviors and odder actions. The sheer mystery of it all. They're finally here, in Clayton, the place where the answers are supposed to be. If Sam doesn't start finding any of those answers, if he can't fix this entire shitty, strange, messed up situation they've fallen into, he's going to have some kind of breakdown.
He's already exhausted, internally, at doing all these mental gymnastics and jumping through hoops to make sense of the things happening with Dean. The things that are more than the bites, more than the closeness, more even than the kisses. The worse things that Sam worries they can't come back from. Like last night, like the night before that.
The very fine line between what makes Sam and Dean who they are is getting finer and finer, crossed and twisted and tangled, and Sam can't do anything about it, except pretend it isn't happening while frantically trying to get Dean back to himself. Get an explanation, get a solution, get them to who they were before. The way they're supposed to be.
If he doesn't, the stress and confusion is going to send him to an early grave, eating away at the rational parts of his brain and leaving him mentally exhausted. Sam rubs at his right eye and leans back in the chair with another heavy sigh, ignoring the warm press of Dean against him.
He's not even physically tired, that's the kicker. Sam's been getting the best sleep he's had in years lately. He can't even recall dreaming about anything in particular these past few nights and it strikes him how rare it is that he hasn't had a nightmare recently.
Before, when Dean was gone, Sam was waking up wildly, cold and clammy with sweat nearly every time he fell asleep, the few and far between times he actually managed to. Usually, when the two of them have been separated for a time, the nightmares stay a while. Even after they've found each other again.
Sam will still wake up, heart racing, fear clogging his throat and then, practically flailing, he'll look across the way at the other bed and see Dean. Alive and safe and near. The tension will ease out of him like air from a deflating balloon, all at once.
Yet here Sam sits, having slept through several hours for the third time in as many days. Not even a hint of those desperate, clawing, night terrors has come slipping under his eyelids since getting Dean back. Well rested, sated.
The connection is pretty easy to draw. Sam hasn't slept a single night since getting Dean back without him pressed all around him, the warmth and safety of constantly touching, the smell of Dean's hair up against his face, the familiar weight of his body over Sam's.
It's not insignificant how much sheer comfort Sam draws from Dean's proximity, from having him so close, leaning into him like they're just one solid body between the two of them. If that's the case, could all those nightmares from before have been prevented? If Dean had simply clung onto Sam, crawled into his spaces, could they have fought away the monsters that appear at night?
They sleep warm and satiated and relaxed when they're touching, and Sam can't ignore the importance of that. Not even now, when Dean's done so much more to him, thrown them over the line of what's appropriate into uncharted territory Sam can't even bring himself to address, to think about.
As weary as this whole mess has him, Sam can't totally begrudge it.
"Sammy?"
Sam's closed his eyes, reclined into the uncomfortable plastic of the domed chair under him, and Dean's voice brings him back out. He squints over to see Dean leaning in and poking a finger into the dip of his cheek where Sam knows a dimple sometimes appears.
"Sleepy?" Dean asks when he meets Sam's stare and he doesn't look all pinched like before, like their earlier conversation had him. He's smoothed out and now there's only the lines of vague, big brother concern. Sam bats his hand away and scoots back upright, mindful of the way his leg pushes hard against Dean's when he does.
"Just thinking about what we're gonna do," Sam says instead of the truth and hates how pleased and gooey he feels to have Dean regarding him with those shiny, familiar eyes. Always attuned to Sam, always worried about him. "After the clothes are clean we can get changed in the Impala so we don't scare everyone off."
Dean leans back slightly. "Everyone?"
"Yeah, we still gotta talk to people for research," Sam says obviously, flicking his hair back and anticipating the unhappy grumble in Dean's chest. Of course, Dean would prefer they crawled through graveyards in the dead of night completely alone, but Sam still has questions to ask.
Like ripping off a bandage, Sam continues, "Actually, I'm gonna interview the owner, okay?"
Before the words are completely out of his mouth, Dean's got a hand curling around Sam's wrist as if Sam was about to dart away. Though he did entertain the thought. Wordlessly, Sam grabs Dean by his wrist too and tugs to loosen his grip. He expected Dean wouldn't want him to walk off and talk with people, let alone by himself, but his age old independence streak is protesting.
It's even more annoying in light of their conversation. Maybe Dean doesn't think he's different, maybe Dean doesn't think he needs fixing, but this behavior right here is why Sam has to do something, why Sam wants Dean back to himself.
"Let go, I'm just gonna ask her some questions," he says and his voice is firm, laced with the low tone of exasperation. He's still got a hold of Dean's wrist, pulling again, but Dean won't budge. "If we both go, it's gonna weird her out. Especially with the way you are now, okay? So stay here and wait and quit making my life harder."
It comes out a bit harsher than Sam intended it to.
Maybe it's because they just argued about this outside the laundromat, but Dean huffs and tosses Sam's arm away, something bitter and heated in his face. He won't look at Sam anymore, scowling mightily at the dryer bouncing their clothes around, and keeping his hands to himself. Even his leg is no longer pressing a warm line into Sam's.
It's not quite pouting like Dean usually does, not quite petty indignation.
It's upset, maybe a little uneasy.
Sam spares him one last assessing glance and decides to pat his shoulder once, a hard and solid affirmation. Dean doesn't react, hands fisted in his lap, and Sam decides they can talk it out later. Work through whatever exactly is going unspoken between the two of them, beyond the things Sam can't bring himself to broach.
When he stands and turns to the owner, he finds she's been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes. She startles and knocks a cup over, several colorful pens scattering over the counter and across the floor. It's as good enough an excuse as any, and Sam rushes over to grab a few. The absence of Dean's sturdy, stalking presence at his heels is weirdly felt and Sam pretends he doesn't miss it.
For once his brother stays resolutely put.
"I got it," Sam says as he reaches the counter, four eccentric pens in hand. One of them is bright green with a feathery top that tickles his knuckles and he goes for a lightly, casual air when he meets the owner's eyes.
She looks up so fast her curly brown hair falls into her eyes and her cheeks are flushed. There's pens in her fists too and she hurriedly shoves them into the righted cup.
"Um, thank you."
Sam smiles the one with the deepest dimples and drops the pens in alongside hers. It's not that he expects her to have all the answers, or even the smallest bits of useful information. But he's not exactly going around asking if anyone knows about any mysterious graves housing a body in desperate need of a soul. That's something he'll dig for on his own.
However, it hasn't escaped Sam's notice how odd it is for such a tiny town to be caught up in something as new and strange as this. What with a spell Sam's never heard of and souls being put inside arms and a poor hunter gone feral. So Sam's looking for the barest hints of anything suspicious or unnatural happening lately. Even local legends can point them in a more clear direction, give them some hint as to what exactly they're dealing with.
"I'm Sam," he starts, bending down to meet her eyes when she busies herself with pushing the pen cup out of future harm's way.
Perhaps realizing Sam isn't leaving, she folds her paperback closed too and puts it away. It's one of those puzzle books with numbers and crosswords. She also lights up her phone, wired to the headphones hanging off her ear, and presses pause on what's playing.
Sam sees the album art and finds his segue.
"Can I, uh, help you?" Her voice is polite, slightly nervous, but Sam assumes that's because she's been very obviously side eyeing him all morning.
"You listen to that podcast?" he asks, pointing at her phone and smiling again. "I love their paranormal episodes, especially the unsolved ones."
The owner blinks a few furious times and then returns Sam's smile with a weak, hesitant one of her own. Likely just happy Sam didn't come over here demanding to know why she keeps staring at them. She tucks some of her wild, curly hair behind her ear and pulls her headphones free at the same time. "Uh, yeah, I really like the murder mysteries with ghosts."
Sam nods, an encouragement for continued conversation. "Oh wow, no way," he says, looking suitably thrilled. "This is great, 'cause I'm actually working on a book and I'm really interested in local legends and ghost stories." It's actually not too different from Sam and Dean's usual methods of setting up a case and it comes out believable and easy.
Sam would guess the owner's around Dean's age, maybe a little older, as the lines on her forehead deepen with the raise of her eyebrows. "Really? Here in Clayton of all places?" she asks, somewhat dubious but Sam detects a note of curiosity. It goes right along with her constant little glances from before and he knows she'll talk to him when she says, "You can call me Ama."
"Ama," Sam says, reaffirming a connection the way Dad taught them as kids. "Have you lived here long? Any interesting stories to tell?"
Ama tilts her head, lips pursing as if deep in thought. But her eyes dart past Sam for a moment, in Dean's direction. Whatever she sees, she quickly returns her attention to Sam.
"Well, I moved here about, I don't know now, twenty years ago? Something like. I can't say much happened here then or now, that's why I'm always listening to these podcasts," she says with a snort and a slight wave of her hand as if to encompass all of Clayton's boring history. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
"I don't know, a murder maybe, or some old unsolved mystery, maybe a chupacabra spotting?" Sam suggests, going for lightly affected, and wishing he had his jacket on to shove his hands into. Normally, he would lean them up on the countertop, a subtle message that he means no harm, has no weapon. Just here to talk.
But his left hand is marked to hell and he doesn't want to repeat the gas station or the J incident.
"I wish we had stuff like that here," Ama says, tapping her fingers against her chin. Sam can see her eyes flick back to Dean again and he hopes whatever expression is on Dean's face isn't intimidating. But Ama just rolls her gaze up to the ceiling, nonchalant or otherwise not traumatized.
Then those fingers at her chin are snapping a loud pop and she points at Sam.
"Oh! Well you know, there is something I heard from ol' man Fred back when I used to do shifts at the inn," she says, eyes a little wide behind her glasses. "Apparently back in like the early twentieth century a pirate settled down here, retiring from the life of crime and all that. But in the end he was murdered for it by his old crew."
She focuses back on Sam and must not see an immediate excitement in his face because she continues, a bit subdued. "I know it's not super interesting or spooky really, but I think some of the kids around here say they've seen the pirate's grave."
There's an almost embarrassed little laugh and Ama waves her hand in front of her face as if what she's said is totally ridiculous. "Though I gotta say they'll lie about anything to make this podunk town even a little interesting. Tourism ain't exactly thriving, as you've probably noticed."
Sam shrugs a shoulder, wearing a pleasantly intrigued face. "No, no, pirates are great, really. They wouldn't have made all those movies otherwise" he says, shaking his head. It's certainly not the wildest thing Sam's heard in his life as a hunter, but it's still worth looking into. Murder is murder, whether it's a pirate or not, and a violent death can beget all sorts of creatures. Not that Sam thinks the thing in Dean's arm could really be a pissed off pirate who just wanted his pension.
Ama sighs and drops her chin on her palm, mouth pouting out. "Sorry for the stupid story, I know it's not exactly podcast worthy. But you gotta admit it's your fault for thinking Clayton would have anything like that. Sleepy and God fearing, that's all this place has." She shakes her head woefully and Sam gets the vibe she didn't settle here of her own volition.
"Yeah, I've been getting that lately," he agrees, debating if he should try and dig for anything more with her. She did mention a grave, granted it's a legendary (likely nonexistent) pirate's grave, but a grave nonetheless. Sam can't deny they'll be looking for one and if it's a plot in one of the church cemeteries, they'd even have an excuse to visit.
"You don't happen to know where they say the pirate's grave is, do you?" he asks, because it's worth a shot. He isn't ready yet to start blindly asking around about Lafitte, not when he still can't tell if that's the body or the person who hurt Dean. Ama shrugs, frown pinching her brows behind her glasses.
"My daughter's mentioned it before, but I don't remember. Maybe somewhere out in all the abandoned farmland we got along the highway? It's definitely not in the regular cemeteries. If it exists, anyways," she says and cuts another sideways glance behind Sam. Without really meaning to, Sam steps to the side and blocks her view of Dean with his shoulder.
"I guess you don't know who I could ask to find out more about Clayton's pirate?" He figures it's as good an excuse as any to go poking around with questions at the ready. The more easily he can pull the conversation to talk of graves, the better. Ama shrugs, fiddling with the folded corner of her puzzle book.
"Some teenagers, maybe? I'd say old man Fred but he's kinda senile and he told me that years ago." As she's talking, the buzz of the dryer goes off, startling her into almost knocking her paperback to the ground.
Sam pretends not to notice for her sake and smiles. "That's me," he says. "Thanks for the story, seriously. The pirate of Clayton sounds cool and I'll credit you if I write about it."
Ama nods, managing a grin on her flushed face. "Please do, I'd love a copy if you ever get it done," she says and it sounds honest. Sam's again reminded of just how casually nice everyone seems to be around here. The one common trait of General Small Town, South that Sam's always appreciated.
"Definitely," Sam says by way of goodbye with one last pleasant smile. Ama returns the expression and waves him off to retrieve his fresh laundry.
As if summoned by gravitational pull alone, Dean's at Sam's side with their empty bag in hand. He practically body checks Sam in the hip, nearly tipping him over in the need to crowd back into his space. It's not unlike the way they are when they've been apart a while. Though, it's usually a significantly longer while than the twenty minutes that just occurred.
"Dude," Sam mutters, rolling his eyes and righting himself against the dryer. Dean just rumbles, quiet enough that Ama probably doesn't pick it up, and presses into his side so they're shoulder to shoulder again. He's warm and solid and extremely annoying. Sam doesn't shove him away.
He pops open the dryer and starts tugging out all the clean clothes, preparing to put them in bag Dean's holding up. Everything smells like linen and detergent, fluffy and warm, and it fills Sam with a relief he can't quite explain. Finally, they won't have clothing struggles hanging over their heads and Sam can check something off their mental to-do list.
As Dean eyes him with a stern expression, stock still and over tense, Sam settles the clothes in the duffel as loosely folded as possible to avoid the worst wrinkles. He still doesn't acknowledge the look Dean's boring into the side of his face when he pulls the zipper closed. Mostly because Sam's pretty sure it's only because Dean very much wants to grab onto him, and very much regrets letting Sam go before.
Somehow the idea makes Sam feel even lighter than the clean clothes.
"Carry this and don't grab me," Sam says, low so Ama won't hear. He swings the bag over Dean's shoulder for him and casts a subtle look over to make sure she didn't hear anything. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ama is staring at them from behind a wave of curly hair and Sam just hopes she doesn't think anything strange.
Following his gaze, Dean immediately huffs under his breath, curling his lip into an entirely displeased scowl. Sam already knows Dean isn't going to listen to his request. He rounds Dean, hoping maybe if he moves quick enough he can escape any untoward grabby fingers.
But his hand is caught and held so tight Sam's steps falter very obviously, breath punching out his nose. In an attempt to play it off, he shoots an awkward toothy smile at Ama, her dark eyes wide on them.
With another grunt of a noise, Dean winds their fingers together like they're a couple of high schoolers who've just started dating and need the whole campus to know. Sam resists the instinctive, flighty urge to tear free and pretend nothing is happening. Ama's owl-eyed gaze makes his skin itch, knowing she could draw any number of conclusions from this, spread it all over Clayton.
It's even weirder if Sam tries to struggle though and he can only paste on his forced, uncomfortable smile as he heads for the door. Completely, ignoring Ama would be sort of rude, considering they talked and she tried to help him. Sam doesn't want everyone thinking they’re assholes, so he waves with his free hand once he reaches the door.
Ama cocks her head to the side, gaze roving over the both of them in a slow, sweeping way. Almost considering. Sam dreads the judgement he might find once she settles on their clasped hands. The questions, the assumptions. He's squeezing Dean's knuckles harder than Dean's squeezing his.
With an elbow on the door handle, Sam prepares to sprint for freedom, but Ama flashes a winning grin that freezes him for just a second. It's the kind that genuinely reaches her eyes.
"You two are really cute together," she says, voice a little high like she's cooing at a couple of babies. Dean crowds against Sam's back, subtly urging him out the door and away from whatever Ama has to say, but Sam's floundering.
"Nice meeting y'all. Hope you find that pirate!" Her words are all sing songy at the end as she waves, like there's some secret she's been let in on.
Sam's chest flushes hot because he knows exactly what she thinks he and Dean are. He can only nod in a jerky movement before practically running out the door. Dean is dragged along easily enough, always easily when they're heading away from everyone else.
They fall into the Impala, thankfully Dean allows the separation to do so, and Sam heaves a fresh, lungs clearing breath. Here, cocooned in Baby's interior, Ama finally can't stare at them anymore with those huge eyes, seeing things that aren't there.
Sam's stomach knots up, twisting uncomfortably, and he wants to blame it on the taco but he knows it's worse than that. Being mistaken for a couple isn't something new for them, it's hardly a blip in their life, not worth a mention.
But being mistaken for a couple after everything, now, when Sam's seen and heard and felt things he can't ever get rid of, it feels different.
He shoots Dean a glance, checking if Dean's at all bothered by the assumption, the way he used to get when well-meaning strangers thought they were dating instead of brothers. But Dean doesn't seem to give a shit what Ama thinks of them, licking his upper lip absently and turning the key in the ignition. He doesn't even seem to have noticed.
Sam takes in Dean's form, the easy shift of his body from tense and uncomfortable to a calmed relaxation now that they've slid into the Impala, no longer in the reach of outsiders. He almost envies the ability, almost wishes he could turn off his own overinvestment in the way things have twisted up between them. Now that Sam has to carry the weight of it all for them both.
He really misses the days when he was the one who paid less attention to what people thought of them, as brothers, as those two strange men rolling into town and asking questions. Back when Dean was the only one who ever bothered to react, to complain or mess around, waffling between extremely annoyed and mildly entertained by the idea. Sam never thought twice about it.
But as he sits there, frowning hard at the line of Dean's profile, he thinks twice about it. He thinks of all those times they've been mistaken as a couple, the half-assed non-apologies when corrected, the quiet smirks of disbelief, Dean's disgruntled why does everyone assume we're gay?
Oddly enough, Sam's never gotten such comments with anyone else. Even at university, with his buddies dragging him out to parties, even in California where it was certainly more forgiving to be different, even then nobody thought he was dating his friends. Nobody looked at Sam with any other guy and was bald faced enough to assume things.
Under this microscope, after everything that's happened the last few days, a correction to Dean's disgruntled question appears.
Everyone's not assuming they're gay so much as assuming they're together.
It's the same. But it isn't.
Now that he and Dean are whatever they are, whatever doing those things together turns them into, these little comments feel like an incrimination. The guilty truth of what's happened to them since Dean came back.
"Sammy?" Dean's slips into Sam's overworking, panicky thoughts easy enough, and Sam shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"Uh, find somewhere out of the way, we gotta change clothes," Sam directs, squinting out the windshield and determining that it's a huge waste of mental resources worrying about how they look together in this small town. What conclusions everyone is undoubtedly drawing, whether Sam hates that they're drawing them, how accurate they are and aren't.
Dean doesn't move to drive. He's got one arm resting on the steering wheel, angling his front towards Sam so he can level him with a concerned frown.
"Sammy," he says again, drawn out like he's trying to draw out an explanation. Sam doesn't really think it's the kind of thing he can talk about with Dean of all people, except to maybe tell him to cool it with the touching thing. That didn't work out last time and it won't now.
"Nothing, just—distracted tryna figure everything out." Sam offers the lie again, because it's not completely wrong. But Dean is clearly still skeptical, refusing to budge, and eyeing Sam like he might freak out.
It's annoying and Sam just wishes he could put all this overthinking to rest, shove it back with everything else he's pretending hasn't happened, and focus on what really matters. The easiest way to get out of this big brother interrogation is obvious to Sam, and he can at least appreciate this one, specific change Dean's gone through.
Reaching across the short distance, Sam takes Dean's hand in his. The wounds of his bite are rough against Dean's matching ones and Sam pretends it doesn't make him feel rooted, mutually owned. Dean hums something sated and pleased, smirking up at the corners of his lips and clinging hard.
It makes the warm and soft thing that sometimes nestles into Sam's chest burn gently, and Sam pretends it's not because Dean is so easy to satisfy, to distract now.
As they maneuver back onto Main Street, Dean glances over at Sam, a quick and nervous little thing. His fingers press into the divots between Sam's knuckles, and he speaks in a quiet, roughened voice, licking his lips just once. "My Sammy?"
For once it sounds like a question. For once it sounds unsure.
Sam side eyes him, barely suppresses the duh that wants to blurt out of his mouth. Maybe Dean is just humoring him, pretending Sam has some sort of choice in the matter, some sort of say.
Though, after the disagreement they had before, after Sam made him let go, and after last night, after Sam came down his throat, after they fell asleep in each other's arms, maybe Dean really isn't sure.
The hand in Sam's digs in and Sam exhales through his nose, a heavy, frustrated noise. He finds he can't refute the words even now. He doesn't want to.
"Yeah, yours."
The confirmation garners him a happy little chuff from Dean.
Notes:
hooo boy, i had to rewrite this chapter completely and that was a little tough bc i did not account for that when i said june 15 lol but do y'all see this fic's new word count!!! be honest, does it feel like we've gone through 100k already??
next chapter is much longer than this lil baby and will be coming in on saturday, june 20!
Chapter 13: Brothers
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Flopping around in the Impala and trying to pull on clothes that don't smell like something died in them is hardly a new experience for Sam and Dean. They're pretty much professionals, slipping into new outfits in the footwells of Baby's cramped backseat, and it surprisingly goes off without a hitch.
Clayton's not much of a drive in any direction, the library sits two streets over and takes less than two minutes to reach. They might have been better off on foot, but Dean is so addicted to finally being able to drive again, Sam probably wouldn't have been able to convince him.
It's half past ten now. In two hours they'll have to cut whatever research they're doing short to go and meet up with J at one of the churches. Pay for another night at Marley's too, if they need to. Sam's already assuming they will, seeing as how grave rolling isn't exactly a day time activity.
At this rate, Sam will be grateful if the library can provide even the smallest little thread to follow with regards to Lafitte or a body. Preferably both, so they don't have to waste the whole night sneaking through cemeteries and hoping for a miracle.
Sam is somewhat optimistic when he climbs out of the Impala's passenger side.
The library itself isn't a particularly large building, but it does look fairly new. Sturdy with clean, red bricks and three white columns out front, Sam is rather impressed. Its parking lot is even completely paved with unstained concrete. Though, it's completely empty, not a single other vehicle occupying the space with Baby.
Clayton is small and it's currently the service hours for worship, so Sam only finds it slightly odd as they head up to the front door. When he tries it, it clangs noisily and refuses to give. Locked.
"What the hell?" Sam mutters, glancing around for some sign to explain. Off to the left, there's a book dropbox with a fluttering piece of paper taped over it, wrinkled and slightly worn. Sam steps away to read it, while Dean is busy peering through the glass doors, cupping his hands up over his eyes to see into the dark.
On the paper, huge printed letters read, NEW HOURS and beneath that are rows of days and times. None say Sunday.
"They're closed," Sam says, almost incredulous. "What kinda library closes on weekends?" Dean makes an equally incredulous sound through his nose, a sort of scoff, as he pulls away from the door and sidles back up to Sam.
Before Dean can potentially make a grab at his hands, Sam runs his fingers through his hair, frustration and general misgivings making him tug at the ends. It's not weird at all really that this small town, church-loving population would close something on the Lord's day. The weird thing is that J would suggest they go there, knowing they wouldn't be able to talk to anyone.
Sam narrows his eyes, fuzzing up his gaze as he stares out at the sunny expanse of Clayton around them, frowning. Maybe the people here aren't as welcoming and friendly as he initially thought. Have they been purposely misdirected? If so, what's the end goal? At most, this has been a minor waste of time, though Sam's starting to suspect keeping the Lafitte name to himself was a good decision.
"Sammy?"
Dean is standing close enough their arms touch, staring up at Sam with his expression furled into a scowl like he's come to a similar conclusion. It's not like Dean needed more reasons to distrust outsiders, especially J. But where Dean's earlier irritation was written off as general obnoxious Dean tendencies, now Sam wonders if it's not a little founded. As usual, their best bet is to keep to themselves and trust nobody else.
As Sam knew from mapping things out last night with bleary eyes and a bright laptop screen, Clayton's city hall sits across the street from the library. A look past Dean's head and Sam spots the tiniest, trailer of a building. No larger than a convenience store front with tan metal paneling and a tin roof. A lackluster sign over the windows declares Clayton City Hall in generic, black font, and there are, in fact, a couple cars parked outside.
"Guess we're going to the clerk's office sooner than we thought," Sam says, stepping past Dean. He grabs Dean's shoulder as he does, dragging him along so he won't try to take the Impala just to cross a single lane road.
The weather is still sticky and Sam's freshly washed clothes are already starting to feel a little damp with beaded sweat along Sam's back. Winter is supposed to be crawling through, but warm and wet Louisiana doesn't seem to care and the short trek to city hall isn't a pleasant one.
At least, Dean follows without complaining, only making a protesting grunt when Sam released his shoulder. But his hand easily slid through Sam's fingers, grabbing at him before Sam can completely pull away. Sam lets it happen, too preoccupied with how he might deal with J and the library mishap without being overly accusatory. It could have been an honest mistake, or J could have done it purposely.
The guy didn't exactly give off bad vibes, but being overly cautious wouldn't hurt. After all, they're staying at his place for a pretty cheap rate, and while Sam originally thought it was just that good ol' fashioned southern hospitality, maybe it was something else. Sam will have to re-evaluate how he approaches J before they meet up again at noon. Feel out just who exactly he is and what he's planning.
When they reach city hall, Sam wiggles his fingers out of Dean's grip to push the door open. A bell hangs over it, jingling up a racket as they both cross the threshold. Right up front is a secretary's window with a young woman behind the counter, doodling on a legal pad. The sound of the bell raises her head, several braids of hair falling out of her face to reveal a polite smile and what might be the silver of a retainer on her teeth. Likely a teenager.
"Hi, what can I help y'all with?" she asks, friendly and professional as she slides her doodles out of view without looking away. The little nameplate on the counter is covered by a folded piece of paper with Tierra M printed on it. From the looks of things, this is a weekend gig for her to earn a few extra bucks while she's still in high school.
Sam smiles at (presumably) Tierra, cheek muscles getting a bit sore from all the faux politeness he's been having to tug on.
"I'm Sam. This is Dean." He throws a thumb over his shoulder at Dean who's hovering at his back and thankfully not clinging or growling or otherwise freaking out the poor kid in front of them. "We're working on a book about small towns in Louisiana. Can I see Clayton's property records and death certificates?"
Tierra nods once and pushes off the counter. "Sure thing," she says, turning to dig around at some spot Sam can't see past the window. "Doubt anyone's gonna wanna read a book like that though." When she produces a small key, Tierra shoots Sam a good-natured grin that says she's mostly joking at their expense.
Sam honestly agrees with her though. He can't imagine anything about Clayton would be interesting enough to garner attention in a book. Hell, the best thing Ama at the laundromat could come up with was a story about a dead pirate. Not even a dead pirate with a ghost that haunts the town—just a dead pirate.
As Tierra backs away to unlock a filing cabinet, Sam figures asking about the pseudo local legend can't hurt. For the sake of conversation, if anything. "I don't know, I heard there's a pirate grave somewhere around here. Sounds like a pretty good story to me."
While he talks, Dean steps around him so they're side by side, touching at the shoulders. The counter edge stands at about rib height on him, and Dean rests his elbows on it, propping his chin on folded arms. He keeps a close eye on Tierra as she pulls thick folders out, casual like his right foot isn't hooked around Sam's.
"Pirate? You talking about that guy who got killed here by his old gang?" Tierra asks, stacking up four fat folders worth of records. "'Cause I don't know what you heard, but man's not a pirate, he's a vampire. Which makes his grave way freakier, who's scared of pirates?" She scoffs like the idea is ridiculous, arms filled with the tower of folders as she brings them over.
Sam's intrigued. In their line of work, it's not unusual for the local myths and gossip to differ wildly depending on who's talking and where they got it from. The key to finding out what might actually be true in all the hearsay is in the discrepancies. A pirate, says one. A vampire, says another. One is historical and one is supernatural, but both are vicious and bloodthirsty.
Something strange is dead in a grave somewhere as far as Clayton is concerned. The fact that Sam and Dean are looking for one, might be a coincidence and it might not.
Tierra settles all the folders up on the counter's edge, inching them through the open window with obvious effort. Sam reaches forward to help, tugging them to his chest, and asks, "You don't happen to know where the vampire pirate's grave is, do you? I heard someone does."
Dean chooses that moment to grin like a five year old, raising his chin off his arms and hitting Sam in the bicep for attention.
"Vampirate," he proclaims, eyebrows high and proud.
Sam rolls his eyes, almost too used to Dean's monstrous portmanteaus, but Tierra laughs a barely withheld snort of a sound, hand flying up to her grinning mouth. Dean nods approvingly, smacking Sam's bicep again.
"Nah, I ain't ever gone," Tierra says finally after clearing her throat with another chuckle, "My mama would whoop my ass, she don't mess with that hoodoo stuff." Sam nods along, because it's certainly a good choice on Tierra's mother's part.
"But other kids go out drinking there sometimes, like Halloween y'know. Can't trick or treat like normal, I guess. It's supposed to be in a field a little outta town. I think on the—the vampirate's property." Tierra giggles, clearly pleased with Dean's creation, like any teenager would be.
Dean cocks a finger gun at her and makes a clicking sound, still grinning.
"Don't encourage him," Sam says on a sigh, pulling the manila folders into his arms and glancing over at the lobby area with two corduroy chairs and a glass coffee table littered with magazines. "And thanks for humoring me. Mind if we look at these over there?"
"Be my guest," Tierra says, already dragging her legal pad back out. It's decorated with intricate swirls and cartoonish flowers. "Lemme know if you need any help, I'm super great at digging through boring records. How ya think I got this job?"
She's laughing to herself as she uncaps her pen and Sam offers another small, polite smile. "We'll probably be okay, but I'll let you know if we do," he says and she wiggles the end of her pen at him with a disappointed huff. Dean's still got that self-satisfied grin on his face as he follows Sam over to the table, sticking close enough to nearly trip Sam up.
"'Vampirate' isn't that clever," Sam says under his breath, kneeing Dean out of the way so he can spread the folders out on the end of the table. Separating property records from death certificates, Sam finds there's significantly more of the latter than the former which is to be expected.
Ignoring Dean's disagreeing grumble, Sam settles into one of the chairs and drags the smaller pile over. It would certainly be faster if Dean could sift through the other stack, looking for any hint of the name Lafitte. As far as Sam can tell, Dean is perfectly capable of reading and understanding what he's reading, so there really isn't any reason why he shouldn't lend a hand.
Dean falls into the seat beside Sam with a soft exhale, almost lazy, and his leg hooks around Sam's again like it's instinct. He's leaning slightly at an angle too, in Sam's direction, as if they're attached by an invisible string, shoulders pushing together yet again. Sam tries not to glance up at Tierra to make sure she isn't watching them, and shoves the folders of death certificates into Dean's open hands before they can grab him.
"Search these for Lafitte," he says, quiet and stern. Dean pouts at him, holding the folder limply, and Sam can see the protest in his face. "Don't whine, the faster we do this the faster we can get out of here." He busies himself with the property records, pretending not to hear the unhappy noise Dean makes like a puppy who's being denied attention.
The foot hooked under Sam's ankle shakes hard enough to almost be mistaken for a kick, but Dean seems to do as told, paper rustling as he starts flipping through the certificates.
Sam exhales a breath that deflates his lungs, escaping in a relieved lightness. He really did not want to make a scene in front of Tierra, like what happened before with Ama. Those misconceptions drawn about their relationship, being mistaken as clingy boyfriends, and making Sam feel all weird and discomfited.
Maybe he should've clarified that Dean was his brother when he introduced them, save them the trouble of being observed in certain ways, stared at through a particular lens. Normally, Sam does. Normally, and this is my brother, Dean rolls off his tongue like it's just the rest of his name, the final part of Sam's introduction.
But somehow, it feels like that will only make it worse and he doesn't quite want to broach why that is.
Flicking his hair out of his face, Sam refocuses his attention on scanning through the files in his hands.
They're suitably boring and filled with tiny text and boxes of information like dates, names, and addresses, among several codes for tax purposes. Sam has scoured the likes before in other hunts where a name was all they had to go off, and even at Stanford in his undergrad class on property law.
It's mind numbing, but he wouldn't be such a good research monkey if he couldn't make sense of the wall of facts and figures. Beside him, Dean hums a nonsense tune to coat the sound of flipping pages, foot shaking with antsy movements against Sam's leg.
Both of them are skimming black type on white paper trying to find one singular name for the better part of an hour. It crawls by at a grueling pace, the window unit A/C blasting on and off with the thermostat four times, and doing little. It's still warm and stagnant inside city hall and Sam has half a mind to feel bad for Tierra having to spend hours in this.
The spot on his lower leg where Dean's foot is still wedged has gotten uncomfortably hot with their combined body heat, but Sam can't bring himself to move it. He's nearing the last of the two folders on property, and Dean's worked at a much faster rate, already flipping through his fourth.
Sam is just starting to think this might be a dead end, that Lafitte is nothing more real than some mythical vampirate's grave, when he finally finds it.
Lafitte.
The record has an address that's nothing more than a bunch of numbers and Sam figures it must be out of town center if it doesn't even have a proper street name. It's 16 acres of land dating back to the inception of Clayton's public access record keeping, considering there's no papers printed up prior to 1913.
The paper lists every landowner from the time the property was officially recognized and every single name on the list is Lafitte.
Benjamin Lafitte, 1913. Thomas Lafitte, 1921. Henry Lafitte, 1982.
A timeline of generational inheritance, a family line.
They've found it. Lafitte is real, real and here in Clayton, an actual name that belongs to people that actually existed. Alive and dead. It hasn't been a wild goose chase, this is real, this a lead.
Sam inhales sharply, chest tight and flooding with relief as he reaches to shove at Dean hard enough to almost make him drop his folder.
"Dean, look, look right there, I found it, it's Lafitte. It's real." Sam's practically vibrating, thrusting the deed in Dean's face. Dean has to lean his head back to read it properly and Sam doesn't give him time to react, already standing and staring at the paper again with a huge grin he can't fight away.
"Find something good?" Tierra asks, watching them with wide eyes. "The vampirate?" She sounds hopeful, and Sam laughs through his nose with a nod.
"Something like that yeah, you recognize the road 599?"
Tierra tilts her head at him, glancing beside him to Dean. "...Yeah, that's McAdams Road, goes for miles northeast outta town. Long stretch of nothin' out that way."
That makes sense, 16 acres isn't a small amount of land. Must've been farm property or something similar. Sam steps around the table, heading over to Tierra and sliding the paper through the open window. "Do you recognize the address? Or Henry Lafitte?"
Tierra was still watching Dean and she actively drags her eyes away to blink down at the record. "Looks like random land. Don't think anything's going on out there, except maybe some hillbillies. The name though, yeah. Mr. Lafitte passed a while back, some kinda cancer."
Sam frowns. "Then why's the property still listed to him?"
"It was only like a year ago. His daughter's supposed to come deal with his estate thingy once Lawyer Jim finishes up with Betsy's lawsuit," Tierra explains in that vague way people do when they don't quite understand how it all works.
But Sam understands. Small towns aren't going to be rushing their own grieving people to divide up a dead loved one's estate. It's not going anywhere. The death of Henry Lafitte, though, is important and fairly recent. Way before Dean disappeared, but that doesn't mean the two aren't related. Sam's jaw clenches.
"Do you know where Mr. Lafitte was buried?" he asks, working quickly. He doesn't even notice Dean has appeared at his side until there's fingers digging into the tail of his shirt.
Tierra's looking at Dean again and she has to drag her gaze back to Sam. When their eyes meet, her expression turns a little skeptical, furrowing brows and downturned lips. Sam asked a weird question, but he doesn't have the patience to bullshit an excuse so he just keeps staring at her expectantly.
"Uh, he was cremated. That's kinda the thing nowadays. His funeral was real sad but it was weird not having a casket, y'know? Just one of those vase things. My mama says there should've been a casket anyways because it's just so empty without it. I kinda agree, but if he wanted it like that, who are we to judge, right?"
Tierra's on a tangent and Sam's already trying to determine if that spell in Dean's arm would work on ashes rather than a body. The Latin is pretty explicit though, it specifically mentions a body and cremation has always been a pretty thorough way to prevent any kind of reanimation.
So maybe it isn't Henry. Maybe it's one of the others, Thomas or Benjamin. But where are they buried? Church? On the property? Some other local non-secular cemetery? Sam's research last night brought up a cemetery at two of the churches. One is Clayton Baptist, J's worship place of choice, and the other is St. Mark's on the other side of town. Not to mention the one that's fifteen minutes out of Clayton boundaries.
It'll take all night to check every one, not to mention the Lafitte land too, if they don't find what they're looking for. And none of this explains how Dean ended up with all the information on his skin. Someone who isn't buried six feet deep had to have done it to him, and that person could be here in Clayton, could be literally anyone, and they have no way of knowing who.
Dean's knuckles dig into Sam's side and it pulls him out of his head. He glances at Dean with narrowed eyes, stepping a little sideways so their skin isn't touching anymore. Dean just tilts his head towards the analog clock hanging over the lobby, refusing to release the shirt wrinkling in his grasp.
11:45, it reads and Sam can't believe how much of the day has already withered away.
But they found Lafitte, their lead exists, and they have a clear path ahead.
He reaches down to grab at Dean's wrist and pry his fingers off him. Dean offers token resistance, grumbly, but allowing himself to be extricated anyway.
"Grab the folders and we can go," Sam orders, lightly pushing him back towards the table. Once Dean is going to task, Sam tugs out his phone and takes a picture of the record.
"What's so special about Mr. Lafitte and his land, huh?" Tierra's got a challenging tone to her voice, the kind that's just daring Sam to bullshit her so she can spill all over town how weird they are. Sam purses his lips as Dean returns with the stack of folders with a pouty expression.
"Think the vampirate is buried out there," he offers easily, sliding the record back into the proper place and helping Dean put it all on the counter for Tierra. "Thanks again, you've been really helpful, Tierra." He's telling the truth and hopefully it's earnest enough that Tierra will keep their odd questions to herself.
Tierra takes the folders down so she can properly see them again, smirk sliding across her face. "You'll put me in the dedication of your book, right?" she says and the corners of her eyes raise up with her cheeks, Cheshire cat-like. "Least you can do, y'know. Right under your boyfriend's, so people will know how important I was."
She points at Dean and fails spectacularly to prevent her smirk from sliding wide into an amused grin, lips twitching. Dean makes some sort of noise in his throat, not quite disagreement but not quite humored. But when Sam looks, he's wearing his own little entertained smile.
Glancing between the two of them, Sam's annoyed that he's not more annoyed. He can't tell if Tierra is making fun of him or if she honestly thinks they're dating, she obviously wouldn't even be the first today.
The knee jerk reaction to correct her pushes up onto Sam's tongue, but he swallows it down, because fuck it, and swings an arm around Dean's neck. Dean stumbles under the weight, but that tiny smile grows into a toothy grin instantly.
"You can go above my boyfriend, Tierra, you've earned it," Sam says so easily it's almost strange, the word sitting comfortable among its peers when it's spoken. Maybe Sam's just tricked his tongue into equating it with brother now, and he doesn't want to dwell on what that actually implies. "We gotta get to church."
With that, he uses the arm hooked around Dean's neck to drag him out the door. Not that Dean's resisting at all, following along like a leashed dog with his fingers pressing into the meat of Sam's forearm. Tierra giggles loudly after them.
"Don't let 'em tell ya God don't love you!" she calls, the sentence punctuated by the bell ringing as the door swings shut.
Sam has the wayward thought that all evidence points to the contrary. God doesn't have any love for them, but it definitely isn't because he and Dean are fucking each other. And isn't that a concept that has Sam's footsteps faltering. That would be the least of God's problems with the Winchesters, starting with thwarting the fated apocalypse and going down from there.
It almost drags a laugh out of Sam.
They're outside, back in the humidity that's only gotten worse as the sun peaks in the sky, and Sam eyes the Impala sitting lonely in the library parking lot. They could definitely walk to J's church, Sam remembers passing by it on the way to the laundromat. Only a five minute journey at worst.
"We should walk, right?" he asks Dean who's still pressed bodily into his side, head up under Sam's chin. He finally goes to pry his arm free, to unravel himself before he can get even warmer in the sunlight, but Dean clings to him with grippy fingers. There's the light push of teeth against Sam's skin suddenly and Sam inhales sharply.
"Don't you dare bite me," he warns, wriggling free like a trapped snake and probably putting on quite the show for Tierra through the glass door. Dean growls, snapping his jaw shut, once Sam manages to put a couple inches of space between them. But Sam's too busy squinting at the meat of his arm to make sure it isn't marked at all. Luckily the skin is unbroken, only slightly red, and Sam just spins on his heel, heading towards the street.
"Sammy," Dean calls after him, gruff and displeased. He closes the distance easily, even though Sam has longer strides, and it isn't surprising in the least when he goes for Sam's left hand, always touching and clinging and greedy. Familiar enough of an action now that Sam can dodge easily and he winds his hand up with crossed arms.
"Let up, dude, let's be single bodied for two seconds please," he says as Dean eyeballs him. "We can walk to the church, it's better for the environment."
Dean curls his lip, something like a baby snarl on his face. Obviously, he hates both of those statements, but he falls in line with Sam anyways.
"We're gonna stay another night at Marley's," Sam starts as they follow the thin, one lane road back towards the church. He can actually already see it in the distance, several cars filling it's unpaved parking lot.
"Don' wanna," Dean mutters through the curl of his lips like a petulant kid and Sam side eyes him. He knows Dean prefers bunking down in the Impala or a no name motel in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, Sam does too, but he’s not admitting that. Besides, they should have a place in town with a shower if the whole grave robbing thing comes up empty.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest, just like Sam, and the movements draw Sam's eyes to the bandage still securely wrapped over his skin. Hiding a soul or something like it, if Sam's interpretation is correct.
"Your arm doing okay?" Sam asks then, as they meander towards the church. He hasn't forgotten how reticent Dean was outside the laundromat, when Sam suggested using that soul inside him to get information, to fix him. How Dean much preferred the idea of trying to cut it out and be done with it. How he clearly isn't looking for answers to anything, doesn't want Sam to fix him.
If that's just because Dean's different right now, or something else, Sam can't tell.
"M'fine," Dean says in a rough voice, looking at the tar of the road under their feet and shaking his arm out like he wishes he could just be free of it. From this angle Sam can't quite make out the expression on his face, whether it's frustration or annoyance or plain old exhaustion.
It occurs to Sam as they near the church that he hasn't really asked Dean how he feels lately—about this situation, about Sam's plan, about everything that's happened to them. He's been too caught up in his own whirling, frantic overthinking to bother.
"Dean," he starts, before the guilt burns itself away in favor of easier emotions. Those big green eyes are on him in an instant, catching the sunlight and glowing under his lashes, and making Sam's words catch up in a ball inside his throat. Dean blinks widely, under a furrowed brow that's more curious than anything.
Sam clears his throat, glances back ahead to see the church doors open and several parishioners start flooding out. He swallows.
"You're okay?" It's the best he can manage and it's overly generic, vague and non-specific in the way they always are when they ask something delicate, something soft.
It reminds Sam of last night. Dean, wrapped up in his arms all pliant and sleepy, with his whispered okay, S'mmy? Sam wonders now if Dean wasn't asking the same thing then that Sam is now. The same way.
Are we okay?
Dean's expression has warmed, creased lines smoothing out into something more forgiving, more gentle. He glances down Sam's face, stops at his mouth in that way he does, and says, "Yeah, Sammy." No hesitance, no lack of surety in his steady tone. Sam somehow wants to ask if he's telling the truth anyway, but he doesn't get the chance.
They've arrived at the church.
Practically half the town is milling out the open doors, coming down the steps and speaking with each other in exuberant voices. They're dressed nicely as Sunday service goers always are, sun dresses and polo shirts abound. Kids are screaming and chasing each other too, finally letting out all the pent up energy from sitting still in pews for too long.
Sam shoves his hands into his pockets, going for casual, as they step up to the edge of the property. He distracts himself with scanning the faces for a familiar one so he can pretend he doesn't feel Dean staring at him as they hang off to the side to avoid attention. Sam's not up for fielding a million old people's questions and having to relay the same bullshit excuses again and again.
He just wants to pay J and get to some covert grave hopping.
At his side, Dean's gradually tensing up, their arms brushing close enough Sam can feel his twitchy energy at the sheer volume of churchgoers coming and going. When Sam doesn't step aside to put some distance between them, Dean presses harder into him like they're physically attached. His eyes furiously jumping from one person to the next, with a steady, anxious rumble in his chest.
It's making Sam antsy by proxy and the curious glances they're getting don't help.
Sam doesn't bother trying to shove Dean off for some distance and relief of shared body heat, if only because he knows it would just make Dean mad. In a way that Sam won't examine, it's comforting to be touching. Even if it makes the passersby even more nosy.
One such older woman with a haughty air and an honest to God sunhat on starts heading towards them, and Sam dreads making conversation.
"Hey, Sam! Glad y'all made it!"
J's sudden familiar voice is a welcome distraction, cutting between them and the prying woman's approach like an actual barrier. Sam sees her stop short as J ambles over to them with his thumbs in his belt loops. He's still got his wranglers on, but his shirt is a white button up. "Enjoy Marley's alright?"
Dean's gotten even more tense if that's possible as J comes within attacking distance, stopping short just a couple feet from Sam. There may be a guttural growl of a noise, but it's easy to pass off as engines turning over, while attendees start up their cars to leave.
Sam nods, already wearing his people smile, as he rests a hand on Dean's shoulder and hopes it's enough to keep Dean from doing anything bad. Underneath his palm, the taut line of Dean's shoulder eases just a little, enough that he doesn't look like he's preparing to tackle anyone at least. He's still eyeing J like the dude is responsible for everything terrible, ever. Sam can admit J's at least responsible for their useless visit to a closed library.
"It was great, man. Best night of sleep I've had in weeks," Sam says, smiling. J returns the expression, chest all puffed up proud.
"Best mattress in all of Clayton, I'll tell you what." He laughs and then that older woman from before musters up the gall to insert herself in the conversation, undeterred. She's eyeing Sam and Dean through a squint, either suspicious of them or lacking good eyesight.
"Jean, are these your friends?" Her voice is gentle and hard to hear over the various other conversations and child scoldings happening around them. J glances at her, still wearing that big grin and waves an introductory hand at Sam and Dean.
"Could say that, I suppose. They're just visiting Clayton for research business, Ms. Carey," J says and it sounds kind of shady the way he says it, but Sam just offers an affirming nod without thinking too hard.
As he does, J‘s eyes suddenly go wide and he's reaching out to pat Sam's shoulder like he did last night. Dean full body twitches, teeth gritted, but Sam's tight grip keeps him from trying to shove J off.
"Guys, I totally forgot, y'all ain't try to go to the library today did y'all? They just started closing on weekends, I blanked when I said that yesterday," J's hurriedly saying, honestly looking put out with a grimace on his face. He waves the hand that pat Sam's shoulder to gesture at the woman beside them. "This is that Ms. Carey, our librarian."
That explains that. Maybe. Sam's certainly not going to blindly trust anybody around here, but he can recognize the probability of an honest mistake when he sees one. He's at least appreciative because it only keeps him suspicious, like he should be.
"We did," Sam says. "But it's fine. City hall was right there and we got what we needed." He keeps it vague enough that it's clear he isn't going to expand on it. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Carey, I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean."
The phrasing slips out easily like usual, this time Sam doesn't even try to stop it. Not for any specific reason, but this day has been a little trying with all these assumptions and for once he'd like to get through a meeting without being accused of dating his brother.
But the admittance garners them wide-eyed stares from both J and Ms. Carey, and maybe they would've been better off without it. There's an extremely awkward moment of silence that follows where Sam can't quite figure out what to say to make it less so, discomfort flipping in his gut.
It might be for the better that a small girl slams into Dean's leg with an alarming squeal.
Dean flinches against Sam and the kid falls on her butt. Both she and Dean stare at each other with big eyes for a couple long seconds and then a pack of kindergartners are scrambling around the both of them. Little hands grab at her and Dean's legs and Sam's about to help remove Dean from the situation, but then Dean is crouching down and pulling the girl to her feet.
She blinks at him, cheeks red, and makes a weird face, sticking out her tongue and twisting her expression into something silly. Dean, still crouching in front of her and six other kids, mimics it back at her with a playful growl. In no time at all, everyone is doing it, getting increasingly more ridiculous and monstrous until it's a cute little competition.
Sam doesn't bother intervening, watching the scene unfold with something a little fond and a little familiar in his chest. Of course Dean would go feral and still remember how to play with a pack of excited children.
With a little effort, the kindergartners manage to drag Dean from the adults, just a few waddled steps away so they can pile on him. They grab at his arms in an attempt to take him down like Lilliputians finally conquering the giant, all toddler screams and Dean's fake grumbles of distress.
In all the fun, Sam doesn't miss the way Dean constantly darts glances his way, making sure he hasn't gotten advanced on or otherwise kidnapped. Sam rolls his eyes, but he can't suppress the dumb smile slips across his mouth.
Ms. Carey's voice nearly pulls his attention back, still a bit too quiet. "He's great with the kids," she says, almost appraising, as they all watch Dean get tackled by an army of kids. Sam nods with a light laugh, because the fact can't really be refuted.
"Yeah, he's always been," he says and hates how warm it sounds, because he knows why. Dean flops onto his ass in the dirt, letting the kids rope their arms around his neck and shoulders and hang off him like a bunch of excitable monkeys. At the same time, Sam can feel both J and Ms. Carey eyeing him now and he forces himself not to look at Dean anymore.
"I didn't know y'all were, uh, brothers," J speaks slowly like he's picking the words carefully, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his head. Sam doesn't really know what to say to that, has the insane urge to ask what J thought they were then. But really he feels like he already knows. He's been pelted with it all day.
J clears his throat in the face of Sam's non answer. "Anyways, sorry again about the library thing. But hey, now that Ms. Carey's here you can ask her all about family names," he says with enthusiasm, apparently always eager to be of help.
Ms. Carey opens her mouth to speak but her words are drowned out by an older man on the church steps. "J, c'mere and help me clean up!"
J waves his acknowledgement and then offers Sam and Ms. Carey quick nods. "Sorry, I'll be right back. Father calls, can't say no."
As he rushes back up to the church doors, Ms. Carey says to Sam, "Jean was telling me all about your paper before service. What names are you most interested in, honey?"
For a beat, Sam considers keeping to his earlier plan of maintaining a low profile when it comes to Lafitte. But now that he's got this property record, now that Tierra's told him about Henry Lafitte's death without any hesitance, it feels like it might be safe to say. The town appears to have attended Henry's funeral, according to Tierra's ramblings, and therefore his name can be mentioned without suspicion.
Lafitte itself doesn't seem to be taboo, some dark Clayton secret that'll tip them off to Sam's real intentions.
"Actually, I'm really interested in the Lafitte name. I was hoping to track down a family tree, things like birth and death dates and things, maybe even headstones?" He keeps his tone light, expression genial.
"Oh really? I didn't know the Lafitte's were famous," Ms. Carey says with a hand over her mouth. "Well, Henry passed recently, poor thing. I believe his father Thomas died in the eighties, he was a part of this very church. You won't find a headstone for him here though, his mother wanted him in her family plot up north. Michigan, I think? I'm not sure about his father before him though, I don't think I ever met the man."
Sam drinks in the information easily, working over the likelihood of Thomas being the body they're looking for if his grave is that out of the way. It doesn't make sense for Clayton to be carved into Dean's side only to have them redirect and travel all the way up to Michigan instead, does it? Sam tentatively underscores Benjamin Lafitte in the mental case corkboard, the last one left that could possibly still be buried here.
"Property records at the clerk's said his name was Benjamin," he offers, hoping it'll jog Ms. Carey's memory even a little. Dean to their left is baring his teeth at two kids, who squeal in mock fear and run him in circles. Sam has to clench his jaw to keep from glancing over, keep his attention focused. "The, uh, the records said there's Lafitte land out down McAdams dating back to 1913."
Ms. Carey is nodding as Sam speaks, the brim of her overlarge sunhat bobbing. "Yes, yes, I do remember that. I didn't know Benny personally, but I did hear about all that land. It's the same place that pirate grave is at. The kids always play around there," she says, words spilling out so quickly as if it's just coming to her.
She looks like she wants to keep going and Sam wants to make her elaborate, but Liz appears at their side. She slides in, just as she had last night at the roadhouse, smooth and easy and unassuming. Sam almost jumps at her sudden arrival.
"Hi Sam," she says, looking much more relaxed in a pair of overalls, brown hair falling in waves around her face. "Your family is looking for you, Ms. Carey." She points out a group heading to the parking lot with a toothy grin, and Ms. Carey gasps with a bashful look in Sam's direction.
"So sorry, dear. We're headed to lunch. I'd love to talk to you more tomorrow at the library though if you're still here," she says, stepping close to touch his arm. Her eyes trail over to Dean, who Sam sees has freed himself of the dangling kids and is heading back over with a scowl. "Also, honey, you don't have to lie around here. We may be God fearing, but we're very progressive."
She's pulling off and scurrying to her family before Sam can even attempt to correct her. Not that he's even remotely surprised at this point. Today definitely beats the record in his and Dean's life for the amount of times they've been mistaken for a couple in the span of a few hours.
There's a tiny inkling in the back of his head that wonders if it's not because there's now some merit to it.
Dean replaces Ms. Carey's absence, sliding into Sam's space as usual, and grabbing onto his bicep with his right hand. He's watching Liz, wearing that dubious, narrow eyed stare.
Liz waves at him, apparently deciding not to comment on Ms. Carey's parting words that she definitely heard. "Afternoon, Dean," she greets pleasantly like Dean isn't acting weird.
There's a short moment of silence where Dean presses into Sam's side like he can absorb him through osmosis and keep him away from Liz in the process. Liz waits him out and finally Dean huffs through his nose. A dorky grin slots into place, almost mechanically, and he bows his head at her once.
"Heya, sweetheart," he rolls out, teeth showing and voice deceptively light. Sam doesn't even bother trying to dissect this easy shift in his behavior. He sort of already understands it.
"Y'all staying another night in Clayton? Find what you're lookin' for yet?" Her eyes are on Dean, taking him in with long considering blinks, but her words are directed at Sam.
"Yeah, we made really good progress today. One more night at least in Clayton," he says, trying to pretend like Dean's grip on his arm isn't suspiciously tight. Dean's still wearing his fake ass fuck you grin that always just looks cute to strangers and Liz finally smiles up at Sam instead.
"That's awesome, more time to have fun at the roadhouse bar, am I right? Maybe hustle a little pool. Between you and me, J's pack of puppies would fold easy," she says in a low voice like it's an open secret, shooting Sam a wink. Dean snorts, finally releasing Sam's arm to lean on him with his elbow propped up.
"What about you?" Dean asks, growly gravel in his vocal chords, and radiating a vibe that begs for a challenge as he angles his face towards Liz. Sam isn't even remotely surprised that his vocabulary has made its reappearance, the hidden one he pretends not to have between them. Liz cocks her hip to one side, propping a fist on it with a smirk, clearly rising to the challenge.
"Oh trust me, babe, you don't wanna bet against me," she says, saccharine sweet, and Sam can't tell if what's happening between them is sexual tension or some sort of pissing contest. Both options annoy him in different ways and he's about to cut in between the pseudo dick measuring when J busts out of the church doors like a cowboy coming out of a saloon.
He locks onto target with a disapproving frown.
"Elizabeth Marie Lafitte! Why am I the only one cleaning up in here, huh? Get over here and get useful!"
Liz rolls her eyes, putting immediate distance between her and them. "Hold up," she throws over her shoulder, heading back to the church after J and shouting. "Don't full name me, Jean Lee Fontenot, I'll beat your ass!"
Sam stares after her. There's something furious and hot swelling in his chest, bubbling up from the pit inside and crawling up into his throat. It tastes bitter and black. He wants to spit it out, hates the bile, doesn't know what to do to alleviate the feeling because he's pissed. He's fucking murderous and his fists are clenched so hard the scars of his left hand sting with the cut of his own nails.
Liz is a Lafitte.
The Lafitte.
Sam doesn't really grasp what he's doing and with what intent as he steps forward and away from Dean, towards the church. He feels almost like he's on autopilot, wants nothing more than to storm the building, angry with his teeth bared, and pin Liz down by the throat until she tells him what she did to Dean, until she's spilling out everything she knows. He's seeing red, his whole body burns.
"Sammy," Dean's gruff, harsh growl cuts through and Dean's rounding him, catching his shirt collar in two fists. He forcibly shoves back at Sam, chest to chest, and he's pushing his face into Sam's view, concerned and nervous and frantic. "Sammy, no," he growls again, pushing his grip on Sam's shirt to rattle him.
Sam's hand flies up to grab a wrist, tugs at it, eyes flying past Dean to the church doors just willing Liz to reappear so he can—
"Lemme go, Dean," he rumbles, trying hard not to yell, struggling against Dean's solid body. Dean grunts, and side steps Sam to use his weight, yanking Sam to the right and away from the church.
Sam loses his footing, stumbling and almost tripping over completely, but Dean keeps him upright, shifting his hold to get Sam's arm in a restraining grip. Like Sam will run off, like Sam will shove him away and escape. Sam resents how good Dean is at keeping him at bay, pinning him down or holding him back, the way he knows exactly where to brace himself to prevent Sam from wrangling free.
"She's Lafitte, she's right there," he hisses, jerking towards the church with his free hand. But Dean just grabs that one too and starts bodily dragging him away. "She hurt you Dean, she did this to you, lemme—"
"Sammy, no," Dean snarls, loud enough that anyone could have heard and his face is all screwed up with worry, eyebrows knitted and mouth screwed up, all wrapped around Sam to keep him close.
It reminds Sam of the times he's tried to recklessly throw himself into danger, run straight into that burning building, risk his life because he couldn't care less about it when there's evil right there and he can do something—but Dean cares. Dean cares so fucking much and he isn't going let him do anything without thinking.
Sam exhales hard and heavy and the fight doesn't leave him, but he sags into Dean's side.
The relief on Dean's face is staggering, relieved smile quirking his lips into a toothy grin as he takes Sam's weight and directs him back the way they came. "Baby first," he says by way of explanation, and his fingers, where they curl into Sam like hooks, are warm and grounding.
Sam lets himself be pulled along, teeth grinding as he rapidly tries to make sense of what just happened, what it means for their case, who Liz really fucking is. What they need to do that doesn't involve landing Sam recklessly attacking people. But she did it, she's Lafitte. Who else could have carved that information into Dean's side, his arm? Who else could have put that thing inside him? Made him like this?
Sam wants to hurt her for hurting Dean. He feels the roiling in his bones, and he bites out, "Dean, Liz is Lafitte. Liz hurt you." His voice is ragged, low and angry and unforgiving. Dean is watching him, still with that concerned look, eyes darting all over Sam's face.
"Okay," he says simply, rough, not easing his grip on Sam's body. It's simple, believing.
Sam wants to strangle him, throw him to the ground and yell at him, ask him why he's not seething mad right now. Why he doesn't want to bust into the church and demand Liz explain everything. But he doesn't do any of that, he just clings to his brother until they get to the Impala in the library's parking lot.
They fall into the front seat through the driver's door, Dean all but tossing Sam inside and sliding in after him, keeping a hand on Sam the entire time. Once the door is pulled shut with a familiar groan, Dean pins Sam with a look, giving him another once over. He grabs onto Sam's left hand and jerks it over into his space, so Sam has to stay close to him on the bench. So Sam can't try to put distance between them or get out of the car.
"Figure it out," Dean says calmly, raising Sam's left hand to bite at his ring finger like he's teething. Sam actually finds the press of teeth soothing, is suddenly strong with the urge to shove his hand against Dean's mouth, to stabilize his rapidly shifting mood with those pouting lips.
He doesn't. He takes deep calming breaths instead, focuses on Dean's touch, his teeth.
Liz is Elizabeth Lafitte. A fact they now know. What does it change? They met her at the roadhouse because of their own choices, entirely coincidence. She seemed politely interested, not beyond the norm for a waitress, and in typical southern friendliness she found them a place to stay the night. None of it had pinged Sam's radar as particularly suspicious.
Her name is Lafitte. Her name is carved into Dean's skin at a time when Dean was vulnerable, unable to prevent it. Her name and the town she lives in are scarring his brother's rib cage. Sam's mood threatens to nose dive again, chest heaving shorter breaths at the idea of Liz marking Dean like that, hurting him like that. He clenches his left hand, finger pulling free of Dean's teeth to close into a tight fist.
Dean blinks at him, works at uncurling his whitening knuckles, all gentle and soft like Sam's physically injured. "Don't know," he says, whisper careful, glancing at Sam through his eyelashes. Sam's hand is open wide and Dean presses the bite he made to his lips, doesn't dig in, just mouths at it—a kiss. Sam regulates his breathing again, focusing on the damp warmth of Dean's mouth on his skin.
Dean is right. They don't know for sure. Liz doesn't have to be the Lafitte, she's a Lafitte. Like Henry, like Thomas, like Benny. There is no for sure. But the thing raging in Sam's gut wants so badly to finally have a target, for Liz to have been exposed by circumstance, to put an end to this gnawing, aching mystery of it all.
He hates it. He doesn't want to be so viscerally angry at this person he doesn't even know. But it's written in his bones, this inherent, irrational need to protect—to avenge his brother. He grits his teeth and forces it down, staring at the scars under Dean's lips to ground himself in something tangible, something real.
"S'too easy," Dean says against Sam's palm, breath a hot wave across his skin, and he shakes his head. "C'mon Sammy. Be sure." He sounds so very much like Dean from before, eyes shiny as he looks at Sam.
It's a look Sam is familiar with, has seen millions of times in his life. It says don't be reckless Sammy and you know better than that. It says we do it together and I can't lose you. The message is loud and clear like it always is. Sam forces the wound up muscles in his arms and legs to relax, tries to ease the tension, dissipate the rapid flood of adrenaline that's been making him want to jump out of his skin, too tight.
He takes a deep breath that expands his lungs to bursting and exhales, fast and heavy. His eyes dart from Dean, to the Impala, to the library and the trees outside, searching—a solution.
"Okay, okay, yeah," he says and he's so winded, his fingers twitch uneasily. "We need to be sure. It doesn't mean she did something, we can check. We still—"
They still have the lead about Benny Lafitte from Ms. Carey, they still have that weird thing about the vampirate grave, they still have the Lafitte land. They have leads.
But—
"But what if she's the one who did this? What if she put that thing in you and we find this grave and bring him back and it's exactly what she wants us to do?" Sam sounds increasingly more frantic, working himself back up, back around to the only solution being cornering Liz with a knife and witch killing bullets, demanding she explain or they'll kill her.
Dean's teeth biting into Sam's wounds is a welcome stabbing pain, shooting up Sam's arm and making him full body shiver. The scar is definitely open again. It makes Sam wonder if eventually his body will just stop trying, leave it open and vulnerable and unhealed forever. He shakes and Dean pulls off, runs a soothing tongue along Sam's palm to catch the blood. Green eyes catch Sam's then too, looking less concerned now than Dean had before.
"Chill," he says plainly and the lack of inflection makes Sam smile against his will, teeth showing. Dean returns the expression, raising a hand to smooth Sam's hair out of his face like he always does when he's worried about Sammy. It's soothing, a comforting warmth blooming under Sam's skin. Not unlike the feeling of Dean's tongue on his wounds.
Dean'll fix him, he always does.
"No killing, Sammy," Dean says and the words are the antithesis of what they do, of what Dean does. Sam frowns, opens his mouth to protest.
But Dean has a solution for that too, leans forward quick and presses their lips together before Sam can get a word out. He pulls Sam's lower lip between his, finds it with his teeth like it's natural, sucks it into his own mouth. It's fast, just enough to shut Sam up, and Dean's tilting back and licking after the taste, small smile quirking up.
"No killing yet, " he amends and Sam's mad that one tiny kiss is enough to derail his entire thought process. He can't do anything else but stare at Dean with wide eyes and slightly red cheeks, mouth parted.
"Check, Sammy," Dean says like it's wise old advice, like he isn't suggesting they ask questions first and shoot later. It's so unlike him to take a step back, but then it isn't—when it comes to Sam's safety, it isn't.
Sam bites his own bottom lip now, sucks Dean's cooling spit right off it and nods slowly. They can check, be sure.
"Her house," Sam says carefully, mind working over the options, anything that can confirm or deny. "We'll check her house. Look for anything that might seem even remotely supernatural, we'll tear the whole place apart. No way, she doesn't leave something behind, not when it comes to—you."
His glance over at Dean is almost shy, almost askance, almost seeking approval. Sam hates the way he'll always want Dean's approval before he does something, how not having it stings in the worst way, feels like letting him down. His eyes are big and Dean quirks a proud smile up in the corner of his lips, gaze soft on Sam.
A nod.
"Good Sammy," he says, approval thick and sweet like honey in his tone.
Sam feels hot suddenly, like that honey has poured right down his spine and settled somewhere warm and gooey in the small of his back. He sits up a little straighter to displace it, only feeling even more molten. The happy little brother smile that won't stay off his face isn't helping. He tugs his left hand free of Dean's grip to scrub at his cheeks with the palms and bring himself back to matters at hand.
"We gotta go back to the church," he says through the gap in his hands. "We gotta pay J, and I need to find out when Liz's next shift is." He drops his hands and Dean's still watching him with that pleased expression like he thinks he raised Sam well. Sam hates that it makes his skin burn.
"Okay, Sammy," Dean agrees, revving the Impala up for the short drive.
It'll give them a decent excuse for disappearing suddenly, just a quick trip to grab the car is all. The shared look between them says they're finally on the same page, about this, about the plan, about a lot of things.
Dean pulls out of the library lot.
Notes:
bad sammy, don't just go around hurting random women without evidence!!!! for once, dean is the voice of reason haha we are all surprised.
next chapter will be friday june 26! originally it was the 25th but i gotta go back to work now :( so no uploading on tuesdays, wednesdays or thursdays in the future. don't fret tho, there will still be weekly updates for y'all as always <3
Chapter 14: Care
Notes:
biggest apology for the delay T_T i actually finished this before midnight but my beta skrub was suffering motion sickness and took a lil longer to read through it for me. i also had to write some additions to this chapter which was more time consuming than expected smh @my poor planning
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Clayton Baptist's unpaved parking lot is nearly empty when Sam and Dean pull up. As usual, Baby draws attention like bees to pollen and a familiar trio of people gathered on the church's front steps all turn to stare. Liz, J, and the man Sam has assumed to be the pastor watch them openly as Dean kills the engine and they climb out.
"Hey!" Sam calls across the good chunk of distance, raising a hand as he and Dean bridge the gap. Liz and J smile and return the gesture, but the pastor only bows his head in a polite manner before heading back inside. Sam can't say he's disappointed to avoid another round of awkward introduction and likely more people drawing judgements about him and Dean.
Liz and J meet them halfway, just before the stairs give way to dirt and gravel, and Sam pretends Dean isn't practically glued to his side. He's wary as usual but this time it's probably not just of Liz and J, considering how close Sam came to irresponsibly losing control before.
"Sorry we disappeared," Sam's already saying with a sheepish smile, ignoring the way Dean's fingers curl into the back of his shirt. "We had to get our car from the other lot."
Looking at Liz, now knowing what Sam knows, he can't help but search her face for any hint, any small sign that she was always involved, always hiding something. Her bright eyes are a cold blue, watching Sam with her usual friendly interest, and her long hair frames the strong cut of her jaw. She has a pointed little nose and a slight flush to her cheeks, humidity making her skin shiny.
Sam wants to see something there, some sign, some blight. But all he can see is a person.
"I'd do the same if she was mine," J says with an adoring sigh as he looks past them to admire the Impala some more. Dean puffs up against Sam, a little proud and a little possessive, but he stays silent. Fortunately, or maybe suspiciously, nobody takes his dismissiveness personally.
J continues, unaffected by Dean's lack of verbal acknowledgement. "So how long are y'all sticking to Clayton now that you've seen our closed library and the teeny city hall?"
Liz snorts, crossing her arms. "It's real impressive to outsiders, I bet. You never seen anything like it, huh?" The sarcasm is practically dripping from her mouth, eyebrows wiggling as she smirks at Sam.
It doesn't ring as anything other than friendly and Sam hates that this isn't simple.
"For sure one more night, Clayton is really growing on us," Sam says and the lie is so obvious it actually makes Liz and J laugh.
Sam wishes they could just leave and be done with this town, if only because he's paranoid and suspicious of everyone now. But they'll be needing to spend the rest of the day not only scoping out how Liz fits into this whole thing, but also visiting the graveyards too. It's definitely a work until dawn type of investigation and having Marley's to head back to in case they need a shower will be a blessing.
"I got the cash right here," Sam says, tugging the billfold out of his back pocket. He goes to count out fifty, but Dean snatches it from him with deft fingers, shooting both J and Liz a look.
"Actually," J cuts in before Dean can slip the cash free of the clip. "Now that I think about it, maybe y'all can stay another night for free if you help me out with something?"
He's watching Dean with an almost nervous energy, eyes a little wide under raised eyebrows. Sam doesn't bother to check what kind of expression Dean's leveling him with, shouldering into him just to keep him from being too obvious.
"Uh, sure, what is it?" Sam's frowning, a pinch of pressure in the middle of his forehead. The offer is appreciated if not at least minimally suspect. Is this just a casual, small town favor to save them some cash? Or something else entirely? He can't help the glance he cuts over at Liz, but she's watching J with an equally curious expression.
"Well, it's supposed to rain tonight, y'know. Usually that means I gotta go over to Marley's to lift the boat out back so it don't float off when the river rises. And also gather up all the equipment just sittin' out there on the dock," J explains, looking between Sam and Dean with slow, deliberate movements. "But ol' Fred is paying me double to fix his boat motor by evening, so if y'all do it for me, Marley's y'all's for the night. Free of charge."
J slices his hand across the air in a finishing motion, dopey and somewhat uneasy grin sliding across his face. Beside him, Sam can feel Dean tense up like he's just as suspicious of the offer as Sam is, and there's no doubt J can sense the apprehension.
But it's a fair deal and it means they won't be wasting money which Sam can appreciate. Even if it is some sort of trap, Sam would finally get confirmation that these townspeople aren't all that they seem and that's a relief in its own way. There's merit to it.
"Damn, I didn't know you were so entrepreneurial," Liz says to J, elbowing him in the ribs. Then she's glancing at Sam, still with that amiable smile. "I think y'all should take it, if you know how to raise a boat rig anyways."
Sam actually doesn't. Even though he's vaguely aware of the pulley system for small river boats from past experience. They once went fishing with Bobby for nearly a whole summer as kids after John dropped them off to hunt for some kid killing witch. Dean took to it more than Sam though. "I mean, I've never done it—"
"It's super easy, just gotta tug the ropes up a few inches. Tensas River ain't really gonna flood or anything, but if I lose the boat, Marley'll whoop my ass," J's quick to say, and maybe too eager. Though that could just be because the guy doesn't want to have to detour and do all the manual labor when he could be earning money on a boat motor repair instead. Sam can't tell.
"Okay."
Dean's voice is a low rumble and it draws Liz and J's eyes back over. It's an easy agreement, rolled out without an ounce of hesitance and Sam twists a little to catch Dean's gaze and silently demands an explanation. But Dean only shrugs, easy, and slides the billfold back into Sam's pocket without a word. Sam pretends not to notice how he uses it as an excuse to keep his hand shoved in there, fingers pressing along the curve of Sam's ass.
He would flail away, but Liz and J are grinning at them so he pretends not to feel it, cheeks warming in the afternoon heat. "Yeah, I mean, we can do that." It's fine probably, Dean is likely just happy to save money and give them the quickest excuse to get away from others. Not to mention, if it is some sort of ploy, Sam can't figure out how it works.
"Awesome, I knew two big guys like y'all would come in useful," J says with a huge, toothy smile, seeming to take Dean's easy agreement as a sign Dean doesn't hate him as much as he appeared to. He even flashes the bright grin in Dean's direction. "Thanks man, the code's just 0000 for the door. I didn't tell y'all last night 'cause if we tell tourists, I gotta change it and my memory ain't that great."
Dean just blinks at him, apparently done with his participation in this conversation and Sam just nods. "No problem, when do you need it done by?"
J chews on his cheek, or maybe on some gum, and shrugs. "Before dinner if y'all can, by the feel of things the rain shouldn't be in until dark at least."
It's as good a segue as Sam's going to get and he nods to J before turning to Liz. "Speaking of dinner, Liz, we were thinking of stopping by your roadhouse tonight for some food, you working?"
Liz raises her eyebrows, impressed. " My roadhouse? Boy, do I like the sound of that," she says through a pleased smirk, elbowing J again when he rolls his eyes. "Yes, I am, babe. Three to close, y'all drop in any time. I wasn't lying about J's pool posse, you hear me?" She winks at Sam then and J squints between them.
"What'd you say to them? We're awesome."
Sam interjects with a quick excuse, ingratiating himself. "She said there's no way we can beat you and we're better off betting on cheap beer."
Offering Liz a wink in return, he absolutely doesn't react to the way Dean's fingers dig into the flesh of his ass like some kind of warning. It's not like he's flirting and he wants to kick Dean but he's not about to draw attention. He's just curious to see how Liz will react, how she responds to an easy camaraderie given the role she might've played in everything.
She only smiles big and wide, all her front teeth on display and reminds Sam of Dean in that moment, young and brash and entertained. Sam can't reconcile this girl in front of him with the person who would pin his traumatized brother down and carve things into his skin, use him like he's nothing but a container to do her bidding.
He doesn't know what to think.
"Oh, then hell yeah, Liz knows what she's talkin' about," J says with a touch of pride, oblivious to Sam and Liz's shared secret.
Overhead, loud and ear ringing, the church bells clang on the hour. Dean flinches, whipping his hand out of Sam's pocket to clutch protectively at Sam's waist with a startled, angry little grunt. Sam allows himself to be jostled around, fielding Liz and J's confused stares.
It's already one o'clock.
"You okay there? Look a little spooked," Liz says, frowning at Dean who's finally relaxed in the silence, glaring murderously up at the church spire overhead. He doesn't react to her question, still clinging to Sam like the bells are gonna fall out of the sky and try to crush him.
Sam pats him on the stomach in an attempt at reassuring him and also signalling for him to let go. There is also the small, insignificant urge to bundle him up in his arms until he feels safe again, but only because he fits in there so well. He squashes that in favor of his irritation at being coddled like he's a baby, pushing at Dean lightly.
"Veteran," Sam says to Liz and J when Dean makes no motion to answer. In the south that's more than enough of an answer and it's not a total lie. But Dean still leans back to curl his lip at Sam in distaste. Liz and J nod though, both looking suitably concerned and understanding. Sam can't read if it's feigned or not.
"I'll be at the roadhouse too if y'all stop by," J says, continuing the thread of conversation from earlier while glancing at the beat up watch on his wrist. "But before that I need to get back to fixin' that boat motor."
"I'm surprised ol' Fred's let you hack at it so long," Liz scoffs, raising a hand to pat at J's shoulder. "But alright, off with ya before you end up a disappointment."
J shrugs. "If Fred ends up tryna beat my ass for taking so long, at least he can't boat my carcass out on the Tensas and sink it, can he? No motor, no murder that's what my daddy always says." Pinning each of them with pointed looks, he says, "Still if I go missin' y'all know who's to blame, alright?"
"Get outta here, already," Liz says and uses the hand at J's shoulder to shove him off. J trips over his boots and waves his hands to avoid touching Dean at all, edging around him like he'll snap at any moment.
"Yeah, yeah. Y'all have a good one, hope I see ya later," J mutters, sneering back at Liz. Sam offers him a friendly wave off while Liz shows him her middle finger. "Don't forget to lift that boat, you guys, Liz ain't pretty enough to waste time talkin' to!"
"Shut the fuck up, Jeech," Liz calls at his back as he flicks her off in return before heading down the street.
The two of them have a distinctly sibling vibe that Sam recognizes and it only makes it harder for him to believe she's the one responsible for all this. The conflict is turning his stomach in loops, an uneasy mess he wants to settle as quickly as possible.
"Anyways, now that we're finally rid of him, y'all better wipe the floor with them all in pool. I'll bet money on you both," Liz says and her unimpressed gaze watches J disappear, unaware of Sam's appraisal. Sam nods jerkily, forcing a smile.
"We can do that," he agrees, but he isn't planning on showing up at the roadhouse any time soon. If they do end up there, it'll be to kill her, and only because they have proof she's a monster.
It feels off, twisted the wrong way, and Sam suddenly wants to be anywhere but here, itchy under his skin. Dean's arm is still wrapped around his waist, practically plastered to Sam's right side like a second skin, and Sam's oddly grateful for the proximity despite the heat.
"Y'all find any good names at city hall?" Liz asks, apparently unwilling to let the conversation die out quite yet as she hooks her thumbs in the straps of her overalls. The interest could be suspicious, but not enough to be damning. Sam decides immediately to lie.
"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat. "Think J might really be royalty. The Fontenot line is long and mysterious."
Picking at J with Liz is clearly one of her favorite past times and she blows a raspberry, lips pouting out. Dean squints at her.
"Somehow I'm finding that real hard to believe," she says, waving her hand at a persistent gnat. Since she's giving them the opportunity, Sam figures he should use this small talk to gain what little scraps of information he can before he and Dean break into her home.
"Y'know, you and J kinda remind me of my family. Me and my brother bicker like assholes all the time too," Sam says carefully, feigning a chuckle that is almost real because Dean pries his limpet of an arm off Sam to smack his shoulder. Liz glances back and forth between them with an interest that Sam could potentially qualify as overinvested.
"Yeah, well, small town, everyone's known everyone since birth. He's practically my brother. Not that I asked for him," she says with a laugh like the notion is ridiculous. "But nah, J and his boys are great. Keep the roadhouse going strong on beer sales alone, I'll tell ya."
Sam slides in the hook pretty easily. "So you grew up in Clayton? Got family here?"
Liz nods, a casual bob of her head, as she sways a little with the humid wind. "Sorta. I mean, I did. Nowadays it's just me though."
Her expression is almost vacant, no longer looking at Sam or Dean but out across the expanse of the tiny town where the backs of a few houses can be seen. She's likely thinking about her father, recently passed. Or maybe about resurrecting her great grandfather Benny Lafitte to fill his absence.
It sounds stupid in Sam's head but why else would she have done something like this? If she did it.
"That can get kinda lonely," Sam says with an understanding nod because he can relate and it's easy. He did after all nearly drive himself off the nearest cliff without Dean for a few months. He knows what it's like to be lonely, without family, without Dean.
Dean, apparently regretting removing his hold from Sam, slides a hand back to grab onto Sam's back pocket again, hooking in.
"S'alright," Liz says bowing her head to stare at a scuff on her ragged boots with a furrowed brow. That's a signal for not wanting to talk about it, if Sam's ever seen one and he doesn't press because he's not trying to do therapy hour right now.
"I heard dogs can fill the void though," he offers lightly, shrugging. "Got one of those?" It's not his smoothest transition but he doubts Liz suspects he's trying to ascertain who and what all lives with her. Anything he might run into when breaking in later.
Liz glances over at Dean for a little longer than usual, slow and steady blinks. Even Dean notices, an almost questioning noise in the back of his throat.
"Nah," she says slowly, a smile quirking up in the corner of her mouth, laugh line deepening. "Just me, myself, and I. But you're right, maybe I should look into that." She cocks her head at Dean. A beat. Then drags her blue eyes to Sam. "Your puppy's always on his best behavior."
She says it so plainly Sam almost thinks he misheard her, the correction rolling onto his tongue without thinking, I don't have a puppy. But Dean is huffing an angry breath, baring his teeth at Liz and curling his lip like he's threatening to bite her, and Sam wonders if he can argue that.
More importantly, does it mean she knows more about Dean than she lets on? Or is Dean just that obvious and weird?
It must be clear Sam's at a loss for words, because Liz just waves her hand at him, ignoring Dean's personal offense. "I'll see ya later at the roadhouse, Sammy," she says, stepping into the grass and throwing an acknowledging, "Dean," over her shoulder as she goes.
She's already walking away so she misses the almost lunge Dean makes for her, still visibly annoyed. Sam has to grab him by the arm, getting a serious case of deja vu now that Dean's the one wanting to tackle her.
"It's Sam," he calls after her and she just raises her hand as she crosses the road towards the row of homes. Dean's growling, staring after her with the most intense focus, a scowl like nothing Sam's ever seen marring his face. It's oddly concentrated, breathing organized into short bursts, muscles bunched up. Like if Sam let Dean free, he'd hunt her down.
"Dean?"
Sam reels him in, pulling him back by the arm until Dean is stumbling into Sam's front and finally turning that scowling face on him. The concentration seems to be broken, but the extreme displeasure is very much there in creased lines and his twisted mouth.
"My Sammy," he says, and it's heavy like lead in the air, rough and angry and on the edge of something that's probably not good. He's almost pouting in the way Dean does when he's really pissed about something, crowding into Sam's space.
Sam would find it hilarious if it wasn't so sudden. "Yeah," he agrees, trying not to act too put upon when Dean grabs his left hand and starts forcibly dragging Sam in the direction of the Impala.
Sam follows diligently, only because Dean is wearing an expression that leaves no room for complaining. His arm is grabbed so tightly he has to bend his body at an awkward angle to keep from toppling face first into the gravel, but he doesn't say anything or try to tug free. He even allows himself to be manhandled inside the Impala without a word, passenger door creaking as Dean tosses him in.
Baby actually rocks with the force that Dean throws himself into the driver's seat, apparently still seething. Sam stares at him. How the hell can Dean remain so calm when they find out Liz might've hurt him, yet when she calls him a good dog he gets all up in arms? Or is it because she said 'Sammy'? How is that the last straw for him? Sam can't quite wrap his head around the logic.
"You good?" he asks carefully, wondering how the roles have managed to reverse so fast. Now he's the one thinking in measured moments, assessing the situation and trying to keep Liz at a respectable distance before they do anything rash. And Dean is the one who almost jumped her, or at the very least would have done something embarrassing if Sam hadn't reigned him in.
Of course, Sam still very much feels that simmering frustration under his skin, the one that roils like ants and makes him itch. He still wants to chase after Liz and interrogate her, demand answers, fight and yell. But not until there's proof, like Dean told him, because the idea of pointing a gun in her face doesn't really sit well with Sam either.
Offering no explanation at all, Dean just inhales a deep sigh like he's trying to refill his lungs with something clean, something familiar. He slumps against the seat, throwing his head back and releasing a breath that makes his chest and shoulders sink. His eyes are shut tight for a long moment.
Sam frowns at him, concerned that this is something more than a tantrum brewing.
"Dean? You in pain?" He glances at the bandaged arm and resists the urge to grab at it and check for himself.
But Dean just grunts and then he’s falling over like a dead weight, flopping onto the bench seat with zero grace. Somehow his head lands softly on Sam's thigh despite the flopping and he lets out a sigh that almost sounds relieved, eyes still closed. He curls in close to Sam then, like they're kids and it's too cold outside, like the monsters might get them, like did ya have a nightmare, Sammy?
Dean's eyes slowly open, fanning eyelashes over his cheeks, as he lies on his back so he can watch Sam.
"My Sammy," he says again, less vehemence this time—more a statement of fact, a truth, the only real thing in this world. He grabs Sam's left hand and brings it to his lips. They're warm and soft like always, feather light on Sam's skin.
Against the scars there, he whispers, "Only I get to call you that."
It's the most he's said at once to Sam since coming back, and Sam stares down at him with wide eyes.
Just a single full sentence, the first one he's received from Dean, and it's merely a reiteration of something Sam's said before. Coherent and familiar and gentle. As if it's just one of those few facts and figures that lodged in the basest area of Dean's skull, never forgotten.
Dean bites the scars, not hard like earlier, just slotting them home. Lips close around Dean's teeth, and he sucks slightly at the flesh of Sam's palm, like he's trying to pull the blood to the surface under the wounds. Sam wonders if it'll make a hickey on his palm, another mark he can't hide. One Liz and everyone else is bound to notice.
Sam understands, lets Dean coddle him, into him, a careful and desperate ownership. That's what they've always been, they're just being more honest about it now. No matter what they do to each other, for each other, with each other—Sam is Dean's and Dean is Sam's. That doesn't change. It just sometimes needs reaffirming.
So Sam lets him do as he pleases and in turn Sam does as he pleases, using his free hand to card it through Dean's hair. It's not much longer than it was when Dean vanished those months ago, a couple inches off his scalp and fluffy with their lack of styling it lately.
He's reminded that it's still so strange, Dean's lack of apparent scruffiness despite being lost for over three months. Sam lightly tugs on the ends of the hair, wishing the answers were there.
Dean glances up at him through his lashes as Sam gives in completely to the urge to pet his brother like the puppy Liz said he is, stroking through the strands. He expects some kind of indignation but Dean just leans up into the touch.
In a few hours, they're going to break into a seemingly nice woman's house and ransack the place for proof she's a horrible person so Sam can feel justified when he kills her. He tries not to think of it that way but he knows it's the truth and there's a small frown on his face.
Because Sam can't find it in him to change course, to hesitate and research and do something that doesn't involve Liz. He's scratching his nails along the back of Dean's skull and enjoying the little groans of pleasure that vibrate into his hand through the bite.
He doesn't enjoy killing people—he doesn't even necessarily want to kill Liz. He just wants answers and Dean isn't exactly forthcoming with them. Whether that's because he doesn't actually know or something else entirely, Sam can't tell. The not knowing is the worst part, feels helpless and wasteful. Dumb.
But no matter what Dean's aim is, no matter what he remembers or doesn't, no matter what anyone wants, Sam will know by tonight. He has to.
With resolve stirring warmly in his gut, Sam wedges his free hand under Dean's shoulder to ease him up.
"C'mon, we gotta lift a boat."
Turns out, it doesn't actually matter that Sam has no idea how to raise a tiny fishing boat. Dean might struggle with communication and self control and recalling the last three months, but somehow the way to work and maneuver a rope and lever pulley system manages to remain.
He's already heaved the thing up a few inches off the surface of the murky river water with a little effort. Sweat beads up over his forehead and it's clearly not easy work. Sam offered to help but Dean only scoffed and waved him off. So Sam's gathered up the scattered life jackets and bait boxes from the dock posts where they'd been tied and left.
"Can't believe, of all things, you still know how to do that," Sam says, arms full of junk and watching Dean knot the pulley rope around a metal hook. He's flushed from the work, cheeks red as tired breaths pant past his parted lips and Sam is uncomfortably reminded of last night. He swallows and distracts himself with resituating his haul in arms that suddenly feel a little weaker.
Dean raises his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, not that Sam was looking, and shrugs his shoulders. "Bobby," he says by way of explanation even though Sam didn't really ask, because he already knew. That summer of fishing in South Dakota apparently left quite an impression on Dean.
"Gimme some." Dean's hands reach out to relieve Sam of a few items of fishing paraphernalia, snagging the heaviest boxes for himself. There's a bit of grunt as he takes them, a subtle wince Sam doesn't miss, and his bandaged arm shakes a little.
"Don't grab stuff if your arm hurts," Sam's saying, trying to grapple things back but Dean sidesteps with a grimace. "Dean."
"Sammy," Dean mutters like it's a reply, and then escapes back up the slight incline to Marley's shack without a glance. Sam watches his back retreat for a few beats, noting the way sweat has soaked through the shirt material, before following after.
"We should shower," he says once they're inside, feeling his hair stick to his face. It wasn't exactly hard labor but the humidity makes everything infinitely more sweat inducing and Sam feels gross. Dean surely feels worse, considering he was the one lifting the boat up.
Throwing everything into a nice heap in the corner of the room, Dean grunts a sort of agreeable sound. As soon as his hands are free, they're curling into tight fists, and his nostrils flare with short, regulated breaths. His arm is clearly acting up and Sam makes quick work of freeing his arms, stacking everything up neatly out of the way.
"Just get undressed and shower. Then we can redo the bandages a little tighter," Sam says over his shoulder as he does, since he knows Dean would very much suffer in silence if he could get away with it. There's the rustle of Dean peeling off his clothes and Sam lets concern for Dean's arm override any awkward and unapproachable thoughts that he might draw in the sight of his naked brother.
When he finally steels himself and turns back, Dean's down to his underwear but that's not the most noteworthy thing. He has a small switchblade in hand, face all screwed up and damp with sweat, as he angles the knife down towards his wrapped arm.
"Dude!" Sam shouts, urgently rushing over to take the blade back before Dean can try and wedge the point up under the bandaging and cut in. Dean dodges his hand, rearing the knife out of reach and shooting Sam a glare from under his furrowed brow.
"Just try," Dean says with his hurting arm up against his chest, almost protective.
"Try what?" Sam's still eyeing the knife because he can't just let Dean try and dig what is very likely a soul right out of his arm by slicing himself open. They have no idea what will happen, if Dean will somehow be hurt in the process. Not to mention they'd be losing out on a valuable source of information if they can just get that soul inside a body. Interrogate it like Sam said.
"Cutting it out," Dean growls and his face is finally smoothing out, that twisted pained sneer relaxing into something a bit more frustrated instead. As if Sam is the one being unreasonable here. The knife is still held just a ways off that Sam would have to lunge for it if he wanted to get it out of Dean's hand.
"No, Dean," Sam says and he means it. There's no room for arguing. "I know it hurts and it probably freaks you out, but we just have to find the body first and then we'll be good. Okay? Give me the knife." He holds out his hand, palms open wide as if he's coaxing a child.
Dean glares at him and maybe he's mad at Sam's tone or something else, but he doesn't give Sam the switchblade. He spins around, a quick flurry of movement, and Sam just knows he's going to do something stupid.
"Dean!" Sam yells, practically tackling him from behind, flailing for the knife like they're kids wrestling over a gameboy. They topple onto the edge of the bed and Sam knows this is way too dangerous with an open blade around, but Dean's way ahead of him. There's the loud thunk of the knife being tossed away, slamming into the floor, just as Sam pins Dean down on the mattress.
"What the hell?" Sam mutters through gritted teeth, trying to gain some leverage to pull himself upright so he can ream Dean for being an idiot. But the position is awkward and tilted, Dean half on his side and Sam's front plastered to his body from chest to hips.
They're half perched on the side of bed, Dean's legs hanging off and Sam's got a knee up next to him, hands planted on either side of his shoulders. It's hot and sweaty and Sam's got an eyeful of Dean's bare upper body.
"Are you crazy?" Sam asks when he forces his gaze to Dean's profile, with no small amount of irritation. He leans up enough so that he isn't pressing Dean into the bed anymore, and Dean is avoiding eye contact like a pouty brat, refusing to move.
"What were you gonna do, huh? Slice it out of you right here and now? Make me run to get the first aid kit so you don't die? Jesus, Dean." Sam's bitching, almost more to himself, and when Dean doesn't so much as look at him, something angry and furious burns his skin hot. Sitting up, knee still on the bed, Sam grabs Dean by the shoulder and pushes. Just enough to roll Dean onto his back so he can't ignore Sam anymore.
But Dean's practically spread out under him, naked except for a thin pair of underwear, and flushed up under the freckles that smatter across his pale skin. The anti-possession tattoo is a stark and comforting contrast, black and dark where it sits over his heart. Slightly sweat shiny. Inviting.
Sam sucks in a breath and he isn't here to think weird things about his brother. Even if so much has gone absolutely nonsensical between them lately. He's concerned about Dean, he wants him safe and unhurt, and he's about to scold him for being reckless.
Except a cursory, entirely innocent glance downwards, catches a familiar swell in Dean's boxers, dangerously close to Sam's thigh. Sam's thigh which he's just now realizing is pressing up against Dean's ass.
Sam freezes. Something blank and fuzzy fogging up his annoyance and meting it out so it plumes up from the pores of his skin like steam. He's overly warm again, even more than just a second ago, and he should definitely pull away and hide in the bathroom and pretend he didn't see anything.
His eyes fly back up to Dean's face, his palm is still pressed into Dean's hot shoulder, and Dean is blushing a bright red, refusing to look at Sam. And Sam would think it was embarrassment but Dean can't even feel embarrassed anymore, can he?
Even with his very obvious hard on sporting just shy of Sam's hip, even splayed out half naked in front of Sam on the bed they shared last night, even after sucking Sam's dick down his throat, Dean's been nothing but shameless.
Now though? Now he's all pink and nervous and his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth and he won't look at Sam. In the past, if Dean caught Sam sporting a boner in any capacity, he'd just smirk, all teasing and obnoxious. Then he'd fuck off so Sam can take care of it on his own. In the more recent past, Dean would do—other things, like help.
Right here, exposed and bare, Dean isn't smirking and he isn't asking for help. He's just staring off to the side with those huge princess eyes framed under fanning lashes, and the sunlight casts an afternoon yellow across the flush of his chest, and his lips are shining with spit and they're both sweaty as fuck all.
Something should be said, Sam should shove off his stupid beautiful brother and brush it off, pretend not to notice, spare Dean the embarrassment. Not that Dean would have ever given Sam the same courtesy, feral or not.
Maybe it's that notion that keeps him rooted to the spot. The frantic reaction to run away, to pretend they're still normal, is there in some capacity, fluttering Sam's heart violently in his chest like a flight or fight response. Except somehow, like this, after last night and after today and after everything, Sam's response is fight.
Dean is forced down flat to the bed by both of Sam's hands on his shoulders, and the press of his thigh in between Dean's. There's a punched out gasp of a sound from Dean's mouth, green eyes flashing up to finally look at Sam, wide and dewy. Nervous.
Sam hovers over him and in his lizard brain there's sane reasoning behind his actions.
This is just his dues. Dean's been doing nothing but getting Sam off the last two days and it's weird and it's strange and it makes heat rush down into Sam's gut, but Sam can salvage this. If he returns the favor. If he gets Dean off, then it's easy, it's reciprocity, it's an exchange.
Sam's only helping Dean out, nothing else, nothing more. Just like Dean has done for him. He'll get Dean off like Dean got him off, make him come and cry a little and it'll be completely meaningless. A simple act of repayment so Sam can stop feeling that weird, unhappy flip in the pit of his stomach when he thinks too hard about what this all means.
The guilt, the fear, the anxiety will burn away if Sam just pays Dean back, if he just returns the favor because that's all it's been. Favors. This is what he tells himself when he presses down to capture Dean's pretty mouth in his.
They're already hot and sweaty so it can't get any worse, yet somehow the inside of Dean's mouth is even hotter and wetter. Sam licks everywhere, a sudden surge of power making him feel almost vindicated as he takes control. It's what Dean deserves, always kissing Sam, always pinning him down and taking what he wants, Sam wants to laugh.
Dean doesn't take it easy though, giving almost as good as he gets when he shoves up to knock their chests together and sucks on Sam's tongue. It's like they're barely restraining from putting each other in a headlock, like all the times they've wrestled for some kind of superiority. Like they're just tussling after an argument and not whatever this actually is.
Sam wants to bite Dean's mouth to make him back down. He doesn't though, and he doesn't know why.
Dean's pushing up against him, raising off the bed to shove his tongue into Sam's mouth like he always does. Their teeth click together almost painfully and Sam nearly rears back, nearly runs. There's a groan filtering through their connected mouths and arms are around Sam's neck, legs finding his hips and constricting him in, preventing an escape.
The tug of Dean and gravity are a war Sam inevitably loses, allowing himself to be pulled flush against Dean's body onto the bed as they kiss, sloppy and gross and needy. His dick is chubbing up in his jeans and their position presses his hips against the flesh of Dean's ass. An almost friction has Sam sighing into Dean's mouth, but the best part is Dean's swollen cock pressing hard and insistent against his abs.
Sam's responsibility. Sam's excuse.
He runs the tip of his tongue along the bite of Dean's teeth, because it's the way Dean did to him once—along with shoving his rough hand down Sam's pants, along with sucking Sam off on his knees in the open air. Sam's burning and aching and he owes his brother.
If Sam gets him back, returns the favor, isn't it just being polite? Just repayment, an exchange of services, a mutual agreement to help each other get off. Nothing deeper, nothing meaningful. No advantages being taken and no guilt to reap.
Sam owes Dean. He doesn't think about how he wants Dean.
"S'mmy," Dean groans, biting into Sam's lower lip and tugging at it like he loves to do. He's angling his hips now, shifting up to increase the pressure between their lower halves. His ass grinds against Sam's stiffening half-chub, at the same time his own cock rubs against Sam's stomach and it's all overly humid and disgustingly hot.
Sam exhales heavily through his nose, not quite a moan yet, and has to pause a moment to gather himself lest he pin Dean down hard and rut against him like a fucking maniac. This isn't about him, this time he's gonna help out Dean—and then they're gonna fix Dean and all of this will be a weird bump in their already weird lives.
Dean rolls his hips under Sam like some kind of expert and the way his ass flexes against Sam's dick is actively dangerous for Sam's plans and general coherent thought. Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat, his own hips stuttering, breath panting as if he can't control himself, as if Dean's in charge. It makes a righteous indignation flare up in Sam's chest, bratty and offended.
With a huff, Sam kisses the obnoxious smirk right off Dean's face, debating if he can suck his tongue hard enough to get that blushing, embarrassed Dean back.
He shifts his weight to one hand so he can rest just high enough to skate his bitten palm down Dean's naked chest. The flushed skin catches on Sam's callused fingertips and the muscles quiver as he goes, ticklish. He wants to mark Dean up, grab hard onto Dean's soft parts until there's purple and red bruises matching their matching bites.
But this isn't about that, this isn't about anything at all except paying Dean back. Sam can't resist his own little self-satisfied smirk against Dean's tongue when he shoves his fingers under the waistband of Dean's underwear.
The gasp of surprise alone is enough to make it worth it and he pulls back to drink Dean in, the way his hips tremor against Sam's, his face flush and lips swollen. Dean's cock is warm, heavy, and already beading with precome when Sam strokes up once.
He presses his thumb against the slit and Dean makes the softest noise, like it was punched out of him, all exhaled air. He's staring up at Sam with those glossy eyes, writhing at the hips to get a nice rhythm with Sam's hand. Completely, unabashedly open and wanting and having. That look is on his face, the one Sam recognizes and cannot name, and Sam wants to kiss him again, wants to consume him like he consumes Sam.
But Sam just lets him fuck his hand, slowly at first, a gradual grind that has his ass rubbing in equal measure against Sam's hard cock. The weight between his own legs is something he resolutely ignores, pushes down and pretends he isn't getting even hotter than he already is, sweat beading up all over. He refuses to thrust back against the swell of Dean's ass, focusing all his attention on jacking Dean off and paying back what he owes.
It's weird how it doesn't feel weirder. Having his brother's cock hard and heavy in his hand, unfamiliar yet not, as Dean whimpers under him, making all those needy little noises that make the heat in Sam's gut even worse. It's like hell but a delicious kind of burn, one Sam can't help but cling too, to smolder himself in. He says it's only a favor, but he feels something else.
On one desperate thrust up, wringing out the most pornographic little sound, Dean reaches out. He's practically making grabby hands for his brother and Sam hesitates to oblige, not quite willing to give up the view. Dean's open mouthed, glassy eyed, and flushed, and Sam's obsessed.
But he does finally acquiesce when Dean moans a guttural, "Sammy c'mere." It's half begging and half ordering. Sam can't say no.
He squeezes Dean's dick in his hand as he leans close, twisting his wrist on the up stroke, and the coherent word forming part of Dean's brain must short circuit because he doesn't say anything else. His eyelids flutter, chest hiccuping in a stuttering gasp that has his arms shaking when they wrap around Sam's shoulders and cling. Sam presses his mouth to Dean's jaw then, coming back into Dean's orbit just like he wanted.
Dean's hips pick up in their thrusts, hard cock sliding just this side of too dry against Sam's palm and he's got a hooked grip on Sam to keep him from pulling away again. At this angle, Dean's lips are just beside Sam's ear and he's panting against it for a moment, peppering in those little noises that go straight to Sam's dick.
As if that's not enough, Dean bites into Sam's earlobe without warning and it stings, shooting something sharp and painful right through the root of Sam's body.
He should escape this tight hold, should lean back enough at least to keep his cock from stuttering against Dean's ass, seeking that pleasant pressure that'll take the edge off. But Sam doesn't move, can't move maybe, and just lets Dean do whatever he wants, sucking at his ear, teething at his skin. Dean's ass is so good against him he can't quite prevent the way he presses into him with force.
But this is supposed to be a transaction of sorts—an exchange, and Sam will be damned if he comes. If he doesn't deliver to the best of his abilities for Dean, the way Dean's been doing ever since two nights ago, then what's the excuse for all this? What's the reasoning that'll keep Sam from burning up with guilt?
Sam can't let his brother get the upper hand on him again, because otherwise this is something else. Otherwise this is something more.
Despite how ecstatic Dean already seems to be under Sam's attention, switching from Sam's ear to his shoulder to muffle those punched breaths into. Despite how the heavy heat in Sam's hand tells him he's doing more than enough to pay him back. Despite all of it, Sam refuses to do anything but wring the orgasm out of Dean like it's his to own. For reciprocity's sake.
The drag of Sam's palm up Dean's cock has him thinking they're in need of a bit of lube to ease the friction, sweat and precome only goes so far. Sam has half a mind to spring his hand free and spit into it, it's served him well before, but there's an even easier way to do this.
He can't deny that the sight of Dean all wanton and torn apart underneath him sends his blood racing down into his aching cock, sends him reeling, eagerly lapping up the visuals. How he misses that view now that he's all pressed into the crook of Dean's neck.
He wants to see him. He can't see him this way. He could another way.
He owes Dean.
Sam slides his hand free, ignores the rough groan of protest in his ear, and grabs the waistband of Dean's boxers. In one jerk of movement, Dean's dick and ass are exposed in a welcome distraction for his octopus of a brother. The surprise of it slackens Dean's grip on his shoulders enough that Sam can pull back upright.
He uses the freedom to tug Dean's underwear all the way down, shucking them off his bowlegs and not giving a fuck where they end up. Dean's staring up at him with his mouth open, all red and sweaty and panting and looking utterly lost.
Finally, he's completely naked under Sam, and Sam takes the stolen moment to savor it. He's seen Dean naked so many, many times in their life, it's not anything new but this—this is entirely different.
Dean, spread out wide open, pale skin flushed so red, nipples pink and freckles vibrant under a ruddy, sweat slick glow. The sunlight makes his eyes glitter, still wet with the hint of what might be tears, and his dick is practically purple, hard up against his navel. It twitches when Sam obviously focuses his attention on it. He licks his lips, spit flooding his mouth. As if in preparation.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice is almost as wrecked as when he sucked Sam down his throat, cracking and whiny. Sam falls forward over Dean, catching himself easily on his hands, just a few inches separating Dean's chest with his. He presses his mouth to Dean's ear, relishes the way Dean pants harder, heat radiating off him.
"Gonna blow you," Sam says and it's rough and low and conspiratorial. Because I owe you is what he wants to follow the words with but he can't manage to force them out. He allows one quick nip at Dean's jaw, dick jumping in his jeans at the way Dean practically fucking whimpers. He's shifting down before Dean can try to grab him again, face leveling with the head of Dean's cock.
Sam's never once given a blow job in his life. It's actually kind of surprising, but he's always been staunchly and boringly heterosexual in his past experiences. A hand job here and there with awkward teenage friends is one thing, he's never quite crossed the line into using his mouth for anything other than kissing and eating out girls.
This is new and foreign and completely for Dean.
He wets his lips again, enjoys the burn of Dean's gaze on him, the way his cock twitches again when Sam exhales a hot breath over it.
If Dean can do it to him, surely Sam can do it. And better.
He grabs the base of Dean's dick with his left hand, ignores the sharp inhale, and raises it to his spit slick lips. Just the light contact between the head and Sam's lower lip is enough to have Dean's muscles clenching up, his abs dancing, fists grabbing the sheets. Sam can see him easily like this, the way he’s staring down at Sam like he might seriously break down, biting his lips in a trembling jaw.
It's a bit intoxicating to have this kind of power so obviously over Dean. He knows Dean must've felt the same last night when he pinned Sam to the Impala and forced him down his throat. Sam felt powerless, completely at his mercy, begging and breathless.
Like this, hand on his cock and lips just so, Sam can reduce Dean to a crying, writhing mess. (Though he wonders if he hasn't always been able to do that. This is just easier.)
Somewhere, vaguely, Sam thinks he should be hesitating. He should feel some kind of reticence at the prospect of sucking his brother's cock, some kind of unwillingness. But nothing is there, nothing rears up and tells him to stop.
And Sam doesn't do anything half-assed, he wants this to be good, wants to be good. For Dean.
He slides his tongue right past his lips, coated in a seemingly endless supply of spit, and licks around the precome wet head of Dean's dick. It's musky, salty, absolutely unappetizing and everything Dean that Sam sinks Dean's cockhead into his mouth on principle.
He's rewarded quite nicely with his brother's breaking whimper of a sound, followed by a ground out, "S'mmy fuck, " and the not so subtle stutter of hips. The movement forces his cock deeper past Sam's lips and he has to lower his jaw to properly make room that doesn't involve his teeth.
Dean's dick collides with his hard palate, sliding back towards his throat and he has to use his other hand to shove Dean down by the hip before he triggers his gag reflex. Sam's not about to let him choke him with his cock, even if the thought has some appeal that Sam cannot come up with a good enough excuse for.
His tongue works along the underside of the cock in his mouth, traces along the vein as he sucks the way he thinks it must be done, hollowing his cheeks. Dean practically loses it, shuddering and crying and stuttering nonsense that Sam can only make his own name out of. He's squirming under the grip Sam's got on his hip bone, bucking against him but not enough to do anything and Sam hums an approval.
That only gets Dean even worse, his legs sliding up so that his thighs frame Sam's shoulders, overheated and sweat damp. One of his hands buries in Sam's hair, not forcing him down, just holding on, and Sam bobs his head gently, working the base with his free hand.
The weight of Dean's cock on his tongue, the way he has to regulate his heavy breathing through his nose, the musky taste flooding his mouth, how Dean's making noises like he's being tortured so nicely—it's all got Sam's own dick straining in his jeans to the point of almost hurting.
He thinks he can understand why Dean came in his pants last night from sucking Sam's cock alone, because he really could right now, barely resisting the needy urge to press the heel of a hand down for some friction. It's probably only because he doesn't have a hand to spare.
Dean's the priority anyways. He's panting a whiny litany of SammySammySammy and his fingers are carding against Sam's scalp, scratching but gentle. A glance up and Sam catches his eyes, the way he hasn't closed them despite how desperate he is, despite how whiny and keening Sam's mouth has him. Like he can't look away from the sight of Sam sucking his cock. Like he has to commit it to memory.
He's coming apart so easily under Sam and it brings up that feeling again. The one Sam had clawing in his stomach when he bit Dean's hand, the marking, the claim, his.
Abruptly, he wants nothing more than to swallow Dean's come down his throat, watch his orgasm hit him, hear him moaning out a desperate needy Sammy as he cries. All of it for Sam. Only Sam.
He swirls his tongue around the head of Dean's cock, dipping into the slit when he pulls up, before plunging the whole of it back into the heat of his mouth, ignoring the ache in his jaw. Dean's grip clenches on his hair, arm shaking, and when Sam sucks hard, stroking the base with quick, urgent movements, Dean growls.
It's a fast, warning, "Sammy—" before come floods Sam's mouth and almost makes him choke.
It's salty like sweat but bitter and Sam swallows it all almost frantically, forcing himself to moderate his breathing so he doesn't have to pull off. Just like Dean did to him, he dutifully sucks, taking every last bit out of Dean and down his throat, until Dean's twitching and whimpering with oversensitivity.
Sam licks at Dean's cock one last time, wants to laugh at his sudden overwhelming urge to nip at the head and make him squeal. He doesn't, his own act of benevolence. Instead, Sam releases Dean altogether so he'll stop shaking so hard.
"Sammy, Sammy," Dean is murmuring, brows screwed up hard and breaths huffing like he's just fought off a whole mob of demons. He's smiling though, a lazy, lopsided, affectionate thing on his thoroughly bitten lips—all dark red and puffy. Sam wants to nip at those too, but he can't ignore the way he's aching so hard in his balls it's hard to move.
He desperately wants to press his hips to the mattress, just rut it out on the sheets like he's 12 again. But he refuses to ruin these boxers with spunk too, maybe it's petulant. Sitting up fully, Sam leans back on his heels and debates the merits of taking a cold shower while committing the fucked out face of Dean spread out under him to memory.
Dean is watching him too with those liquid eyes, the ones that are pleased, warm, and my Sammy. They drink him in just as greedily, hesitating just for a moment at Sam's undoubtedly abused lips, before roving down Sam's overheated body with a reverence. That sated little smile stays plastered to his sweaty face as he takes his time.
Sam can see the moment Dean's gaze strays to his dick straining in his jeans, obvious and angry. He licks his lips, an absent gesture, and Sam can't bring himself to move. He doesn't even have the decency to pretend he's not hard, pretend he didn't get affected by sucking Dean into his mouth. Dean burns him straight through with his unwavering stare, steady slow blinks making his dewy lashes flutter.
Some plan of action must occur to Dean then, after a moment of silent deliberation, because he's grinning suddenly. As if he hadn't just come in Sam's mouth with pathetic little cries, Dean pops upright, sitting with his legs crossed.
"Sammy," he says all husky and demanding and utterly fucked. Sam can't help the way his cock jumps at the sound. "C'mere."
It doesn't sound like a request this time either and he's reaching an impatient hand for Sam, the one with the imprint of Sam's teeth. For a flash of a prideful second, Sam feels the bratty need to deny Dean's order just because it's Dean.
But the ache between his legs keeps him from refusing, and he slides across the mattress. Somehow he ends up settling in Dean's lap, thighs bracketing hips thanks to the guidance of Dean's stern hands on his waist. It's almost ridiculous to Sam, how he feels simultaneously oversized and extremely small sitting over Dean's legs, chest level with Dean's face.
Dean's still grinning up at him, and it's almost wolfish, all his teeth showing. A warning and a promise. Sam just grabs his shoulders to keep from toppling backwards as Dean undoes his jeans without even breaking eye contact. His hands are expert, at ease, as they pull the zipper loose and tug on the edges to loosen the denim. Fingers brush Sam's hard cock through his boxers as he does and Sam flinches to keep himself from pressing into them.
It only gets worse when Dean reaches for the waistband of Sam's boxers and jeans, yanking all that material up under his balls, letting it catch against his ass in the back. It's not cold, the sudden exposure, it's actually humid and warm and Sam only stutters a quivering breath, chest heaving as he clutches at Dean's shoulders. Blank and unquestioning.
A strong, restraining arm settles around Sam's waist again, keeping him close, and Dean licks his other hand with gusto. It's obvious what his intentions are and Sam wishes he could say this fucks up his favors idea, completely unbalances the concept of repayment and exchange, but Sam's so hard and Dean's so close, he can't do anything but eagerly accept it.
He's already expecting the familiar rough feeling of Dean's hand on his dick and he practically buckles over when it happens, clutching at Dean to keep himself in his lap. Like a clingy, scared brat who doesn't want to get dropped. When Dean smooths along down his cock, the way eased by precome and spit, Sam feels so relieved he could cry.
"Good Sammy," Dean murmurs approvingly, staring up at Sam through his eyelashes, all encouraging and affectionate. He's licking his lips as Sam bucks into his hand of his own accord, thighs tensing hard. And it's the only warning Sam has before Dean's leaning forward to take a nipple in between his teeth.
"Fuck," Sam hisses, trembling in Dean's hold as the sting of a bite sends sparking heat straight up and down his spine. He thrusts into the circle of Dean's hand with tiny movements, not wanting to tear free of the teeth at his chest. It's a sweet sort of pain and Sam groans, fingers digging into Dean's shoulders.
The sound makes Dean hum, gentle, and then he's releasing to lave his tongue over it—apology. Sam shakes, pressing up into the hot tongue on his sensitive skin, chasing it. One of his hands moves to grab at the back of Dean's head, holding him there as he mouths at his nipple, the hot stimulation of it as his hips flex into each thrust.
He's just finding that steady building rhythm, the one he knows will bring him to orgasm, quick and dirty, and his muscles all over are tensing up in preparation. The breaths sputtering in and out of his mouth lose all sense of use, gasping and scratching like a whine that barely gives him air.
"Dean, Dean, almost," he murmurs, dropping his head to rest his cheek against Dean's sweaty forehead, another way to curl in close. Dean's hand lets Sam set the pace with his rapidly pumping hips, nothing but a light circle of his fingers, and Sam's sure he can come like this. It's easy, simple. He doesn't have to overthink.
But then Dean's taking the other nipple in between his teeth, a sharp sudden bite, and Sam gasps, twitching hard in Dean's hold. It's enough to distract him, hips stammering in their tempo, when Dean's other hand slips from Sam's waist to his ass. He doesn't quite register what's happening, too busy reeling from the way his chest throbs, until Dean's fingers have slid down his crack to brush against his hole.
A high pitch of a noise forces out of Sam's throat, tremors wracking his entire body as he lurches upwards to escape the unfamiliar feeling. It has his cock thrusting hard into Dean's hand at the same time and that only makes everything worse, Sam's muscles going taut and quivery.
Dean doesn't let him up though, squeezing his cock in a few abortive strokes and biting out a growl against Sam's chest. It's an admonishment maybe, as much as it is a reassurance. Then those fingers are back at his hole, a strange sensation thrilling at the tail of Sam's spine.
"Dean—" Sam doesn't really know if it's a warning or encouragement, can't quite form a coherent thought, but Dean doesn't breach the ring of muscle. He just presses a callused finger against it.
It feels good. It makes a whole new layer of sweat erupt across Sam's skin, prickling and damp, and he swallows down any kind of protest like he swallowed Dean's come. His head is all foggy again, stifling and sultry with something that feels a bit feverish, and all he can do is pick that rhythm up again with his hips.
Except now he's thrusting up into Dean's rough hand and back into his rough fingers and he can't really do anything other than moan and cry, whimpering out his own litany of "Dean, Dean, please." He's not quite sure what he wants at all except his brother.
An orgasm hits him out of nowhere, exploding up from deep in the core of his rapidly jumping hips, and he has the absolutely insane desperate wish that Dean's fingers would slide inside of him as come spurts up his torso.
It's aching and abrupt and new and scrunches his whole face up, as he's biting back the shout that perches on the edge of his tongue. He strangles it into a pathetic breathy little whine, his entire frame wracked like he's been shot, and all but collapsing forward onto Dean's sturdy support.
"Fuck, Dean," he groans, chest heaving, and draped over Dean like a big, heavy blanket. Dean gently shifts his arms to wrap them around Sam, holding him close and tight, in spite of how utterly disgusting they both are now, soaked in sweat and Sam's cooling come.
Dean, face mashed into Sam's shoulder and neck, purrs an almost growl of a noise that vibrates against Sam's buzzing skin. "Mm, my Sammy," he says, all simple and to the point.
They're practically sticking together and Sam feels like all the bodily fluids coating them will meld them like glue into a single creature which is disgusting and gross and absolutely should signal to his fried brain that escaping right now is the best option.
But Sam doesn't do anything, mired in his brother's skin.
"Good boy," Dean says like he's praising Sam for a good shot at target practice and not the fact that he came all over them. Sam gets a suspicious thrill out of it anyway, the praise seeping into his balmy skin like a salve. There's a soft breath and Dean continues, in a gravely mumble, "My boy."
Sam understands now that he can't contest such a statement.
In all their lives, he never really has.
Notes:
to make it up to any of y'all who were waiting and disappointed by my slowness today, next update will be monday june 29. so a very quick turnaround this time and only a short little wait!! we're about to hit the halfway point and it's gonna get crazy soon (at least imo) so please look forward to it haha <3
Chapter 15: Calm
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The primary weakness of Small Town, Nowhere lies in its strength: people are too fucking helpful. Sam and Dean have been on the receiving end of that eagerness to offer aid since they arrived, every random citizen pleased to give to strangers in need.
This is a great thing, wholesome and kind and heartwarming. But it's also dangerous.
Finding Liz's house was no more difficult than asking a couple of bored teenagers walking down main street. All Sam needed was a well-meaning expression and the lies of a meeting that isn't going to happen and we really just got turned around in all these little streets.
The worst part is, they didn't have to bribe the kids. Like Tierra, they just smiled all good-natured and barbed humor, and gave them directions down to the exact shape of the storm ditch out front.
Sam and Dean parked the Impala a few blocks over as they usually do, in a semi filled side street with other parallel parked cars to help her blend in as much as she can.
In Clayton, a few side streets over is really more like the other side of the neighborhood, and they only have two of those. The town has a population so small, Sam doesn't doubt they really do all know each other and unfortunately, he and Dean tend to stand out on a normal day. Getting from point A to point B unnoticed isn't nearly as simple as it might have been in their usual midwestern haunts.
For starters, the sun has only just begun to disappear behind the mossy trees, casting the area in a hazy dusk. They're still visible as they begin picking between houses and follow the careful instructions of helpful teenagers. But they couldn't afford to wait until it's totally dark when nosy neighbors might notice lights going on inside Liz's house. This was the best time Sam could figure for a break in, not to mention they had run out of ways to waste the day away.
Burning enough time to give them that stealthy cover of near-nightfall wasn't really the hard part anyways.
The hard part—strictly for Sam only—was dragging his floppy body to the shower at Marley's and acting like everything isn't super fucking messed up. He was all sticky and sweaty and red with something that's extremely ashamed and terribly bad at coming up with reasonable excuses. Now he can't do anything to assuage that discomfiting roil he gets in his belly when he looks directly at Dean.
And in typical Sam Winchester fashion, he buried it down very deep and acted like none of that happened for the sake of their mutual sanity.
It didn't take long to get washed up and dressed on either of their parts. Dean's arm calmed down to a dullish ache, as far as Sam could tell. It wasn't like Dean was keen on sharing.
Thanks to the events of the afternoon and the results of Sam’s unmistakeable misguided choices, Dean seemed to completely drop the idea of cutting the soul of him. Or at least Sam didn't have to keep watch out of the corner of his eye to make sure Dean wasn't going to grab another sharp object and go to town.
It certainly wasn't Sam's goal when he pinned him down and did all that stuff to him, but he can appreciate (very, very slightly) that it had this singular benefit.
After leaving Marley's with tools in tow and the sun still too high over their heads to successfully break into a home unnoticed, Sam figured they could get Dean some boots and a bite to eat. He was wearing nothing but those sad loafers from their FBI disguises and the idea of having to dig up graves or fight off whatever that soul belonged to in them just sounded sad.
Plus, it was a suitable distraction.
Well, it would've been if Sam hadn't already been suppressing the fear and guilt and complete loss of control from the last time he did things with Dean that he absolutely shouldn't have done. His brain and conscience really did not have enough capacity to continue on like everything is totally normal and Dean isn't kissing him, and Sam isn't sucking his dick, and they aren't coming all over each other. How the hell was he ever going to look Dean in the eye when he finally got him back to normal?
He spent a good three hours fretting about it and working himself in circles and avoiding Dean's curious, shiny eyes at every possible turn.
Lunch was nothing more than another visit to the taco truck and Dean got his new pair of sturdy boots that fit well and would protect his toes from any future monster hunts. It was enough to distract Dean from the way he kept staring at the side of Sam's head with a rotating carousel of expressions, ranging from dopey affection to something a bit more reserved but still suspiciously warm.
Sam absolutely hated the way Dean was clinging to him now, the way he was treating Sam like whatever just happened between them changed anything.
Because it didn't. Sam's trying very hard to make sure it didn't. Whether it's actually working is another question.
Following an afternoon of measured guilt and internal monologues that sounded suspiciously like desperate excuses, Sam realized, yet again, he is actually better off focusing on the task at hand. What's happened and happening with himself and Dean is outside of his sane ability to make sense, but that thing inside Dean's arm? That makes sense.
Or it will.
Dean's new boots are heavy and crunch over the gravel of dirt driveways noisily enough to direct Sam's thoughts appropriately. Liz should be long gone at the roadhouse by now and according to Sam's minimal probing, her house ought to be totally empty. Still, having asked random kids about her place and therefore run the risk of that information spreading like wildfire, they don't have a huge window of opportunity to dig for information. Maybe a thirty minute window.
Sunset in this humid weather means bugs galore and uncomfortable heat, which for once is a good thing. Almost all of Clayton's residents are tucked happily away inside their air conditioned homes and don't seem to be out to notice Sam and Dean skulking between their little yards like a pair of thieves.
The entire journey takes less than ten minutes, but Sam spends it feeling muggy and off because Dean refuses to let go of his elbow, jerking him around at every possible sound. He's almost overly tense, high alert like some kind of attack dog, and Sam just lets himself be dragged around as Dean ducks and dodges behind cars and porches every time a sprinkler goes off.
Sam manages the whole way without an ounce of freedom and it's a relief when they finally sidle up to the back of the yellow paneled, single story home they know to be Liz's. The storm ditch matches the kids' descriptions to a T, missing a chunk of the concrete along the top, just where they said it would. The house itself looks pretty small save for a screened in porch out front and Sam's grateful that the searching shouldn't take too long.
At his elbow, there's still the clutching fingers of Dean's hand, too warm and just this side of painful. Sam finally smacks at them for release, pointing to the window with the least integrity. It's oversized, no screen and a sliding latch Sam's used to undoing from the outside. Nothing a small knife and some finagling can't get him through.
The knife slides between the panes easy enough and Sam squints through the iced glass to see the blade, maneuvering it towards the lock. As he's concentrating hard at this task, Dean kicks him in the thigh and the knife jerks out of alignment with a thunk. Sam whirls on him with an affronted noise.
"Dude—" He pauses, staring at Dean's wiggling eyebrows as the back door stands wide open in his hand. Sam knows for a fact Dean doesn't have a lockpick on him, not that he would even remember how to pick and lock, and Sam hasn't let Dean carry a knife since the switchblade incident. Yet, the door is casually propped open. Dean's smug grin tells Sam all he needs to know.
It was unlocked.
"Small towns," Sam sighs, sheathing the knife and follows in behind Dean.
The house itself is smaller inside than out, narrow hallways and claustrophobic rooms that Dean enters first, low growl humming in his throat like some kind of warning to any potential occupants. Sam doesn't question it or try to take the lead, following with sharp eyes and a hand at the gun in his waistband.
Liz's back door opens into a small kitchenette and breakfast nook with a singular hallway extending forward into the heart of the house. Branching off from there, they count a cramped, yellow bathroom and what Sam determined to be a supply closet. None of these things contain any secret tomes, weird marks, or ingredients for complicated spellwork.
The front room is more of a den. There's two cozy blue couches, a coffee table covered with random assortments of mugs and papers, and a modestly sized TV over the mantel of a fake fireplace. Off this room lies what Sam presumes to be two bedrooms, and before he can go and check inside, Dean is sliding past him to scout out both. Sam could find it in him to be annoyed by the unbalanced allocation of duties here, but Dean's always been protective and this wouldn't be the first time.
While Dean's ensuring the place is as empty as Liz led them to believe it would be, Sam gets to work scanning the main room for anything that looks remotely strange. Even something as innocuous as a sigil carved into a table leg. He crouches down to run his hands along the bottoms of the couches and the old laminate flooring, fingers skating across worn surfaces in search of any kind of hidden object. This part of the job, at least, is second nature to him.
"S'clear," Dean says, returning from what Sam thinks is the main bedroom. Sam nods at him and continues to dig through every storage area he can find and then some, upturning cushions and peeling worn crown moulding. When that comes up empty, he pries under the built in bookshelves on either side of the mantel, slides his palms along the iron of the fireplace.
Dean's eyes are on him as he works, seemingly content to do little else, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against a wall. Sam can't tell if it's just more of that weirdly heated gaze he's been leveling him with all afternoon or some kind of silent protest. Dean might have given up on his crusade to cut the soul of his arm and end this whole case on his own terms, but he's undoubtedly still against Sam's whole plan.
Why exactly that is, Sam still hasn't figured out. Granted, he's been spending way too much of his mental faculties on avoiding uncomfortably overheated subjects and trying to distract from that with the whole soul thing. Sam doesn't have the time or the room in his head to worry about Dean's motivations right now.
On the built-in bookshelves, Liz has somewhere in the ballpark of a hundred books, mostly paperbacks with cracked spines. Sam runs curious fingers over their spines, cataloguing every title, and tugging a few back to check their weight. A few of the heavier ones, he pulls completely free to flip through and comes up empty. For the most part, they seem to be fiction novels with the occasional textbook squeezed in, pretty unremarkable.
Sam stops short when his fingers trail from the final book to hover over a grouping of framed photographs. They show a happy Liz and her family, her friends, even J, and a man who Sam can only presume is her recently deceased father.
It doesn't look like someone who's secretly doing dark magic to bring back a long dead relative, or even perhaps some legendary vampirate if Clayton's ridiculous rumors are to be believed. But in Sam's line of work, looks can be deceiving and he knows that all too well, eyeing the lines in her smiles that don't quite stretch across her face.
"Sammy?" Dean says, checking in from where he's knocking on the wood paneling of the walls. Apparently feeling a little guilty for standing idly by while Sam hurriedly dug around, Dean's gone to check for any hidden compartments. Sam only offers him a short nod, before going back to task and tugging the drawers under the bookshelves open. They're wide and flat and perfect for holding spellbooks or Latin scrolls or a showcase of ancient weapons.
Inside, Sam finds none of those things, which he isn't surprised by, but there is a mild disappointment. If he were Liz and trying to hide the fact that he's kidnapping and torturing people, he would at least keep the manual to do such things under lock and key. The drawer only holds something like printed diagrams, about a yard long, that on closer inspection appear to be property maps. Not of the house they're in, but of empty land, with large amounts of white space and huge boundaries with massive square footage.
Sam pulls the papers gently out, holding them aloft. There's a key in one corner that mentions acreage and other dimensional minutiae, with a few notes of water and gas lines marked out across the space. He has an inkling about what this might be and when he slides the first map away to see the others, his suspicions are confirmed.
The second large paper is a printed satellite view of a large swath of land and Lafitte Property is printed in tiny black text at the top right corner. Shuffling through the rest of prints, Sam sees that each is a picture map of another chunk of the land with the same boundaries and utility lines drawn over it as the first property map.
This isn't unexpected, Liz should have the information for the property she's inheriting from her father. Especially if she has yet to work out all the legal issues with an estate lawyer as Tierra mentioned. But a sticky note on the third image gives Sam pause.
In curly, legible handwriting, it appears to be a To Do list with checkboxes going down. Only the first one is checked done, Call the property appraisal office. Three others mention tax laws, transferring the deed, and selling the land. A few points are followed by several unhappy looking question marks, like Liz has no idea how to do some of them. The last unchecked box, however, reads court order for grave relocation.
Sam's extremely vague and nearly forgotten memories of studying 101 law courses at Stanford dredge up from the bleakest part of his brain as if he's back in that creaky seat of his property law course all over again. If land is being sold that has human remains on it, usually in the form of rural family plots, the buyer or seller can request a court order to have the graves relocated to a proper cemetery rather than bulldozed over and forgotten.
Why does Liz need to get such a court order for the Lafitte property unless there's something dead buried out there? Something she would rather have in a cemetery, rather than forgotten to time. Something in need of a soul? Sam flips through the last two images of the property, scanning the expanse of trees and fields for anything remotely like a grave marker.
Liz makes it easy on them. A black circle is drawn in marker near an outcropping of trees. The nature of satellite imaging leaves most things somewhat obscure from an aerial view, but Sam can make out the remnants of a collapsing fence and what might be one of those farm windmills. Inside the circle, less than an inch in diameter which according to the map scale at the bottom is less than ten feet of actual land, there's dead grass and something dark. Maybe a rock. Maybe a headstone.
Nothing else on the map indicates what the circle is supposed to be showing or who drew it. But considering nothing else is marked at all among all these maps, Sam's going to hazard a guess. If this is a grave, in the middle of Lafitte property, when there's a soul in Dean's arm and Lafitte scratched over his ribs, then this is where they need to go.
This is the body.
From the way the images are cut apart it's hard to tell exactly where the grave sits in the vast sixteen acres that make up the property. They don't have the entire night to scour through it all in the dark, especially not in swampy lands where anything from a snake to an alligator could be hiding. Sam needs to find, at the very least, a general direction to head in. As he steps away from the shelf and starts spreading the papers out across the floor, Dean seems to finally sense his urgency.
He meanders over with a frown, and his new boots make heavy thudding noises across the wood as he arrives. Absently, Sam realizes he sort of missed the familiar sound.
"The Lafitte property maps," he says after clearing his throat, sparing Dean a quick glance. His heart is picking up speed and his words follow suit as he explains while lining up the images. "There's a note about a grave, Dean, I think it might be the one we're looking for. In this circle. I'm gonna take a few pictures to compare to GPS and get a general idea where it is, but I can do that in the Impala, just let me get these and we can get out of here before anyone notices."
His phone is already out, images lined up into some semblance of an actual map, and the only response he gets from Dean is a grunt. There's the shuffling of clothes as Dean crouches beside him, waiting for Sam to take a few photos before sliding the image with the circle closer.
"That's the grave. Think it might be Benny Lafitte's?" Sam asks as Dean cocks his head to the side, frown creasing deeper and lips doing that concentrated pout thing. There's actually an iota of hopefulness in Sam's question, even if Dean has remained almost oddly unhelpful on the circumstances of his disappearance. He hasn't remembered or recognized anything so far as he's let Sam know, but maybe this time will be different.
Dean hums, cocking his head to the side, and then he's tapping the circle once with his finger. "Vampirate?" he says, like it's a question and a joke at the same time, a quiet scoff exhaling free. Sam would roll his eyes, but it's not like it isn't a valid possibility. Just as likely as Benny, the hundred plus year old grandpa.
He's about to agree with a lament about how stupid their lives are, but then Dean's face is rapidly contorting, eyes screwing shut and teeth bared. He practically falls over onto Sam, doubling forward with a rough, pained growl of a sound, bandaged arm clutching tight to his stomach.
"Dean!" Sam grabs hold of him, wrapping him up in his arms so he doesn't hit his head against the nearby table. "What's wrong? Hey, hey, is it the arm?" His voice is frantic, touching everywhere on Dean he can without actually grabbing the shaking limb and potentially making it worse.
Dean groans, clenching his jaw so hard the muscle on his cheeks throbs. He's practically panting, breaths heavy and ragged and he's still got his eyes squeezed shut. Sam's seen this a million times. Dean's sudden pain response when he's been shot or stabbed or broken something bad. His chest is heaving and he makes a sound that slides from a frustrated growl into an injured whine, burying his forehead into Sam's shoulder like Sam can take the hurt away.
"S'mmy, arm—" he barely forces words out in a wheezing breath and Sam wants to help, but he isn't sure what will make it worse. Before he can even ask, Dean rears back just enough space between their bodies to scrabble at the bandaging, trying to tear it off with fumbling fingers.
"Okay, okay, hold on," Sam says, remaining as calm as he possibly can to help remove the metal clasps and unwind the bandage. As the material falls away, the brightest glow Sam's ever seen in Dean's skin shines out, nearly blinding in the dim living room of Liz's house.
The skin is roiling again, as if Dean's arm is made of liquid, the thing inside ebbing and flowing almost angrily right in front of them. Like whatever's inside him is trying to impatiently tear itself free. Dean immediately cradles the writhing thing back against his chest with another pitiful noise and Sam winces in sympathy.
"How bad is it? Worse? It looks bad, Dean," Sam's muttering, and he understands with the most clarity Dean's desperation from before. That urgent, frightened need to cut the thing out with the sharp end of a knife. How doggedly he tried to just slice himself open and let it spill out, consequences be damned. It's terrifying and disgusting and it's hurting him. Sam wishes just for a moment he could cut it out for Dean.
But they have a plan. A safer plan than that, one that involves getting answers and making sure Dean doesn't drop dead the instant this soul creature is cut away. Amid Dean's short puffs of breath, as if he's trying very hard not to cry in front of Sam, his free hand reaches out and grabs onto Sam's shirt front in a clinging fist.
For a second Sam thinks Dean’s just trying to calm down, but his lips start moving past the twisted grimace. "Knife," he spits out, teeth grinding.
"I get it, Dean, but no," Sam says with as much solidity as he can, shoring up his resolve. "Not gonna risk it." Dean shakes against him, skin so bright and swollen and agitated, it's like moment lava melting off the bone. A soul crawling around inside his flesh. It hurts to look at, and the spell is almost illegible in the orange glow of it, morphing with the dips and raises of swift movement.
The fist in Sam's shirt pulls and shoves, shaking him like Dean's a kid who's being refused, and he's sucking in a breath like he's just resurfaced from underwater. He coughs a quiet, "please, Sammy." It's wrecked and scared and so desperate and Sam wants to take the hurt away.
He will.
Disentangling himself from Dean with efficient movements, Sam shuffles all the maps and papers up into a pile to dump back in the drawer. He ignores the hands that reach for him as he leaves Dean's space, the way Dean's pained noises get worse as Sam steps away to peer out the gauzy front curtains. The area is still clear and he crouches back at Dean's side where he's curled over and glaring at his arm like he wishes he could gnaw it off.
"Dean," he says sternly, pushing a hand up to Dean's forehead so he can meet his eyes. "We're going to the grave. Gonna get this thing outta you, okay? C'mon." Dean looks like he wants to say something, those eyes flickering, but Sam just grabs his good arm to loop it over his shoulders.
Manhandling Dean is something Sam's grown pretty professional at, and he lifts him to his feet easily. "This okay?" he asks, more to make sure the angle isn't causing Dean even more issue, as he wraps his arm around Dean at the waist. There's a beat, where Sam waits for some kind of acknowledgement, but it's silent. A glance down and Sam sees Dean staring at his forearm.
"What?" Sam asks, moving to see but Dean shoves the forearm up under Sam's nose and it's no longer so abnormally lit, the movements under the skin settling into something more subtle again. Nothing more than gentle force swishing slowly underneath, all of its hurt gone just like that.
It's calm.
Dean's making one of those skeptical faces, corners of his mouth downturned. "Huh," is all he manages, voice all husky and worn as if he hadn't just been completely rendered immobile by the pain that thing was causing. Sam doesn't know what to make of it, scowling as he slides out from supporting Dean now that he no longer needs it.
"You're good now?" Sam asks, pushing Dean's arm away from his face so he can examine it easier.
The sheer fact that Dean didn't flinch away when Sam grabbed him is answer enough, and his skin feels soft and warm and uninjured under Sam's fingers. "What the hell?" he murmurs, more in exasperation and mounting concern than anything else. Who knows how much worse it can get if they don't get it out soon? It's starting to feel as if they've been working on borrowed time as it is.
"Sammy," Dean says for want of anything else to say when Sam finally releases him. He shakes the arm out like he's trying to get the feeling back, still staring at it with wide eyes under a creased brow. He's apparently just as lost as Sam on how exactly this thing is working and it only makes Sam more anxious to get to the grave.
"Let's go," Sam says, patting Dean's shoulder and skirting around the coffee table. He casts another searching glance around the quaint house and realizes he doesn't know if he still wants to grab Liz after her shift and demand answers or not. If what they found is enough to condemn her.
It's odd because while his inherent need to take down anything that hurts his brother is thrumming in his chest, his animosity towards Liz is wavering. His focus is honed in, narrowed to the sharpest point that aims directly at the soul in Dean's arm. He doesn't want to feel that helplessness again, to watch Dean double over in pain and be powerless to stop it. The next time might be even worse.
He starts towards the exit, throwing any concerns about Liz to the backburner with everything else that isn't immediately save Dean like always. As he goes, Dean grabs the sleeve of his overshirt, stopping him. There's a frown on his face, thankfully not pained, more anxious than anything.
"Liz?" he asks roughly, watching Sam like the answer is really important. Sam can't quite figure out what he wants Sam to say, what he wants Sam to do, and maybe that's because Sam hasn't asked at all.
"Worry about her later?" he says carefully, almost like a question because he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. All Sam can focus on is getting their asses to that grave in the middle of the Lafitte property. He's one track minded when the one track is Dean.
Dean's fingers are still in his shirt, they twist a little harder, pulling the material tight. "No, Liz first," he growls and Sam must telegraph his confusion on his face because Dean reiterates, squeezing his eyes shut in a hard blink like he has to focus. "Not grave."
There's a question forming like a choked breath in Sam's throat. Several questions hoarding into his head at Dean's request and he frowns, because he can't figure out which one to ask.
Why Liz? If the thing in Dean's arm is causing that much pain, why wouldn't he want to go to the grave first to cut it out? He's so dead set on slicing his arm open anyways, isn't it the same thing? And waiting on Liz to get off her shift so they can interrogate her will take several more hours, hours Sam doesn't want to spare.
He opens his mouth to let these wayward thoughts spill free, demand Dean explain his reasoning at least, but the sounds of tires on a gravel driveway has Dean immediately darting to the window. Whoever he sees pull up, Dean spins around and gestures to the back door, silent and steeled.
Sam allows himself to be ushered quickly out the back, unable to process the urgency of needing to escape because he's too busy wondering what the hell is up with Dean. Surely, he's not still caught up on their conversation with Liz before? The whole 'Sammy' thing is so inconsequential, it has to be more than that making Dean want to waste their time.
They're out the door without a hitch, the last sound they hear before it closes is the key in the front lock. It's a quiet and stealthy affair back to the Impala, Dean reverting back to that almost animal way he avoids being caught, hauling Sam along like his toddler in need of protection. Sam feels that way a little, obediently ducking behind a truck when Dean motions him too.
Once they're safely back inside the Impala, no longer worrying about being spotted by local Clayton residents, Sam's worked up a sufficient need and whirls on him.
"Why do you wanna go after Liz first? Your arm is gonna kill you if we don't get you to that grave and resurrect that thing. You're perfectly fine with cutting it out when it suits you, so how come you're so against doing it at the grave, huh? You don't wanna get answers, Dean?" Sam's aware he's practically ranting, barely giving himself time for breath in between words. His tone is harsh, but he's not angry so much as confused.
Dean blinks at him, eyes a little wide like he hadn't expected the onslaught, and he reaches over to grab at Sam with clingy hands like that'll calm him down. Sam dodges, pulling back and crossing his arms. He pins him with an unwavering look that demands some kind of verbal response.
"Sammy," comes the somewhat expected reply. Dean heaves a breath like the weight of something is sitting on his chest and he's looking at Sam with his eyebrows drawn together. Almost anxious.
He doesn't move to say anything more, to explain or offer up some kind of reasoning that Sam would buy, and they stare at each other for a long moment. Sam can see his adam's apple bob when he swallows. In any other situation, Sam would wait him out. He's the most stubborn out of anyone they know and he could sit angrily in the passenger seat of the Impala for a week if wanted to.
But they're on a time crunch. They need to find and get to the grave before the soul in Dean's arm goes fucking nuclear and takes away Dean's ability to function. Sam shouldn't waste their time giving Dean the third degree about whatever the hell has him so reluctant to go along with Sam's plan to raise the soul and get answers. The urge to do it anyway burns like a hot coal in Sam's gut, but he rolls his eyes and tugs his phone out.
"If you're not gonna say anything, fine. But we're doing this my way, because I'm not about to let that soul in your arm kill you just because you're being an asshole," Sam says and his tone is decidedly bitchy. He's already pulling up the address in GPS from the Lafitte property record. "I'm finding the grave, start driving towards Main, McAdams is off that."
He expects some kind of disagreement as he matches up the photos with the GPS to determine just how far from the road this grave actually is. Dean only huffs an extremely dissatisfied breath, long suffering and almost distraught, but he doesn't try to explain and he doesn't try to fight. The Impala roars to life without any further dissent and then they're heading towards Main.
Because Sam has to get the last word in when they argue, or semi-argue, he doesn't completely drop it. "Don't think I'm gonna forget this," he says, shooting a glare over the top of his phone as Dean drives. He lets the mystery of what 'this' is exactly hang in the air between them. As far as Sam can tell, Dean is hiding something. Or maybe he can't tell Sam the full truth, with the way he is. Either way, Sam plans to get it from him later, once they've gotten the soul out.
They just don't have the time to fight about it right now. Sam drops a pin in the location on GPS, comparing the photos of the maps to his phone's app, and Dean drives them in the direction indicated. His arm, now exposed, still shifts unsettlingly and it's the only thing keeping Sam from interrogating Dean further like a brat.
Clayton is emptier now on Main as evening rolls around and the winter sun almost disappears completely from the sky. According to GPS, the property is only about a ten minute drive out of town which is good news for Sam and Dean. They can squeeze out at just a little more use from the sunlight then as they try to find a single grave among the 16 acre property before night completely falls.
He hates the voice in his head that optimistically declares Dean's arm would make a good flashlight in that instance because it sounds suspiciously like Dean.
Down road 599, the sparse buildings of Clayton give way to flatlands of dying grass and roughshod fences. There's patches of swampy trees along the way, moss dangling from their branches like wispy gowns that proliferate humid and wet climates. Sam hopes the area near the grave is dry enough that they don't end up drowning.
An unmarked dirt driveway is the only indication that they've reached some kind of property entrance, gated off by a swinging gate. Vines and weeds are growing around it and the fence, almost to the point of overgrowth, and Sam wonders when the last time someone drove out here was.
Dean maneuvers up to the gate as Sam casts quick glances around the road for any other cars that might report the Impala they saw sitting at Lafitte property. Nobody's in sight as far as Sam can see, so Sam pats Dean's thigh and gets out.
"I'll move the gate, we can't leave the Impala out here," he explains once he's safely out of reach, shutting the door on Dean's protesting grumble. It must be that good old character growth that keeps Dean from rushing out after him as Sam squints at the rusted chain around the gate bars.
Nothing but the sound of insects and the Impala's purr responds when Sam kicks the chain, testing its integrity. Surprisingly, the rusty metal gives way without a hitch and falls to the dirt in a heap.
Sam tilts his head. Apparently the chain wasn't latched at all, but merely wrapped around the gate to look as if it were. Maybe that means someone actually has been visiting the area.
The vampirate legend comes to mind, all that talk of the kids sneaking over to have Halloween parties. Were all those teenagers actually coming out onto Lafitte land and drinking at the grave of Benny Lafitte rather than some fantastical vampirate? It would be almost funny if the thing in Dean's arm wasn't such a threat.
With the gate shoved open, Sam waves Dean through. He even winds the chain uselessly back around as it had been before once he pushes the gate shut again, hoping there won't be any parties coming through tonight.
When he slides back into the passenger seat, Dean's scrutinizing glare burns into him and his fingers force through the gaps in Sam's own, holding fast. Sam lets him cling, pointing down to where the dirt driveway disappears into a gathering of far reaching, mossy oak trees.
As they drive further in, the view of the main road gets cut off by trees completely, Sam watching in the side view mirror until he can't see it anymore. It's a good thing for them, if only so that no passersby will head down to the roadhouse and tell Liz the new guys are snooping around her property. Sam hasn't quite figured out the excuse he'll have if they run into anyone out here and he silently hopes they won't.
The driveway dead ends at nothing, headlights shining out into the trees and finding nothing but mosquitos flittering around. Sam thinks he might see a squirrel scurry up a trunk. The land clearly hasn’t been tended to by professionals for a long while, everything untrimmed and wild. It's starting to make a lot of sense why Liz might just be trying to sell it away.
"Sammy?" Dean asks, staring out into the trees with a wary squint to his eyes. Sam refers to the GPS to determine which direction they're going to have to trek, somewhere in the range of a half mile southeast.
Normally, that would barely be a ten minute walk given the short distance, but the trees and potential animal dangers certainly sends a different message. He's at least grateful they're a couple streets over from the river and swamplands.
"We'll need the shovels," Sam starts, leaning over the backseat to grab a duffel bag. "Since we don't know what the hell we're bringing back, I think a bit of everything is a safe bet too."
That list includes salt, silver bullets, holy water, and a couple machetes as the general basics. The fabled vampirate makes Sam wish they had some spare dead man's blood too, but it's not exactly the easiest thing to keep regularly stocked. For now, the usual arsenal will have to do.
"Kill the engine and pop the trunk," Sam tosses over his shoulder as he swings the door open and exits. Dean's moves quickly, somehow doing as told and still beating Sam to the trunk, fishing out the necessities. He shoves his gun in the waistband of his pants and drops the armful of goods into Sam's open bag.
When they're ready, machetes and shovels in both hands, Sam leads the way by the compass on his phone. The nearly disappeared sun is casting the whole area in a hazy mish mash of oranges, pinks, and purples, that reminds of Dean's still faintly glowing arm. It serves as an unwelcome reminder of the time they don't have. That thing could hurt Dean at any moment, incapacitate him, and Sam isn't going to give it another hour to sit like a ticking bomb under his brother's skin.
It's still lit enough outside that Sam can see without a flashlight, but he still catches on roots and stumbles occasionally, gaze whipping up from his phone screen. Every time he does, he'll glance over to warn Dean, only to find him sidestepping fallen trees and animal dens like he's lived in the woods his whole life.
Eventually, though Sam is the one with the maps, he ends up trailing behind Dean, letting him take the lead.
Like some survivalist, Dean maneuvers them easily through overgrown high grasses, hacking away low hanging branches and even identifying what Sam's pretty sure was a venomous snake. He makes a surprised grunt when Dean yanks him off to the side before he can take another step, nearly tumbling onto his ass. Seconds later, the telltale rattling sounds and Dean hauls them away.
"How'd you see that thing?" Sam asks, brushing moss off his shoulder and trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. Dean just shrugs at him, either unable or unwilling to explain. "Seriously, dude, you're like Bear Grylls now."
Sam doesn't expect an explanation and Dean just grins at him like it's something to be proud of. He can't help but worry about where Dean had been before, when he disappeared, what kind of landscape he was forced to survive in if these Louisiana backwoods are nothing to him.
It takes a good twenty minutes before they finally reach a small clearing, recognizable from the satellite prints in Liz's drawer. A fence has fallen into disrepair, half rotten and barely even upright, due to nature's judgement or random teenagers. Some breakage looks deliberate. The small, sad bit of it that remains standing frames what Sam is sure is a headstone, black and solid, hard to stop in the dark of near night.
There's the telltale windmill too, just behind and slightly decrepit. Sam doesn't actually know the intended purpose of a farm windmill, but he doubts this one is serving it. The vanes rotate with ominous creaks in the very slight, humid breeze.
Sam figures it's a good spot for their arsenal, dropping the bag underneath, and fishing out the salt for a ring. Their safest bet is to be as precautionary as possible, so he also grabs the spray paint for a makeshift devil's trap. When he turns back to the grave to get to work, he sees Dean's already trampled ahead of him to give it a critical once over.
As Sam joins him, he notices Dean's arm is roiling around at a quicker, more urgent rate like it can sense something is near. Its body perhaps. Dean winces at the sudden activity, holding his arm back to his chest to glare at it, and Sam lightly pushes him away from the grave.
"Here, do the salt ring and devil's trap. I'll start digging," he says, not willing to let Dean overexert himself when that thing in his skin can still hurt him. Dean doesn't protest, taking the items and getting to work without a word. Sam watches him for a short moment before turning back to the grave.
The headstone looks quite old, chipping in places, crumbling in others. It's a dark stone and reads Lafitte. No dates, no epitaph. In some ways, it's assuring. Sam was right, this is a grave, this is Lafitte, this has their answers.
"Here goes nothing," Sam mutters, plunging the point of the shovel into the topsoil.
He'll be doing most of the digging with the thing in Dean's arm acting up like that, like it recognizes this place, knows they're close to setting it free. It shouldn't make him as relieved as it does. Whatever this is, whatever they're about to bring up, can only be just as bad for the world as it is for Dean alone.
But Sam can't help it. When it comes to his brother, he's selfish. He's aware it's a problem, aware it's sort of been the driving problem of their lives.
To Sam's right, as he shovels dirt out of the way, Dean has unceremoniously dropped himself to the grass, salt and trap drawn. He's just a few inches shy of the danger zone that would get him whacked with the shovel. Which actually happened once when Sam was ten and digging up his first grave, shovel flying up haphazardly to ding into Dean's skull like whack-a-mole.
Dean definitely hasn't forgotten that trauma, keeping his distance in a rare moment of freedom for Sam. Maybe Sam would've appreciated it, if lately it didn't feel weirder for them not to be constantly touching. Sam doesn't delve too deeply into what that says.
A glance over shows Dean cradling his arm like it's fragile, but focusing all his stony faced attention on Sam as he digs.
It's not the kind of attention that would make Sam even hotter as he works, shoulders and back aching and drenched in sweat. It's the kind of attention that Dean's been paying Sam since they were babies and their mom died. A protective, angry sense of responsibility.
Sam can guess what's making his instincts go into overdrive, even if he still doesn't totally understand Dean's aversion to the plan. They don't know who or what this Benny Lafitte guy really is, or if even this is actually Benny Lafitte's grave they're unearthing. They'll be doing a spell with unknown consequences, and could very well be digging right into a trap like a pair of desperate idiots. Doing exactly what the people who did this want them to do.
Sam knows all this.
Dean does too, and it's putting him on edge. So Sam lets Dean stare at him, attentive as a watchdog, and doesn't try to ease the tension in the lines of his face, because there isn't any use. Dean's anxious for Sam's safety, anxious for both of them, anxious that they're about to monumentally fuck up. Sam is too, but there's no other options and so he digs.
The moon is bright and plump in the muggy night Louisiana sky, and once the sun makes room for her, she casts her hazy glow across the cemetery of one like a spotlight. It works out for Sam, keeping the pit he's digging clear as day, and he can't help but take it as a good sign.
Without Dean's aid, making a six foot hole takes hours and Sam's hands are definitely bleeding by the time he breaks into a casket.
This isn't surprising considering Sam's left palm has been in a sad state since getting Dean back, the bites tearing back open in no time at all. Sam didn't even notice at first, only stopping when Dean made a sharp growl of disapproval and shot up to grapple the shovel free. Rather than letting Dean take over digging, Sam let him tear his overshirt in half and wrap it anxiously around Sam's blistered hands.
As Sam stands over the closed, decaying casket lid, he spares a thought to the bloody remnants of his poor shirt hanging from his hands. Dean's been sitting on the edge of the grave, feet dangling and brushing Sam every time he threw dirt out. He's staring hard at the casket with a grimace that's anything but calm. Sam can't say he doesn't feel something similar as he raises the shovel and stabs it down into the brittle wood with one last bit of strength, hard breathing and sweat soaked.
It gives way easily, crumbling under the force, and Sam crouches down to start removing the pieces so they can get a good, clear view of the body. The smell is gross and familiar. For a brief moment Sam worries about his open wounds being around a rotting corpse, but it's mostly bones at this point.
In the light of the moon, Sam can make out a skull, loose jaw hanging off, and a few ribs attached to a warped looking spinal cord.
"Looks human," he says optimistically, glancing up at Dean with a shrug. Dean blinks furiously and grunts a disapproving noise that seems to say I don't like this.
This probably being Sam waist deep in the grave of some evil thing that they're about to let loose.
It's sort of funny in a way, since their entire childhood was nothing but Dean desperately trying to foist all the salt and burns on Sam. Now here he is, all worried and anxious like they haven't done similar things a hundred times. Sam dusts his aching fingers off on his jeans and tries to pretend this is just like everything else they've done.
As far as he can tell, the spell should be like any other. A simple incantation of the Latin carved in Dean's skin and a knife to cut it open. If everything goes to plan, the soul—if that's really what it is—will reunite with the body and haunt the Louisiana swamps once more.
It doesn't sit well in Sam's gut, bringing this unknown force back up, but neither does the prospect of leaving it in Dean. Sam goes with the option that'll keep him from having to helplessly watch his brother double over in pain.
"You ready?" he asks, turning to face Dean fully, careful of his precarious footing on the weak casket wood. Dean looks down at him, those creases over the corners of his lips are telling as always. Before Sam can make any attempt at reassuring him, Dean scoots back and stands up, offering his good arm out to help Sam.
Once he's climbed free of the grave, Sam goes to drag the duffel over. They're going to need at least one of the safeguards inside it soon. He tugs his knife out of his waistband and hands it over to Dean where he's standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam. Maybe leaning into him a little.
Dean takes it gently in his right hand, holding out his forearm so they can both watch the angry, incarcerated thing roil and crawl inside. The Latin rolls over it as it moves and Sam inhales a deep, preparing breath, brandishing a machete in his right hand, gun at his back.
"You'll have to say the Latin," he says, wishing he could do it for Dean instead and take part in this unknowable ritual. Take any of its consequences in Dean's place. Even if Dean would have a fit. "You can do it, right?"
The narrow-eyed, offended look Dean shoots him is so painfully like Dean's old self Sam is struck with the urge to laugh. He bottles it up and saves it for later though. It'll be important when the apprehension has completely eroded his ability to experience anything without worrying about Dean's safety.
Positioning the knife point against the pale, oddly delicate skin of the underside of his forearm, Dean inhales deeply. Tension clenches up in Sam's exhausted muscles, reminding him of just how long this day's been. He might just collapse by the end of this, watching Dean's face closely to keep himself from intervening due to the nervous spikes in his gut.
Dean's frowning, concentration twisting his mouth, and beard scruff making him look ragged and vulnerable and a little scared. He parts his lips like he's going to start the incantation, but he whispers, "Sammy?"
Sam can see the knife shake a little against the skin of his forearm. Sam recognizes it for what it is.
Dean's scared.
Scared of this thing or scared for them or something else entirely, Sam doesn't know. He leans into Dean's space to try and assure him, worried furrow in his brow.
"Dean?" he prompts just as clearly, taking in every point of Dean's tense expression and admiring the way his eyes shine liquid in the moonlight, more blue than green. Dean's lower lip twitches just slightly, almost imperceptibly.
But Sam's been watching Dean since he was four and he inclines closer to hear the request.
"Kiss," Dean says, soft and fragile.
The single word is almost lost in the buzz of the night creatures and the rustle of the leaves. Sam might not have heard him if he hadn't been watching his lips for the answer.
But he does and he obliges, raising his hand to cup Dean's jaw. He slots their mouths together in that fitting way they always seem to be able to do now, natural and easy. It's a comfort, a reassurance. Dean sighs into the kiss and Sam can feel him shore up as they pull apart, forcing an optimistic half smile.
"We'll figure it out, we always do," Sam says, confident in them at least, believing in them. Maybe they're about to royally fuck everything up, but they're together.
Sam pats Dean's cheek once, fortifying, and pulls back. "Let's do it."
With a resolute nod to himself, Dean repositions the blade tip, forearm held out over Lafitte's desecrated gravesite. He licks his lips, probably tastes Sam on them, and digs the knife into his skin.
"Anima corpori fuerit corpus totem resurgent. "
Notes:
this fic is officially half way over, how we feelin' team? we're finally going to be digging into the stuff i absolutely loved writing, so i hope everyone is ready for some reveals, some tension, and some good ol' feral content!!
the next chapter is coming on saturday july 4, i'd say happy independence day fellow americans but i hate it here lmao
Chapter 16: Hand
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Latin rolls off Dean's tongue in a hoarse enunciation, always a little tougher than Sam's, always a little more particular. It's even slower now, stilted and strained in awkward syllables that Dean never would've had an issue with before. It could be because he can barely speak in English lately, or it could be because he's still mad they're even doing it. Or both.
Sam's gums are sore from gnashing his teeth, anxiety warring with something eager in his ribcage. But he mouths the Latin along with Dean anyways, wincing when the blade slices down the fleshy part of his forearm.
The skin splits easily, blood erupting through the wound and that orange glow spills right along with it, taking the monstrous roiling out from under his flesh. Bright like liquid fire, it cascades from Dean's outstretched arm down into the dark pit of the grave, lighting it up like they've struck a match and tossed it in.
They both watch, immobile, as the orange soul-like glow traces the bones of the body inside, slithering around that rotting corpse as if it‘s a snake seeking a new home. Moving quickly, it washes over the skeleton from skull to withered toes, and disappears just as fast.
A blink and they're in the dark once again, nothing left in the casket below. Sam looks back up to Dean's arm and almost chokes with the rush of relief when he sees the pale skin under the moonlight. Smooth and familiar and unremarkable again, no rippling mass lurking beneath with its indeterminable intentions. Finally unmarred but for the thin line of the knife's cut.
"Dean—" Sam wants to grab onto him, wrap the injury as soon as possible and he's reaching out, but Dean isn't looking at him.
A growl rips into the humid night, coming up from the pit of somewhere deep, inhuman and guttural. Not a sound Sam's ever heard Dean make before, not even a sound he thinks he's heard anything make, and the hairs on his skin stand up in a rush of unsettled fear. His hand freezes middair, dangling between him and Dean's arm, and he feels stupid, frozen.
Before he can follow Dean's gaze, grab him and make sure he's still Dean, still human, Dean shoves a solid hand against Sam's chest. Violently pushing back and away, unexpected, Sam goes crashing back onto his ass, machete skidding free and off into the unmowed grass. The impact is so sudden it stuns Sam immobile, hands sinking into the grave dirt under him.
He's rapidly frantic, heaving startled breaths and staring, mouth agape as Dean crouches in front of him, still spitting and snarling like some kind of rabid animal. But he's brandishing the knife he used to slice his own arm open which means he hasn't resorted to using only his teeth and nails like the sounds he's making might imply.
Sam can't see around him to get a look at whatever he's bracing against, vicious and protective. All he can do is stare up at the roll of Dean's broad shoulders, back muscles coiling and poised for an onslaught. He's practically vibrating, every single tendon pulled taut and prepared, humming with some kind of adrenaline, some kind of instinct. It's ferocious and threatening. But it's also anticipatory. Eager?
Sam's never seen Dean's like this, these monstrous sounds, this unhinged energy. It's what Sam has always imagined Dean to look like in Hell, torturing damned souls, tameless and bloodthirsty. Unrelenting.
"Been domesticated, I see."
The voice is a gruff, Cajun drawl and it has Dean lunging forward, flying off the edge of his boots with enough force to kick up earth behind him, roar scattering into the air. He's going for the throat and that sense of his immediate danger is enough to reboot Sam's faculties.
Leaping up, Sam scrambles for the machete and follows suit with his pulse pounding in his ears. He barely catches the shadow of whatever Dean's intent on killing, as Dean flings himself forward with a reckless violence.
Whoever it is looks human, dodging to the side just enough to narrowly avoid a knife to the face. Shorter than Dean, Sam can see the barest minimum in the moonlight, something like a beard on a pale face and a white shirt stretching tight over a sturdy chest.
Something like a smirk curls up on his face in the dark when Dean doubles back and strikes up at him with the knife blade. A meaty hand catches Dean's wrist before he can make contact, holding his fist aloft without so much as a stutter. Almost easy.
There's an angry growl forcing past Dean's teeth and Sam rushes forward with the machete grasped tight in his blistered and bloody palm. It hurts, but all Sam can focus on is those thick fingers tight on Dean's skin, how he needs to get them off, and he swings the blade down on the man's outstretched arm.
Or tries to.
Dean's released with a hard enough shove to send him reeling backwards, the machete cutting through nothing but the air. The man moves fast, faster than Sam's ever seen a human move, and Sam pulls back up in time to see him already several feet away.
By the windmill, he watches the two of them with that smirk still plastered on, almost ghostly under the moon. Sam has no doubt in his mind that whatever this guy is, it's not human.
If so, it isn't safe for them to just blindly slash at him like they're in a bar brawl. Sam's about to tell Dean that but Dean's already running at him with bared teeth. Adrenaline or something like it, is the only thing that keeps Sam moving too, half dead on his feet and not exactly up for being his reckless brother's beleaguered backup with torn hands and aching limbs.
He tries to grab Dean by the shirt, shouting, "Dean, wait—" His fingers scrape air, thoroughly ignored but for a violent grunt of dissent, and Dean's slashing the knife out and the man isn't moving this time. Again, Sam can only scramble to follow, huge eyes as Dean thrusts the knife straight for the throat, coming down from above, apparently dead set on straight up murdering him without hesitation.
A huff of something almost a laugh, incredulous or humored, and the man smacks the knife away by the blade without a flinch. He swings a fist at Dean's exposed face and Sam lurches to intervene again, but Dean's dodging just as quick. He crouches under the punch and turns with a calculated, practiced ease to sink his teeth into the man's arm like an attack dog.
The man doesn't even grunt, no sounds of pain, and jerks the trapped arm to the side with enough force to pull Dean's head close. An elbow rears up, preparing to slam down on Dean's skull and Sam's about to intercept.
But the blow doesn't come close, Dean releasing his jaw to duck sideways with a speed Sam didn't know he was capable of. Without hesitation, Dean full body tackles the other guy, slamming shoulder first into his stocky torso with an angry, righteous growl.
They hit the ground with a heavy thud, grunts and shouts reminding Sam of a dog fight, as teeth are bared and fists are start slamming wildly. The sick sounds of knuckles making contact with flesh ring out and then the man's hissing, a sharp sucked in breath that draws Sam's eyes straight to his grimacing mouth. Rows of sharp vampire teeth flash under the light of the moon.
"Dean!" Sam's incapable of yelling much else, warning and scared as the vamp surges up towards Dean's neck from where Dean's crouching over him.
Sam fumbles close to try and block those teeth, but Dean doesn't need his help. He slams the hilt of the knife across the vampire's face with a cold expression, lip curled. There's no more spitting, no more growling, Dean's moving with an efficient precision when he flips the blade and stabs it down. It buries in the vampire's shoulder with a gory sound, tearing a snarl free from that fanged mouth.
"S'mmy," Dean says roughly, grip still tight to the knife and sinking it in with all his weight as the vampire struggles to throw him off. His free hand reaches out for Sam, palm open and entreating. For a short second Sam ridiculously thinks Dean wants to hold his hand. But the fingers twitch, demanding, and Sam recognizes the gesture from before.
Back when Dean was himself, when he didn't use his teeth to tear into his enemy's skin, this was a request for backup. A silent communication for another weapon, generally the one in Sam's hand.
He doesn't question it when the vampire grunts an agitated noise, shifting at the shoulders to try and dislodge that knife. Sam offers up his machete, handle first, and Dean twists that knife even deeper, expression twisting similarly into something fervent. Something cruel.
With the fluid movements of habit, Dean slips the machete against the vampire's throat, pressing into the skin and leaning into it with his lips pulling up. It's not a smile, but a caricature of a grin. Sam can see the white of his teeth in the blue night, shiny like the moon overhead. Vicious and exposed as if Dean would prefer to sink his bite into the vampire's neck instead of the machete.
Almost hungry, almost eager, and Sam hesitates. The way one hesitates to stop their dog from tearing something apart for fear they'll get blindly torn apart too.
In that hesitation, Dean surges forward, forearms trembling with a restrained use of force as the machete pierces flesh and sinks down. Thick, wet noises squelch up and the vampire struggles fiercely, right first flying up to hit Dean's face.
"Dean," Sam cuts in urgently, regaining himself and slamming his boot down on the vampire's arm so he can't hurt Dean. But the biggest concern is Dean killing the vampire before Sam can even get a question in and he quickly orders, "Don't kill him."
He has to grab Dean's bicep, tugging hard to get attention and Dean lets out one more sharp, furious growl of a noise. It's not quite directed at Sam, Dean's bright eyes trained on the vampire beneath him with an acute perception. Gauging, watching for even the slightest movement out of turn. With all that tension, all that pent up, brutal intent thrumming so obviously in Dean's skin, he still listens to Sam.
Allowing himself to be pulled back, Dean eases the machete up enough that it's no longer lodging into the column of the vampire's neck. There's no doubt in Sam's mind he was moments from taking its head off right then and there if Sam hadn't interfered. Whether that's just a natural response to a threat or something else is hard to say when Dean's got that look on his face.
Beneath the combined weight of both their holds, the vampire hacks up a few coughs, dark blood oozing out from under the machete. He stares up at Dean with small blue eyes, lit up silvery and brilliant in the moon's shine, and that smirk tugs at the edges of his red lips like he's gained the upper hand.
Dean makes a noise through his nose, arm flexing just enough to make the blade edge shiver against the vampire's skin. It digs around in the gash he's already made, but that smirk doesn't fade. Sam can see Dean's knuckles go white, clenching the handle of his machete like he wants nothing more than to press it down until it's touching grass. But he doesn't do so and Sam squeezes the hand he's still got on Dean's bicep.
Now's the interrogation. Now Sam can get some answers.
"You Benny Lafitte?" Sam asks, tilting forward to sink his weight into the shoe he's planted on the vampire's arm. It shifts underneath him and then those pinprick blue eyes are finally sliding over to Sam. He blinks once, slow as if he's just now seeing Sam for the first time, but he doesn't get the chance to take Sam in, to size him up like he did Dean.
Dean makes a warning rumble in his chest, still baring his teeth, and he lets the machete sink back down just enough to force the vampire's attention back. The threat is obvious and his gaze leaves Sam immediately, darting back to Dean and sticking there. Dean clearly doesn't approve of the vampire's attention finding Sam. He would rather have that gaze on him, that focus, the fangs' target.
It isn't too different from his tactics with Liz if Sam thinks about it too deeply, so he doesn't complain.
Wincing under the pressure of the blade, the vampire cocks his chin to the side, surely an attempt to displace it enough he can speak.
"Mm," he hums, as if testing the timbre of his voice, then finally answers Sam's question. "Sure am. The one and only."
He has that same low, smooth drawl Sam's been hearing his entire time in Clayton. It's only fitting he would be the first in a long line of town natives here, Liz Lafitte's great great grandfather. The possibility that Benny Lafitte would be a vampire of all things never quite crossed Sam's mind. How that fits into this whole web of oddities, Sam can't tell.
Blood beads back up under the machete and Benny Lafitte, the vampire, finally loses that cocky smirk. It slides away, smoothing out, as his eyes stay, unblinking on Dean's face. Not yet marred with concern, but certainly wary. Benny would have to be a complete idiot not to realize how much Dean wants him dead. How close he is to losing the connection between his body and his head.
Dean doesn't move, no unholy growl or vicious sneak attack to stealthily dispatch the vampire before Sam can get any questions in, and Sam's grateful he doesn't have to physically manhandle Dean into submission. It seems Benny is safe from imminent beheading as long as he isn't looking over at Sam, as long as his eyes stay on Dean.
Sam keeps his hand on Dean's arm anyways, just to be safe, and he doesn't miss the way Dean leans just barely into his hold. Taking it as a comfort or another safety measure should he need to toss Sam out of danger again. Sam doesn't doubt it could be both.
He refocuses on the task at hand, the opportunity they've carved out for themselves thanks to Sam's plan. As far as he can tell, it worked. Benny is here, capable of talking, raised from the dead and in desperate need of explaining before Dean decapitates him.
"Wanna talk?" Sam says simply, foot still poised on Benny's arm. He figures he'll be as vague as possible with their lack of knowledge to gain just as much. The first step in a successful interrogation. After they get some answers, he'll let Dean kill the guy.
It sounds a bit callous in Sam's head, along with the flash of the blood that'll spray up from Benny's removed head when Dean slices the machete down. Sam only feels a vindictive sense of retribution at the prospect.
Benny sniffs and shuffles just slightly like he's only trying to get comfortable with a knife in his shoulder and a blade at his throat. The tiny movement earns him a subtle twitch of Dean's forearm, machete pushing up under a bit of his skin like Dean will flay him alive.
He groans, matching Dean's curled lip with his own. "Sure I'll talk. If you call off your pet here," he manages in a husky tone, speaking to Sam without looking at him.
"That's not happening," Sam says and Dean makes an enunciated grunt of affirmation, obviously pleased they're on the same page. Benny runs his tongue along his teeth, the movement visible under his lip.
"Right then," he breathes out, unwavering stare refusing to leave Dean's face. Something about it bothers Sam, a flicker in the piercing blue of his eyes that almost seems pleased. A sort of recognition, or an understanding. Like they're two old pals, reuniting after a time apart. Sam hates that, the familiarity in it.
He resists his own Dean-like urge to kick the end of the machete and make Benny flinch, make him take his eyes off Dean.
"Fine, long as you don't let him cut my head off," Benny offers as if they're bargaining. He has a slow and deliberate way of speaking, picking each word carefully in an even tone. Calm for a vampire. When Sam doesn't agree or disagree, he continues, "This place ain't great, but it beats ol' Purgatory, least wise."
Purgatory?
Sam immediately frowns. He doesn't miss the way Dean braces the machete harder, punctuating the action with a threatening noise.
"You were in Purgatory?" Sam asks more for the sake of stalling, because it makes sense when he thinks about it. Of course it does.
Benny is a vampire. Crowley told them that Purgatory was the monsters' afterlife. A Hell-adjacent realm for all the supernatural creatures when they finally kick the bucket, filled with everything Sam and Dean have spent their lives killing. Despite Benny's apparent Vampirism, he was nothing but a skeleton in some half-marked gravesite. Meaning at some point he died, maybe even at the hands of a hunter, and then subsequently buried.
Dead vamps go to Purgatory. The spell really did resurrect him, but it doesn't explain how his soul ended up inside Dean in the first place. Or the words carved into Dean's skin, where Dean's been all this time, who's responsible for making him like this. Liz or Benny or some kind of vampiric cult, Sam doesn't fucking care, he just needs to know so he can kill them.
Benny spares Sam the quickest of glances, just enough that he won't lose his head for it, before settling back on Dean with raised eyebrows. Before Dean can dole out any kind of punishment for the falter, Benny speaks to Sam.
"Your boy ain't tell you then, I take it?"
There it is again, just like earlier today, kicking up a fuss in Sam's gut. A sort of doubt. About Dean, about what he knows or doesn't know, about his actions, his behaviors. The way things add up, but oddly and jaggedly. Hard for Sam to make sense of.
He isn't stupid. Dean's been fielding his questions since Sam found him, he's had a resolution to kill Benny before Sam could talk to him, and his desperation to avoid this exact scenario was palpable. Sam hasn't forgotten all this, and he doesn't even know if Dean's really forgotten too. Forgotten before, forgotten what happened to him.
But that isn't the kind of friction he wants to show in front of this smug vampire.
He doesn't deign to respond to Benny's question, or spare Dean an assessing glance no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he pushes harder into Benny's arm under his shoe, only satisfied when there's a pained little grunt for his effort.
"We brought you here," Sam says, pulling the handgun from his waistband and leveling it at Benny's head. It won't kill him, but it won't feel good either. "You're still here at our mercy."
He lets it hang there for a moment, making sure Benny understands the situation even without seeing Sam's face. He needs to feel how very much Sam means it, how easy it would be to send him straight back to rotting in Purgatory with a simple order. The only thing keeping his head on his shoulders is the information he could have.
It isn't hard for Sam to pull out the vitriol that burns up from his throat and crawls past his lips as he says, "Tell me how your name ended up carved in my brother." It isn't subtle when Sam's voice goes ragged and biting on the last two words, a possessive demand.
Benny's face screws up into a scowl, the kind of expression Sam expected to garner now that Sam's officially laid it out between them. The reason why Benny is still breathing: what Sam wants to know and why he wants to know it.
Those eyes, with their recognition and their understanding, dart all over Dean's face like he's trying to find something there, to read whatever he can in the bare of Dean's teeth. The searching, asking flash of it puts Sam on edge. He finds it almost conspiratorial, as if Benny is trying to figure out what he's allowed to say, what Dean wants him to say.
Sam's grip on his gun goes tighter. He tucks a finger around the trigger and lets it rest there.
Whatever Benny sees in Dean's expression, he talks anyway. His voice is still a slow drawl, steady and overconfident.
"I carved the words. Had to get outta there somehow."
Sam's sucking in a sharp breath before the sentence is through, heel of his boot digging in hard enough to bend the bones of Benny's arm. His chest inflates with the abrupt need to shove the barrel of his .45 into the vampire's forehead, leave gunpowder burns on his eyebrows, watch that rugged face contort when his brain's wrapped around a bullet.
But he doesn't. He crouches down so they're close, so he can get a good look at the vampire's face when he lets Dean sever his spine.
Finally, Sam has one answer. An explanation and a perpetrator for the mangled, ugly scratches of lettering in Dean's pale skin. Sam can't quite tell if he feels any better knowing, but he's certainly pissed.
He taps the end of the gun against the side of Benny's head and maliciously enjoys the way he cringes away from it, machete digging at his neck.
"For what? Kicks?" The question is spat out through clenched teeth.
Benny's still staring up at Dean. "Instructions. Your monster here was my best bet. Looks like it paid off."
An icy feeling runs goosebumps over Sam's skin, creeping and insidious, a dawning realization.
If Benny made wounds in Dean's skin, then they were together at some point after Dean disappeared. The Lafitte grave is not fresh.
Not three months fresh at all.
Purgatory.
It settles in Sam's chest like a cold, clawing hand grasping at his beating heart. This time he can't resist looking over at Dean, eyes raking down Dean's profile as if this somehow paints him in a new light, rearranges what he is into something different. Something intelligible. Maybe it does.
Sam's mouth flattens into a thin line, dread making his throat too dry to swallow down the uncertainty that coats his tongue. It stains his words, makes them waver when he speaks. "In Purgatory? Both of you?"
He can't take his eyes off Dean, anxiety running down his back with the clammy sweat, and he's searching too. Just like Benny was, trying to pinpoint some specific change, some little mark. A sign that'll tell Sam it was there all along. That his brother was suffering in Purgatory for the past three months, surrounded by all manner of beasts alone, like a piece of meat thrown into the lion's den.
Dean is still glaring down at Benny. He doesn't even blink, expression all twisted around like that raging animal, almost unaware of the way Sam scours him. Unaware of how desperately Sam wants to pull him aside and ask him to his face, you were in Purgatory?
"Yes indeed," Benny answers Sam's not-question. Casual. "Found him in there outta his mind. Humans like yourselves ain't supposed to be in Purgatory, they got a backdoor for the likes of y'all."
The information settles in Sam's head like heavy stones flinging into a lake, sinking deep and eliciting ripples that he can't make any sense of. He forces his gaze off Dean because he won't find the sense in the hard lines of Dean's angry resolve to separate Benny's head from his shoulders.
Sam's shaking eyes find Benny's white face under the moonlight, taking in the way Benny stares at Dean like he's not moments from dying at his hands. Sam can't read anything more in that hard, blue focus. No tell beyond that initial flash of recognition, that conspiratorial glint.
But it's not hopeless. Even if Sam can't glean everything from the vampire laid out underneath them, he has facts now. Sam just has to make sense of them.
Dean was in Purgatory.
Those three miserable months, Dean was trapped in a hellhole alongside millions of the very things they've been hunting all their lives, fighting tooth and nail not to end up as their next meal.
Sam found Dean three days ago, naked and draped in the bones of some creature, like he just came crawling out of the woods. Angry and vicious and working on his most violent instincts, he was nothing more than a survival mechanism to tear and bite and kill.
Those misshapen pieces Sam's been trying to fit together since he got Dean back are finally settling into some semblance of a picture. Blurry and strange, but recognizable.
Shoring up on that unsettled lake, Sam forces himself to continue rationally. He withdraws the handgun from Benny's head. "You used him to get out of Purgatory," he says. "So you know what happened to him in there."
There's still pieces missing, still half the picture Sam needs to get. He wants Benny to tell him what Dean hasn't been able to. Or maybe won't.
With the Purgatory revelation resting heavily in the center of his body, the knowledge that Dean could have known this and didn't tell him blooms anxiously beside it. Fear that Dean remembers it all, just like Hell. Fear that he chose not to tell Sam, because it was unimaginable, because it was traumatizing.
Sam doesn't know what the worse notion is: that Dean is this feral, violent version of himself because he can't remember, or because he can.
It's this uneasiness that has Sam desperate for Benny to know what happened, to explain Dean to him. How Dean is, how he came to be this way. Give Sam some kind of direction, some kind answer.
That is, if Benny has anything to tell.
"Might have," Benny says vaguely and he hasn't looked away from Dean at all. Still scanning him over, still searching, or finding?
An abrupt, gnawing need to know what the two did in Purgatory wedges up under Sam's skin, more irritating than the unhealing bite of his palm.
"What happened?" he demands, resisting the urge to blow a few extra holes into Benny's breathing corpse just to let off some steam.
Beside him, as if reacting to Sam's sudden flare of anger, Dean growls from deep in his chest, shifting his weight to slice the machete through a bit of skin. Benny's eyes widen, maybe alarmed, and he quickly opens his mouth.
"Why don't ya ask him yourself?" he forces out, almost wheezing under the press of the blade. It's deep enough it might soon make speech impossible and Sam should tug Dean back by the grip he still holds on Dean's arm. But he's too distracted, trying not to expose his obvious lack of knowledge, how desperate he is to know what Benny does. To lose the upper hand.
"I wanna hear your side," Sam says and it sounds sure enough. Benny can't know how Dean hasn't told Sam anything since he escaped Purgatory, how Sam has no idea about any of it all.
The faintest hint of a smile twitches up at the corner of Benny's mouth.
"I see," he says slowly, grasping onto Sam's loose, dangling threads and pulling. "You ain't told him."
He's talking to Dean.
When Sam follows Benny's stare, desperate to see Dean's reaction, he only finds that familiar snarl. Bared teeth grinding like Dean would rather join the machete at Benny's throat, rip into the tender skin with a vice of a jaw, taking Benny's words right along with him.
"No," Dean grinds out, furious and cryptic. It isn't really an answer and it isn't really a denial. Or maybe it's both. Sam wants to pry, wedge his fingers up under the subject and flip it open until Dean himself is telling Sam what he wants to know. Until Dean is explaining everything that's been burning curious in Sam's gut, rather than this fucking swamp vampire.
That isn't going to happen, at least not right now. Not with Dean focused wholly on the fact that there's a threat within biting distance of Sam.
Whatever Dean intends the one-word response to mean, Benny seems to make his own judgement and he scoffs, mindless of the machete.
"Don't want him to know? I wouldn't either," he says, confidence building up alongside apparent delusions of invincibility. He's apparently set on this tactic, one that implies Dean's purposely keeping Sam in the dark. It succeeds in making Sam irritated and anxious.
And in pissing Dean off. He forces the machete down so hard it buries into Benny's flesh, an inch deep and going impossibly further. Arterial spray shoots up under the blade, a deluge of gooey red, and Benny's choking on it, drowning in it.
Dean is killing him.
"Dean!" Sam grabs Dean's arm again, jerking back and away. The blade doesn't stop shoving down, burying in the thick of Benny's throat, and Sam has to drop his gun so he can slide a hand up under the machete's edge. He isn't going to let Dean kill the only lead they have—the only lead Sam has on whatever the fuck happened to Dean.
Even if Dean seems determined to send Benny and everything he knows straight back to Purgatory.
As expected, the threat to Sam's fingers has Dean immediately relinquishing, and blood seeps out from under the relief of the machete when he pulls it free with a slick sound.
Benny groans, gurgling and wet, as it's dislodged. Sam only hopes he's still capable of speaking despite the visible gouge in his neck. As a vampire, it should heal.
Squeezing Dean's shoulder, Sam puts enough strength to telegraph exactly what Dean is allowed to do and not. They didn't go through all this effort and raise Benny from the dead, just to send him right back.
"Can you still talk?" he asks Benny, peeling his hand off Dean's shoulder to get his gun from the grass. Dean doesn't take his eyes off Benny, but he chases after Sam's touch, angling so their sides are mashing together. Sticky and overly warm.
It could be Dean being his usual clingy self, or an attempt at reassurance, considering the accusation Benny has made. The idea that Dean is hiding things, that Dean really did choose not to tell Sam about Purgatory, or even about Benny. Sam doesn't have time to dwell on any of that though.
Benny's mouth is downturned into a dissatisfied grimace as if his brush with a second death was little more than an inconvenience. He closes his eyes under a twisted brow and pulls in a ragged, rallying breath. The gash across his throat knits back together, hardly discernible in the dark of all the blood.
A heavy sigh and Benny fixes Dean with a narrow-eyed glare, accusing.
"M'fine. No thanks to your boy here," he says to Sam in a torn voice, rasping and abrasive. That light, almost playful air to his words has gone a little stale and he's eyeing Dean like the danger he is.
There's the ever present warning of Dean's scrape of a growl, graveling rocks in his throat, but his machete is no longer positioned against Benny's neck. It hovers just shy, still a threat, and now that Dean has attempted to follow through on it, Benny seems to be appropriately cowed.
"So talk," Sam prompts when Benny doesn't continue, ignoring the angry sound Dean makes and the way he shoulders into Sam just a little. Benny rolls his eyes skyward..
"Don't really see what telling y'all more's gonna get me here," he says, hoarse and even worse than Dean's rumble now. "Say I know things about your monster here, say I tell ya whatever he ain't tellin' ya. What do I get?"
Sam squints at him, and he wishes he could be more skeptical of the accusation Benny seems intent on making, despite how close he came to losing his head just now. The idea that Dean is purposely withholding information from Sam pokes and prods at every inch of Sam's exposed skin. Irritating like crawling insects because it's possible, but also because it gives Benny the upper hand.
More than likely, it's the reason Benny is talking like this is a negotiation rather than an interrogation. Sam can't have the vampire getting any delusions about who's in control here.
"What makes you think you have a choice?" he asks in a tone that doubts Benny's wherewithal to bargain. In reality, he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on as far he knows.
It should be obvious they could just as easily kill him and be done with all this. Sam wants it to be true, wants to be okay with never knowing. Maybe he never gets Dean to tell him about what happened in Purgatory, or never finds a way to get Dean back to how he was, to fix him. And maybe Dean really doesn't remember anything, never will.
Sam should make peace with that possibility. He should be able to let it go if he has to.
Even just the notion has Sam hesitating to accept it. His question did not betray that hesitance.
But Benny catches onto something—in Dean's face, in Sam's words, in the air—because there's another smile on his bearded face. This one is bloodier, messier from Dean's attack and his teeth look black under the moonlight. It elicits a huff from Dean and he knocks against that knife still lodged in Benny's shoulder, a punishment.
Benny hisses without fangs. The smile doesn't disappear though.
"See I know y'all ain't gonna kill me. Wanna know all about that." The once over he gives Dean is enough clarification. "Maybe you let him take my head here and now. I go back to ol' Purgatory and you never know what he done. Who between us can live with that easiest, hm?"
He's practically smug with it.
It's exactly what Sam didn't want to happen. Benny knows he has something valuable, knows he can use it to survive this. Dean's silence on the whole matter, on whatever the hell Benny is alluding to, is sort of telling in its own way. Almost a tacit agreement.
The chance that Benny doesn't actually know anything is there. So is the chance he knows how to fix Dean. So is the chance he knows whatever Dean refuses to tell Sam. There's value in that potential knowledge.
But Benny Lafitte is still a vampire, a random recently resurrected stranger who they have very little background on. Trusting him to tell anything but the lies he needs to live would be risky at best, and downright suicidal at worst.
"Why would I trust the word of a vampire?" Sam asks, knowing he can't.
It's just as likely Benny made Dean this way, found him in Purgatory and destroyed everything about him that made him human, made him Dean. That could be reason enough why Dean is so over eager to lop his head off and be done with all of this and it makes Sam's insides coil up, distraught and furious and vengeful. The warm press of Dean's shoulder into his is solid and real.
"You can't trust me," Benny says, coughing a bit of blood out and wetting his lips with it. "But why would I lie? What've I got to gain?"
Sam cocks his head. "You get to live?"
Benny scoffs, the force of it flicking specks of blood down his shirt. "Do I?"
It would sound hollow if Sam tried to disagree. He'll kill Benny as soon as he tells Sam what he wants to know, of course he will. It's always been the unspoken plan and the only thing keeping Dean from killing right away. The only thing they disagree on is when.
Sam doesn't feel guilty about it, not when it comes to this vampire who knows things about his brother, used him. As hunters, they'd only end up coming after him again anyway, soon as he drank a human to death.
"We're hunters, I think you know that," Sam says finally. "You're a vampire."
The implication drifts between them like the faint mist that's starting to descend as the night wears on.
"A vampire with information you want," Benny says, and that comfortable drawl is eking back into his words. "And I don't drink live humans. Stopped even before I got murdered."
"Sure," Sam says, just noise. Benny would say anything to get out alive, it's very likely a lie and even if it isn't, there's no way for Benny to prove it. They both are very aware of this. The words are empty, meaningless.
"What do you want?" Sam asks. "In exchange for information?"
Another one of those displeased noise rumbles from Dean and Sam almost imagines he can feel it humming into his skin where they touch. He flips the machete, no longer hovering but pointed up under Benny's bearded chin. It forces Benny to raise his head to keep the end from stabbing through his jaw and into his tongue.
More black blood trails down the machete's edge anyways.
Sam elbow checks Dean, pressing it into the soft spot between his ribs. Dean obviously does not agree with the idea of any kind of deal with Benny. Hell, he doesn't even agree with the fact that this conversation is still happening. Sam can relate, he doesn't want to work with some vampire who might've hurt Dean, but it's still a question worth asking.
With a flick of Sam's free hand, he gestures for Benny to answer despite the machete under his face. Benny hesitates and he has to look down his nose at Dean, breaths a little more shallow. Sam can appreciate this new position if only because it means Benny has to focus on that imminent threat, distracted. Easier to read.
"I want your help cleanin' out a vamp nest. Right up you hunters' alley I reckon," Benny says easily, head tilted high to avoid the press of Dean's machete when he talks.
The concept of a vampire coming back from the dead to ask for help in raiding a nest is strange. Or extremely suspicious. "You want us to help you murder your own kind? What, some kind of grudge?"
"Could say that." Benny's gaze is still a constant on Dean's face, despite the uncomfortable angle of his jaw. "It's my maker's crew. They the ones who killed me at his request. Been killin' plenty of innocent humans too. I'm sure you wanna put a stop to all of that messy business."
Any other person telling them about a possible nest killing people, they'd be on it in a second. But Benny's a vampire with an agenda. Even if he's also a vampire with a grudge, this seems like a trap more than anything else.
"You need our help with a revenge thing?" Sam lets his skepticism color his tone.
"Can't exactly take 'em all on my lonesome. Last I saw they were at least a few dozen strong. Pirates. Been around fer a century about, robbing and murdering as they see fit," Benny rasps out, flicking his head to the side to relieve the machete's point of his jaw. It cuts him as it flies free, but he can lower his chin again, look at Dean directly.
His eyes are narrow, intent, almost a challenge. Somehow Sam doesn't get the vibe it's directed at Dean though.
Dean doesn't seem deterred either, flipping the machete once to reposition it perfectly for a swift decapitation. When Sam spares him a glance to make sure he's not going to try and kill Benny again, he's surprised to find Dean is side-eyeing him.
For the first time since Benny came up, Dean isn't snarling. His mouth relaxed just long enough to form words. Or a word.
"Vampirates," he says, not quite as excited as the first time, but there's an obvious delight under his mask of resentment, dancing in the bright of his green eyes. Sam stares, momentarily caught off guard, and he can't decide if he wants to smack him upside the head or kiss that tiny quirk in the corner of his mouth.
He turns back to Benny.
"You really are the vampirate of Clayton then," he says on an exhale, before Benny realizes Dean's actually a giant dork and not the bloodthirsty killer he's purporting to be. Sam can at least see the humor in realizing the townsfolk were pretty much right all along. More than that, there's apparently a whole crew of these fabled vampirates, one that Benny wants dead.
Sam hums and continues, trying to set the record straight. "So you want us to help you kill these other vampirates 'cause they killed you?"
As far as a reason for revenge, it's probably good enough for most people. An eye for an eye, life for a life. Old testament style.
But it still rubs Sam the wrong way, if only because Benny doesn’t come off as particularly bitter about his death. The way he's been calmly pinned beneath the two of them, allowing himself to be held at knifepoint, pointedly blase about being sent back to Purgatory. Sam's suspicions buzz like a little fly at the back of his head.
"Nah," Benny draws the syllable out on a sigh. He dredges up his next words from somewhere deep in the recesses of his chest. "If they'd just killed me and been done with it, I'd have stayed in Purgatory. Take it as recompense for what I've done in life."
Benny's blue eyes, nearly navy in the shadows of the moon, cast downwards off of Dean. Rolling off to some indeterminate spot that Sam can't make out. He blinks, slow and distracted, and his face is strained, hard lines and wan skin.
A glance, sharp and quick, and Benny catches Sam's gaze for the first time since he appeared, and those blue eyes pin Sam like a mounted insect, piercing him straight through.
"My maker murdered the person I loved most in the world," Benny says, moonlight reflecting on eyes that seem almost wet. Sam hates the way his mind immediately jumps to his brother beside him. "Now, you look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't crawl outta your grave to get revenge for that."
Sam hates even more that he can't begrudge the sentiment. He's lived it.
As if sensing Sam's thoughts, Dean presses bodily into his side, a reassurance. At the same time, he huffs a warning growl of a sound, using the flat side of the machete to tap Benny's cheek and redirect his attention. Benny's stare rips away from Sam's like gauzy tape peeling free, falling back obediently to Dean.
The clear prime directive of keep Sammy safe that Dean's actions scream only makes Sam more aware of how much he understands Benny's words.
He doesn't want to fall for a stupid ploy, some sort of trap that Benny's goading them into. But he can't shake the remnants of Benny's needle pointed eyes on his. He recognized the shine in them, a kind of dead fury that Sam's seen in the mirror before, in the reflection of the Impala's rear view not even four days ago.
Beside him, Dean is a warm, solid presence and that's thanks to Benny, if his story is to be believed. Sam chews his cheek, raising his free hand to cord through his sweat damp strands of hair. He feels cornered, backed up into a space where the only choices are wrong and more wrong, and he has to make a decision.
Say they work with Benny. Then they get to take out a vampire crew that's been killing people, even if it's a trap, Sam isn't concerned about being able to slaughter a trove of vampirates. Especially with Dean like he is now.
So they get to take out monsters, as is their job—something they'd do anyway—and Sam finally finds out what happened to Dean in Purgatory. Maybe even use that knowledge to fix him, get him back to himself. Or at least understand what Dean might be repressing, maybe even hiding.
Save for the whole teaming up with a strange vampire Sam's only just met, one who inflicted scars on Dean and potentially hurt him even more than that, it's not the worst situation to be in. It's not even the dumbest thing they've done.
Sam grimaces. His resolve is caving, and it hasn't really been built on anything more solid than sand since Benny first implied he knew something. Since Benny said Dean was hiding things. His desperate need to know is outweighing everything else.
"Let's say I believe you," Sam starts, ignoring the way Dean immediately turns to stare at him with a noise of protest. "We don't kill you, let you up and then what?"
The machete shakes where it rests along Benny's bearded jaw and Dean growls a hushed, disapproving, "Sammy."
Benny's observant gaze has Sam elbowing into Dean again, a request for acquiescence, and he refuses to glance over like Dean wants. Being ignored, Dean repositions his anger on Benny, propping the blade under his head again like he wants nothing more than to plunge it through his neck all over again. He restrains himself though, maybe only because Sam would be mad.
"I ain't been topside in a while, fifty years somethin' like," Benny says, carefully articulate as if he can sense Sam's tentative reception to a deal. "Don't exactly know how it works anymore, but I can find the crew easy enough. Short trip down to New Orleans, there's a place been 'round since inception. Track 'em from there to the castle where my maker lives, and we three's kill 'em all."
He winks at Dean, a crooked smile despite the knife. "Easy."
For all Sam knows Benny doesn't have any information at all, could be playing them, using them, setting them up for an ambush. But crouching here, seeing Dean's ruthless ferocity and seeing Benny's complacency in the face of it, Sam wants to understand. He wants desperately to hear what this vampire has to say, what he might know about Dean and Purgatory. What's happened, what's going on.
There's a chance a vamp nest is out there killing people. There's a chance Sam can finally get answers to the questions that have been plaguing him since Dean was laid out on the side of the road that night. There's a chance working with this vampire can be a good thing.
None of this sounds easy.
Sam reclines back on his heels, resettles his weight and feels something like a headache coming on. This isn't a decision for him alone, or it normally wouldn't be. Everything they do, they do together and Sam knows if he asks, Dean will refuse. He wouldn't spend any more time with Benny than the seconds it would take to hack his head off.
They don't need to talk for Sam to know this, but he wishes they could talk at all without the audience of Benny's prickling eyes. There's so many questions Sam has, not just about Dean but about Benny. Does Dean recognize him at all? Is there anything Benny will tell them that Dean couldn't just tell Sam himself? Save everyone the trouble if Dean just remembers.
But they don't have a viable way of having this conversation and Dean's lip is curled back to reveal the teeth Sam's had in his skin. He regards Benny like he's prey, like he's something to be brutalized and consumed, like he wants to tear him apart with his bite and his hands. So much more violent, more vicious than Sam's seen him get.
Is it because Dean was fighting vampires endlessly in Purgatory? Is it the result of a traumatic, desperate, clawing need for survival? Did he face Benny in that wasteland? Did he lose? Is that what made him like this?
For a fleeting, thunderous moment, Sam wants nothing more than to let Dean hack at Benny's neck and wash their hands of it all. But that's too easy. Simplistic thinking. No doubt what Dean wants, and would have wanted even before going through the Purgatory wringer. They can't afford to do things easy.
Sam needs answers. He has to fix his brother. He has to help him.
It's as if he's decided.
Sam taps Dean's arm once with the flat palm of his hand. When he has his gaze, he flicks two fingers. "Let him up," he says, already anticipating the way Dean's instant rebuff.
"Sammy—" But Sam's grabbing Dean's wrist and tugging the machete back, away from Benny's throat. To his credit, Benny doesn't immediately try to escape. If he had, Dean wouldn't hesitate to lunge at him with snapping teeth and Sam would be powerless to stop him.
"It's okay, Dean, c'mon," Sam says, trying to stay placating. He keeps his hand on Dean's wrist, half to keep him from tearing into Benny and half to lure him along. From this angle, the imprints of Sam's teeth in Dean's right hand are very obvious, black in the dark and pulling taut with how hard Dean's clutching his weapon. After all this, Sam still feels that pleased, furling warmth in his chest at the sight of them, at the matching ones he has himself.
Pulling his foot off Benny's right arm, Sam gestures to the knife in Benny's shoulder. "Get that," he directs, hoping the task will distract Dean from eyeing Benny like he's just waiting for an excuse to murder him that won't make Sam angry.
There's an indignant heaving breath, almost pouty, but Dean goes along with Sam's direction, jerking the knife free with a sickening wet noise of cleaved flesh. Benny grunts, closing his eyes tightly for a second, as Dean wipes the blade along his jeans. Sam counts them fortunate Dean's at least a little bit satisfied with the excessive pain he just caused.
Releasing Dean's wrist, Sam tucks the handgun back into his waistband, before delicately extricating the machete from Dean's clenched fist. Just in case Dean finds some reason to thrust it through Benny's chest.
Dean might've put up a greater resistance, but his eyes strayed to Sam's bitten up left hand as Sam worked the machete free and that petulant defiance melted out of him. His fingers pry free under Sam's diligence and if he brushes a thumb over the bite he left in Dean's skin, it's purely accidental. Dean's hand twitches, a quiver like goosebumps are raising in Sam's wake.
With the machete safely out of Benny's immediate killing range, Sam pulls back and flexes the injuries of his own left hand, distracted momentarily by the way the overshirt clings and pulls at the dried blood. He cringes at the stinging surge those blisters and torn up bites elicit, but the cloth is hindering his movement. He's better off without it, using his teeth to unravel the material.
As he tugs the knot free, both Benny and Dean are watching him. Sam hasn't officially agreed to anything out loud, so he says, "We'll kill your vamp nest."
Benny raises his eyebrows and Dean roughly butts into Sam's side, bottom lip in his teeth like he has to distract himself from what he really wants to tear into, probably Benny's throat. He looks very much like he's going to protest again, but Sam continues.
"Not in exchange for anything but because we should, as hunters. You'll tell me what I wanna know afterwards, because you don't want us to kill you too."
It's simple enough. Benny gets the threat if the way he eyes Dean is any gauge. Dean meets that gaze for a beat, exhales angrily through his nose and shifts his weight to stand. His body is stilted, overly tense and once he finds his feet, he digs a claw like hand into the back of Sam's shirt. It hauls Sam up alongside him, back and away from Benny in a short jerk that Sam remembers from his childhood.
Sam has to stumble a little to keep his footing, torn shirt falling free from his aching hand as he rights himself. That budding headache doesn't take kindly to the jerking around, blooming up in his skull unhappily.
As if invited by that observation, the muscles of his shoulders and back throb in time with his heartbeat, remembering that they'd been shoveling dirt for several long hours in the wet heat just recently.
It all hits him like he's fallen into the fresh grave and been buried alive, heavy and suffocating. Plain exhaustion.
Sam winces, pressing his palm to his temple.
He can hear the shuffling sounds of Benny easing himself upright, no longer pinned down by their combined weight, and he worries Dean might strike at him for daring to move. But then there's the warmth of Dean crowding in close to Sam's side, a familiar frenetic energy radiating off him that Sam likens to distressed, big brother posturing.
"Sammy?" Dean murmurs, concerned evident as his hand brushes stray strands of Sam's hair back.
"M'fine," Sam says, quiet and tired. More of a lazy protest to the coddling treatment than an honest reply.
Benny, from where he's sitting in the grass, huffs something that sounds suspiciously like a peal of laughter, husky and humored and nearly incredulous. Sam's hand slides down from his temple to wipe at the sweat dotting his face and irritation surges up through his chest. The scars of his palm scratch along the scruff at his jaw and he glares down at the chuckling vampire.
There's a smile on Benny's face.
"He bite ya?" he asks through another incendiary laugh, eyes on Sam's hand where it's still resting against his cheek.
Dean's teeth marks in his skin throb as if in response and Sam can't bring himself to feel ashamed or embarrassed by them. Especially not under the amused gaze of a vampire that bites people for a living. Rather than offer a response, Sam tries to rid himself of Dean's motherly attention, tugging those petting fingers away from his hair.
Benny continues, unperturbed. "You bite him?"
Apparently he's noticed Dean's matching marks in the light of the moon, black and stark against Dean's pale skin. He looks even more amused by that, another light laugh following his question.
Sam cuts a suspicious glance back and sees Benny's still grinning, running his tongue along white teeth. That irritation flares up even stronger, engulfing Sam's resolve not to kill the vampire right now just for being an annoyance. It's a childish, irrational response to feeling as if there's some joke Sam hasn't been let in on.
It must show in his expression, because Benny raises his hands up in surrender. That smile doesn't leave his face though, cocky and entirely too entertained.
"Guessin' you don't know what it means, do you?"
He tilts his head in Dean's direction and his voice is deceptively light.
Sam is scowling outright and the bites burn with his clenching fist. It's obviously a baited hook, just like most everything Benny's said about Dean since they brought him out of the ground. His way of reiterating that he's the one who knows everything, he's the only one that understands Dean right now.
Humoring him, even acknowledging him at all is a mistake, Sam knows. He should focus on getting the three of them to the Impala in one piece so they can haul ass to New Orleans. He shouldn't say a word.
Sam mutters an unimpressed, "What?"
Like the bobber on his fishing line has just sunk under the water, Benny's grin goes impossibly wider.
"Those bites," he says, all slow and careful drawl. "Those are mating bites. Didn't he tell you?"
Notes:
and i OOP-
next chapter is coming friday july 10th! it's a bit of a longer wait than i normally do,,, but pretty much every chapter from here on out is 10k+ words haha so hopefully that makes up for it („• ֊ •„)
Chapter 17: Teeth, Part 2
Notes:
i got more comments on the last chapter than any other chapters so anyways thank you to those of you who take the time to comment i love and appreciate you so much, u already kno!! also everyone who left a kudo and got this fic to 300 i wanna say without all ur lovely support, i totally would've let this fic die in my google drive haha y'all rly make working on this worth it ;__;
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Those are mating bites. Didn't he tell you?"
Like the fuzzy static of a shitty motel television trying desperately to receive signal with its rabbit ear antennas, the words don't quite translate into anything but pure noise. Sam stands there, staring at Benny as if he's spoken some other language—the language of vampires maybe? A few hisses and spits and other animal sounds that Sam's human ears can't make sense of.
Sam's hand burns, ever the opportunist, like Dean just bit back into the torn skin of his palm.
He hasn't. Sam's left hand floats, untouched, in the pocket of air right in front of his own open, exhaling mouth. Dean hasn't bitten Sam again.
But he has launched himself at Benny.
It's like watching events happen from the other side of the glass at a zoo exhibit. The lions playfully, or not so playfully, pouncing on top of each other with open mouths and sharp teeth, roaring, whipping tails, massive claws. Sam doesn't move, brain vibrating in his skull, as Dean swings the knife down, Benny fighting to throw him off, all a mindless flurry of action.
The static humming in Sam's mind seems to be his own endless thoughts streamlining the word mates over and over again at a rapid and increasingly terrified pace. A small concerned voice that sounds suspiciously like Bobby breaks through this chatter, stop him, ya idjit.
Sam blinks so hard he sees fuzzy colors in his vision.
It's enough to jam that static signal. Enough to get his feet working again.
He tackles Dean from behind, before Dean can close his jaws on Benny's cheek, the machete already embedded in a collarbone.
"Dean," Sam hisses into Dean's ear as he hooks his elbows under Dean's armpits. He hauls Dean into his chest like he's picking up a rowdy drunk at some dive off the highway. There's snarling, vicious, but Benny stays down and Sam staggers away with Dean in his arms.
He doesn't risk sparing Benny any assessing glances and can only hope Dean didn't succeed in detaching any limbs. Instead, Sam focuses on Dean, heaving ragged, unsteady breaths against his clasped hands.
With his size advantage, Sam drags Dean completely around so Benny is no longer in his peripheral, removing the target and therefore the temptation to try and brutally maul him again. It might not be much of concern anymore though as Sam finds Dean has melted against him like a kitten with its scruff pulled.
Their position is an interesting parody of when Sam helped button Dean's jeans a couple days ago. When he noted how well Dean fit against him. More still of last night when Dean crawled into the protective encasement of Sam's long limbs and slept like a happy kid.
Now, he's forcing Sam to support him with the arms Sam wrapped hard and constricting around his heaving chest, panting and thrumming with post-adrenaline. Post-inspired, slightly rabid, attack that was clearly triggered by Benny's observation.
About mating bites.
The static TV threatens to lose signal again and Sam hoists Dean up and back onto his feet, no longer allowing him to go slack against Sam's front.
"Dean, what the hell," he says with zero expectation of any kind of response. Dean turns around, light on his feet and he might catch sight of whatever he's left of Benny on the dirt behind them, so Sam grabs his shirt collar.
He tugs the material, directing Dean's attention to focus it on Sam rather than around Sam. Dean's green eyes are glassy, almost vacant, and his expression is oddly smooth—no snarling, no exposed teeth.
He won't meet Sam's gaze, staring at somewhere around Sam's mouth instead.
"Dean?" Sam says, low enough to almost go unheard, and ducking his head for some eye contact. Dean frowns, the expression sliding into place and his lips pouting out like he either wants to complain or cry. Or both.
To Sam's relief, there aren't any tears. But Dean is clearly distraught, avoiding Sam's attempts at catching his eyes.
Sam's not stupid, he can put two and two together.
Clearly, something about Benny's blithe comment bothered Dean—is bothering Dean. Bothering Dean a lot.
Enough to make him try and kill Benny despite deciding they weren't going to. Enough to spur him into going for Benny's face with his teeth, ferocious and feral. Frantic. Not unlike the first time he woke up after coming back, jumping at Sam and trying to choke him out.
Whatever it was to trigger such a violent reaction, Sam wishes he knew.
Was it because Dean didn't appreciate the implications of Benny's words?
Or because they were true?
Either option sends something cool and unpleasant through Sam's chest, a muscle twitching unhappily at the corner of his mouth. It draws Dean's attention, eyes flickering and expression going darker, troubled and anxious along the lines of his face.
Sam wants to have a conversation about it. About everything. Dean being in Purgatory, and his apparent disdain for the vampire they've resurrected. How Benny keeps acting like Dean knows things, like Dean's purposely hiding them from Sam.
When he really gets down to it, Sam knows he just agreed to help a dead-until-recently vampirate, solely because he said he'll tell Sam these things about Dean.
Things Dean might already know and be entirely capable of telling Sam. Things Dean is choosing not to tell him, rather than unable to.
Things sort of like mating bites.
Static hums and Sam shakes his head, releasing Dean's shirt collar to press his palm to Dean's chest in an attempt at reassurance. It's not a deliberate choice that he uses his right hand, rather than his maimed, bitten left. But Sam wonders if there's an unintended weight to it anyways.
"Hey, it's okay," Sam says, quick and maybe true if he doesn't specify what it is. He pats Dean's chest once, warm and solid, and pulls away before Dean can chase after the touch. "You good?"
Dean's eyes have shifted lower, away from Sam's face down to an unidentifiable area off Sam's center, canting leftwise. The tingling sensation that springs to the surface of the bite marks tells Sam where Dean's attention is fixated. For some reason the notion has Sam feeling flushed, overly aware, and he clenches his fist.
Dean's brows crease.
"Dean?" Sam prompts, losing patience and sanity and the ability to deal with the last fifteen minutes with any kind of coherency. He just wants to get them to the Impala, brush this whole other thing under the rug alongside everything else they've done between them. He’s steadily becoming a professional at it.
That static fizzles, almost ominous.
"M'good, Sammy," Dean says through those pouting, pink lips. They're paler now in the bright moonlight. Shifting gears, Sam forces his attention around to focus back on Benny, the way it should be.
As he turns, familiar fingers fumble after his left hand. Dean's calluses are rough and his touch makes that unbearable tingling in the bite wounds amp up into a lancing ache. Like a sleeping limb that's finally getting blood flow again, it's suddenly too much at once.
Sam jerks his hand away.
There's a miserable sound from behind, but Sam is scrutinizing Benny where he stands, distracting himself properly. Graciously, Benny hasn't moved from the spot he was pinned to, only getting to his feet in all the commotion. Maybe because he knows what Dean would do to him if he did.
Most importantly, all his limbs are still attached and his neck remains undamaged. If he had any cuts, scratches, or bites from Dean's onslaught, they've healed away now. His clothes have a few new tears at the arms and chest, but otherwise he looks impeccable.
That knowing smile still rests on his face, as if he hadn't gotten worked over for it just moments ago. His hands are hanging loosely at his sides, open and very obviously telling Sam he doesn't have a weapon. Sam wants to kick himself for even allowing Benny the chance to get one, for turning his back on him.
As far as Sam knows, that could've been the whole reason behind Benny bringing up what he did in the first place. For saying that stuff about their bites. A way for Benny to temporarily distract Sam and Dean with some insane assertion, so he could buy himself time to attack or escape.
It could all just be some ploy to mess with them, no strange knowledge about bites at all.
The idea bothers Sam in so many ways and he grits his teeth to keep from lashing out with an accusation. Among the trampled grass between them, he spots the abandoned machete and bends to grab it. The combined attention of both Benny and Dean is heavy and uncomfortable, as if they're both waiting on the edge for some excuse to fight again.
Sam picks up the machete with slow, deliberate movements, the way he would when he doesn't want to spook a wild animal, and finds it strange Benny didn't even try to hide the weapon in the underbrush.
Its handle is solid in his right hand, a weight he knows well, and he gestures at Benny with the end of the blade.
"Are you okay?" he asks, voice unmarked by any hints of actual concern. Benny scoffs, still smiling that grin that shows his white human teeth.
"Nothin' a little vampire magic can't fix," he says, glancing past Sam to stare at Dean. Sam shifts to his other foot, leaning back into Benny's line of sight.
"No more talking unless I ask," he says, dreading a repeat should Benny decide to drop some new potentially false, but no less instigating, Purgatory Fact later. "We go to New Orleans, find your crew, and kill them. You do anything else and we kill you instead." He flicks the machete to emphasize the point.
"Y'know, I'm all for silence. But there's one thing off with your little timeline of events," Benny says, slow and picked. "I'll need some human blood."
Sentence wise it makes sense in Sam's head, but the phrase alone is enough to trigger Dean's protective instinct, overriding the shell shocked distress of mating bites revelations. With an unruly growl tearing into the night air, Dean appears between Sam and Benny, flashing his teeth.
Benny whistles a descending tune and holds his hands up.
"Not from your boy, it ain't got to be fresh," he assures, expression warring between amusement and honest caution as Dean stares him down. Sam nods, mostly to himself.
"Fine," he says. "We'll need blood too then."
Off Benny's curious frown, Sam manages to crack a loose smile. "Dead man's blood."
The trek back to the Impala by the combined forces of the moon and the flash of Sam's phone is as eventful as it isn't.
That is to say, it involves Benny being extremely, silently enthralled by the existence of Sam's smartphone, shooting it curious, narrow eyed stares.
It doesn't, however, involve Dean decapitating Benny, although Dean very plainly expresses that he wishes it did. Repeatedly, and obviously. Not in so many words, but his face is a dead enough give away. Not to mention the displeased snarls every step of the journey back to the Impala.
There's no telling if what Benny said before is actually true. If Dean really did sink his teeth into Sam's palm with some intent to claim him as his—his mate. Just thinking about it has the column of Sam's spine wracking with an eerie shiver that isn't in any way related to the clammy night air.
Despite this, Sam decided along the way that it didn't really matter one way or another. Or more accurately, that he didn't have the time or brain power to mull over that aspect of their relationship. Sam and Dean have bigger issues to contend with, like say the bloodthirsty, completely untrustworthy vampire they've dragged along with them.
So Sam would put everything related to the bites in their hands, to the other things they've done, on the back burner. Out of sight, out of mind. At least until the vampirates of New Orleans are cleaned out.
"Get in the back seat," Sam says once they reach the side of the Impala, gesturing with the light of his phone over at Benny standing a good several feet away.
When they originally grabbed their things and made their stilted way back, Sam wanted to keep Benny between himself and Dean in case he tried anything funny, like say running off or going for a weapon. Unsurprisingly, Dean vehemently protested that option with a growl and a two handed shove that almost set Benny back on his ass.
This meant that Benny trailed behind, Dean keeping his steely gaze on him at all times as Sam lit the way. Benny continues to maintain that wide breadth between himself and Sam, even now that they've arrived at the Impala, lest Dean give him a few more holes.
Sam has to manually open the back door for him and step away, so he can actually slide into the seat if he wants to keep Dean from getting too worked up.
"I'll let y'all have a little talk then," Benny says like he isn't following Sam's order and is in fact doing them a favor. Sam just scowls at him until he's situated in the Impala, Dean gently shutting the door even though he clearly wishes he could slam it.
Sam actually did plan on having a quick conversation, now that the vampire isn't staring at them with those amused eyes. Though he thought it would be him having to speak first.
"Sammy no," Dean spits as soon as he shuts the door, stepping up into Sam's space so they can see each other well in the dark. He's close enough to nearly bump chests, close enough to radiate body heat and Sam resists the instinct to move back, focusing on the whites of Dean's eyes rather than the deep set lines of his pissed expression.
"No what?" Sam asks, though he has a good idea, hiking the duffel bag up his shoulder. Dean doesn't elaborate. He just stands there, looking up at Sam under an impressive frown, lips downturned.
They both know what he's protesting. It would probably be a shorter list to say what he isn't.
Benny's entire existence is a threat to Dean. Everything he brings with him, the danger to Sam's life, the danger to Dean's life—the inevitable danger he's leading them to. The information he may have.
Purgatory. What happened to Dean. Mating bites?
Sam inhales, pinning Dean with a hard stare, sitting somewhere between accusatory and sympathetic, because he supposes they're going to have to do this now. At least if he doesn't want Dean going feral on Benny every second.
"Purgatory, Dean. That's where you were," he says and he can't stop the lilt to his voice that almost sounds angry. "Do you remember that? Did you remember that?" This isn't the time to give Dean the third degree, but he can't help how it all needles at him like a splinter he can't find.
The sound Dean makes is nearly a scoff and he's shaking his head, noticeably breaking eye contact. He fingers at the edge of the blade in his hand, holding it between them like a barrier, and Sam is tempted to take it away so he can't avoid this.
For a long moment there's nothing but night insects buzzing, and the occasional noise of a passing vehicle far off.
Finally, Dean says, "No, Sammy." Or more like mutters it under his breath, reluctant. It escapes past his lips like he didn't even want to let it out, and when he finally looks back at Sam his eyes are shiny. "I—couldn't," he stutters out, once again struggling with the right words, mouthing them before saying them. "Couldn't say it."
"Couldn't say what?" Sam tilts his head, brow furrowing. "Purgatory?"
Dean nods quickly, and his face is pulling back up into that anxious, almost pout. Desperate or distressed, and he's blinking all dewy.
It's unbearably pathetic, makes Sam's heart squeeze because he caused it but he doesn't immediately apologize like that sting in his palm wants him to. He doesn't give in to that sad expression with a forgiving kiss, knowing it would be just that easy to wipe it off Dean's face. It's an unbidden, sudden urge to soothe and Sam clamps it down. (Definitely doesn't entertain the invasive questioning mating bites? that slips in alongside it.)
Dean's excuse is pretty plausible in its own strange way. Most of the time, Dean can hardly say normal words, let alone things as complicated and odd as a place like Purgatory. It would make sense that Dean couldn't find the word to say it, to describe to Sam where he's been. Dean wasn't necessarily choosing to keep it a secret.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice is gruff like usual, but there's a distinct concerned whine to it, like he's scared Sam's finally gotten tired of him like this. It's almost needy, not an unfamiliar association Sam has with Dean, and it never fails to make Sam feel bad. For acting suspicious, for doubting him.
The immediate urge to forgive burns up his throat, whispers how much easier it would be to forge forward now. He can finally be satisfied knowing where Dean was all that time, it doesn't really matter if Dean knew or not.
Sam squashes the feeling down into the pit of his stomach.
"Look, Dean, all that shit Benny was saying? About what happened—what you did in Purgatory? What's he talking about? Do you even know?" he asks, emphatic and pointed, because they need to address this now, while Benny isn't playing peanut gallery beside them.
They have to talk about this distinct lack of information between them, the secrets, intentional or unintentional as they might be. It's the entire reason Sam is entertaining the ludicrous idea of working with this shady vampirate in the first place.
If they're going to help Benny for the purpose of gaining the information he seems to so confidently claim he has, then Sam needs to make sure it's worth it.
"Do you remember him?" he asks further. "Do you remember anything about him?"
There's a falter in Dean's face then, just a stutter mid-blink that nobody but Sam would even notice. But he always notices, of course he does, and he recognizes when Dean's thinking about lying. The way he instinctively doesn't want to look him in the eye because he's scared Sam will see it.
Dean's mouth screws up, bottom lip pulling between his teeth so he can chew it and buy time before speaking.
Trying to come up with an answer that isn't the truth.
Sam raises his hands to rest on either side of Dean's face, up under his jaw, angling his chin so he can't look away anymore. The beard scruff of his cheek scratches at Sam's bite, just like Sam's scruff had before, a sting that Sam sort of enjoys. When his thumb presses along Dean's cheekbone, Dean sucks in a breath. Like a flipped switch, he's engrossed, speechless, lips parted and eyes wide.
"Don't lie to me," Sam says, keeping any of the thrumming irritation off his face, out of his voice. He's not scolding Dean, he just doesn't want to deal with any bullshit solely because Dean doesn't want to work with the vampire. "Do you remember him?"
Dean licks his lips spit shiny like he does a lot, and blinks slowly, steady. His eyes dart back and forth between Sam's, drop down to Sam's mouth. Another blink and he's softly shifting his head, pressing warmly into Sam's left palm. Almost a nuzzle. Almost like there's no other place he'd rather be.
He breathes out, maintaining an unwavered gaze on Sam's mouth, and says, "Yes."
For a moment, Sam doesn't realize it's an answer, not an encouragement.
And not a lie, but that doesn't mean it's something Sam is happy to hear.
It means Benny isn't lying either, or at least, there's some truth to his words. He knows Dean, he very likely carved the instructions into Dean's skin that allowed him to escape Purgatory. He's also responsible, then, for Dean's escape. He knows about Dean, what made him like this. Or has some idea of it.
Sam heaves a sigh, the kind that raises his whole chest and shoulders.
Does what Benny knows overlap with what Dean remembers? Could they simply get the vampire nest location out of Benny, send it on to other hunters to handle, and focus on fixing Dean?
Sam's fingertips reach the back of Dean's neck, right behind his ears where his hairline is. He scratches lightly in a comforting way with his dominant hand, ensuring attention though Dean never once dropped his eyes.
"What's he gonna tell me?" he asks, light and quiet. Calm. There's more to the question than merely the words.
It's what does Benny know? but it's also what do you?
There's a soft sound then, almost like a whimper in the throaty depths of Dean's nearly constant growls. His face crumbles, but he keeps those shiny eyes on Sam's mouth. Like it'll give him the answer that Sam wants to hear, so he can just parrot it back.
Another soft snarl curls his upper lip, reveals a few teeth, and his voice is gravel.
"Nothing." He forces it out past his teeth like it's a solid, ugly thing. Sam doesn't know if it's because it's a lie or because it's the truth. "Sammy, nothing."
Dean's single word answers can really be interpreted any way Sam wants to take them. Nothing, Benny has nothing to tell. Nothing, Dean remembers nothing at all.
Sam searches Dean's scruffy, distraught face, eyes darting over every point for some sign that this isn't just more of Dean's act. The way he almost seems to be hiding behind this rougher, maskless exterior.
A tell doesn't immediately jump out, but the marred distress that lines Dean's crow's feet, perches at the corners of his downturned mouth, it almost looks like fear. Sam doesn't know of what.
He wants to make Dean elaborate, ask for clarification, but that look on his face keeps the words rooted in Sam's throat. The urge to smooth out the lines, wipe away the tense creases of his brow burns back up, and with it the need to press his lips to Dean's. In comfort, in assurance.
His brother is afraid of something and like before by the graveyard, Sam wants to make it better.
He doesn't though, patting Dean's jaw, wary of the vampire undoubtedly watching them through the Impala's window. When he starts to retract his hands, Dean grabs his left wrist in a tight grip that nearly aches. He holds Sam's bitten palm still, against his cheek, and tilts into it again, closing his eyes.
Those eyelashes brush against the tip of Sam's thumb and Dean murmurs a quiet, wanting, "Kiss."
And then Sam doesn't care about Benny beside them, doesn't really care about anyone else in the world but his brother in front of him. Maybe never has.
He leans forward, cups Dean's head, angles him just perfect to meet their mouths. Familiar now, sweet and warm. Dean makes a little noise, bites lightly into Sam's lower lip and pulls it between his. Sucks it once, clinging. But he lets Sam pull back, just enough to breathe the same air.
Dean always looks so beautiful this close, bright eyes and red lips and light dusting of freckles Sam's counted more times than he can remember. Sam's entire world narrowed down to the space between his injured palms and Sam wants a lot right then, without overthinking, without trying to make sense of it, Sam just wants. He can't even say what exactly.
To keep it at bay, he presses their lips together once more, a short exchange of heat. This time just for himself, not Dean. He doesn't think about why, about everything that's changed between them in the last few days. Everything that hasn't. Why that is.
He just sighs, gentle this time, and enjoys the way Dean follows his lips when he pulls back.
"S'mmy," Dean whispers, a quiet plea and keeps Sam's left wrist in his strong grip. Sam allows himself to be held still, allows Dean to angle his palm just enough to slot his teeth back home in their aching marks. It's not a bite with intent. It doesn't hurt or tear anything, rather tender. Like a caress with teeth, like an attempt at comfort. Like something more.
Dean watches him as he does it, the hooded green of his gaze in the moonlight is much more intense than Sam thinks he's ever seen it. An imploring insistence burns up under the fan of his dewy lashes and Sam's hand feels immediately awash in that heat, overwhelmed with it. Sam's fingers twitch against Dean's cheek and he knows.
Dean isn't denying what Benny said about these bites.
He's confirming.
It feels like something has dug into the cavity of Sam's chest, rustled that little creature in there around, shaken it all up. Sam is at a loss for words, properly distracted by the immediate surge of TV static and tunnel vision and mating bites.
The knock of Benny's fist against the glass brings Sam's startled gaze off center. In the dark of the Impala's interior, Benny waves at them, a casual flick of movement. Mortified and disoriented, Sam quickly slides his palm free of Dean's mouth, ignoring the quiet little noise of dissent that follows it.
"Go around and pop the trunk," he says in a voice that wavers. "I'll put the duffel away."
Pulling himself out of Dean's orbit, out of the space that Sam was made for, is like swimming to the surface when the current wants nothing more than to drag him under. It always has been if Sam thinks about it too much.
But they do come apart, Dean making sure to brush him hip to shoulder as it happens.
Once everything is situated in their proper places, both Sam and Dean settle into the front seat of the Impala. The knife formerly embedded in Benny's shoulder catches the light where it's pointed over the seat at him. Sam had to slide it out of Dean's tight grip when he got in so that Dean could focus his animosity on more productive things.
Dean turns the ignition and startles Benny with her sudden growl, which amuses Dean if the slight uptick at the corner of his lips is anything to go by. As Baby rumbles under them, Sam turns so he can see Benny properly where he's taken to reclining against the cooler.
"I don't know how you got blood before, but we get ours from hospitals, in bags," he says, ignoring Dean's drumming fingers on the steering wheel.
He waits for the acknowledging, curt nod before continuing. "The nearest town is too small to have one, so it's a drive. You'll be good for an hour at least, right?" Sam doesn't actually care, but they can't have Benny slowly losing his sanity back there until he's lunging for the nearest pulse point.
Benny nods again, one short bob of his head. "Sure, and after that it's New Orleans?"
The rumbling of the engine doesn't mask the tempo of Dean's fidgeting fingers, the familiar habit drawing Sam's attention unwillingly. He isn't surprised to see Dean is still watching Benny through the rearview mirror, intent and almost vitriolic.
Rather than answer Benny's question right away, Sam reaches over with his free hand to tap Dean's shoulder. Those angry eyes find Sam's immediately, askance.
"Let's get on the road. Back through Clayton."
The faster they get things moving, the faster they can be rid of the vampire and Dean can go back to being a bit less high strung and agitated. As Dean shifts in reverse, finally distracted with something that doesn't involve growling and glaring at Benny, Sam returns his attention to the back seat.
"You said you didn't know where the actual nest is?"
Benny nods, adjusting the lapels of his dark coat. "Been gone a good fifty years, betting things changed since I went in the ground. But there's a meeting point at the docks in New Orleans, it'll be there still. Lasted some hundred years, it’ll last a hundred more."
The sound of tires spinning in the dirt punctuates the statement as Dean drives back towards the highway. Sam's eyes drop from Benny's confident face to the end of the knife he's still arbitrarily directing at him.
"You seem pretty sure," he says, because he isn't so sure. "A hurricane hit that city a few years back. Those docks could be long gone by now."
A hollow scoff of a laugh meets Sam's words and Benny's shaking his head. "Nah, it's there. Trust me, brother, I know New Orleans and I know my maker." The word maker falls out of his mouth like a particularly nasty bite of food, and Sam doesn't imagine the way Benny's expression darkens in the yellow glow of the Impala's headlights.
Benny claimed his maker killed the love of his life before killing him, and Sam agreed to help him get his revenge. He really wants to believe they're not being sent on some wild goose chase, into some trap set by the vampire. He wants to think what he saw, that understanding he felt, was authentic. That Benny really does want revenge for his most important person.
It seems ridiculously optimistic. Maybe dangerously so. But it's not like Dean's situation has really given Sam any other choice.
"Sammy." Dean's voice is soft in the Impala's purr as he brakes to a stop before the gate of the Lafitte property. The chain is still wound in the loose drapery Sam left it in and he pats Dean's arm again, this time to hand him back his knife.
"I'll get it," he says just as softly to Dean, impressing a silent demand not to cling as he pushes the knife's hilt into Dean's bite riddled palm. Dean watches him with big, attentive eyes that follow like searchlights as Sam exits. Always clingy, always protective.
It occurs to Sam, as he's tugging the chain free, that their recent dynamic is going to be troublesome very soon.
The visit to the nearest hospital with a morgue will mean Sam and Dean separating the furthest they've had to since Dean came back. They can't very well bring Benny along with them. Sam refuses to cart a vampire inside a hospital full of innocent humans when they don't have any dead man's blood immediately at the ready. It would only make their job harder.
At the same time, they absolutely can not leave Benny alone either. There's no way to know if this isn’t all just some convoluted plot to get free, a chance for Benny to slip away into the night without a trace as soon as Sam and Dean are out of reach. If they left him unattended, they might never find him again.
Waving the Impala through the now open gate, Sam grimaces and tries to formulate some kind of solution that doesn't involve losing their only lead or risking a bunch of lives. When the Impala's wide chassis rolls by, Sam swings the gate shut and winds the chain back through, and comes up with absolutely no other option.
He's already dreading how much Dean is going to balk when he suggests going alone to get the blood. Sam can't send in Dean by himself for a million reasons, the most important being that Dean would rather die than leave Sam alone with Benny.
The predicament swirls overhead like a persistent rain cloud as Sam returns to the passenger seat, gnawing the inside of his cheek. Dean has the knife end mere inches from Benny's face, but his eyes are still stuck to Sam, wide and vigilant. It doesn't bode well for the future.
A heavy exhale leaves Sam's lungs and he reaches for the weapon so Dean can go back to driving instead of his Benny murder attempts. As he takes the knife, Sam's fingers brush against Dean's bite, the somewhat healed over wounds. For a bleak second, Sam's attention zeroes in, remembering how the imprints of his own teeth have marked Dean, how Dean's have marked Sam.
The way they match apparently means even more to Dean than Sam could have ever imagined. An insidiously strange sensation burrows deep in Sam's chest, but Sam can't afford to think too hard about it right now. There are so many more things that need his attention and Sam clutches the knife hard enough to hurt that blistering skin of his palm.
As Dean pulls Baby out on McAdams Road, heading back through Clayton, Sam tugs his phone out. He needs to find out where the nearest hospital is, and it's a necessary task that doesn't involve the use of his problem solving skills.
Namely, he just doesn't want to think about having to tell Dean to hang back while he disappears from his line of sight for fifteen minutes.
"Okay, there's a hospital next town over," he says, skimming the facility's page to get an idea of its size. He'll be more annoyed and severely inconvenienced if the place doesn't have a dedicated morgue he can break into. It'll already be bad enough considering Sam doesn't have any of their usual suits to buy him an excuse. He hopes the word undercover and a badge will suffice.
Neither Benny nor Dean have any comment whatsoever on the location of the hospital as the lights of Clayton's main street cast the Impala's cab in a bluish hue. Sam sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye at Dean, hoping he hasn't quite caught on to the fact that they'll have to separate soon.
Dean's hands are fists around the wheel, white and painfully tight, but Sam can attribute his tense posture to the vampire behind them. His face is glowing pale in the streetlights, freckles faintly scattering across the top of his right cheek, and he's still got that ignoble scowl on his face. For once, Sam realizes, Dean doesn't have his hand on Sam.
He wonders if this is progress or something else.
The dull glow of Sam's phone tells him it's nearing nine at night and not a soul deems Clayton's main street entertaining at that time on a Sunday. The small buildings that line either side are already dark and unwelcoming, ghostly in the difference from just this afternoon.
They pass the turn off for the Roadhouse where Liz and J are undoubtedly ribbing each other and making a good natured ruckus. Maybe wondering when Sam and Dean are planning to drop by.
From what Sam can gather of the encounter so far with Benny, he was wrong about Clayton, about Liz and J. As far as Benny is concerned, Dean was in Purgatory from the start, from the moment he disappeared in front of Sam along with Dick Roman. It makes sense Dean somehow got wrapped up in the death of a monster and pulled along to Purgatory too.
In that sense, Benny only came across him and used him to get out after a few months. Completely of his own volition and without the outside help of his tired great granddaughter or her bumbling best friend. Then they really were just trying to help? The people here in this tiny town in Louisiana were just friendly?
The thought has Sam feeling a little bad. And maybe a little wistful for a life where he and Dean really could manage to make friendships with normal, small town people. Rather than disappearing into the night once they're done like always. It's a familiar want, one from Sam's childhood when he hated every uprooting, every person he was forced to leave at the scent of a new case.
When Dean leads them past the final church to make up Clayton's meager mainstreet, and thus out of town officially, Sam says, "Kinda wish we could've said bye." He doesn't really know why he says it, or to whom he's even speaking, given that Dean was less than receptive to everyone here and Benny surely has no take.
The guttural dismissive noise that escapes through Dean's nose is enough to get his point across as he follows Sam's pointing finger towards the signs that say US-425 South. But he glances at Sam anyways with one of those extremely unimpressed stares.
"Hated 'em," he says plainly, looking back at the road.
The way Benny snorts from the backseat makes Sam want to roll his eyes, but he can't help the quirk of a smile that hints on his face in the wake of Dean's behavior. He shrugs when Dean looks over at him again, expectant, more than likely awaiting some kind of agreement.
"They were nice," Sam says, feeling a bit like he's defending himself. He appreciates the welcome distraction of Dean's very displeased huff and the weight of his hand smacking into Sam's shoulder.
It's a light brush of knuckles more than anything but it still feels vaguely admonishing and Sam tries to lean out of reach. He doesn't get far enough to avoid Dean's grabby hand winding up in the collar of his plaid shirt, though.
He pulls Sam's shirt uncomfortably against the other side of his neck and he can't tell if it feels clingy or possessive. Or if there's even a difference between the two when it comes to Dean.
Maybe Dean finally caught on to the potential problems of having gained a vampire ward if the scowl sliding creases into his face is anything to go by. Sam imagines the knuckles of the fist in his clothes are as white as they had been clutching the steering wheel, and he swallows.
This won't be fun.
"Exit when you see Ferriday, hospital's called Riverland Medical Center," Sam says instead of breaching any kind of subject that involves the phrase stay here while I go, and laments that he can't bring himself to say anything else.
Like how he's going to have to wriggle free from Dean's grip in about ten minutes. Or how he's going to leave Dean's side, completely out of view and out of reach for the first time since Dean's been the way he is. He can already see Dean's furious face, sharp teeth and sharper eyes.
He instinctively leans away from Dean's clutches and for once Dean has some sort of pity on him, fingers loosening. Sam has a short second to be grateful he's getting released, but Dean only lets him go to ghost down his arm and grasp the hand Sam's got wrapped around his phone.
Fingers wheedle under the device to get at Sam's bite and displacing it enough that the phone fumbles into Sam's lap. Sam watches the movements, feeling somewhat hollow and nervous, as he frantically tries to determine the best way to convince Dean as the dark swamps of Louisiana fly past.
There has to be some way Sam can convince Dean to let him go. Something to keep his brother behind in the Impala and not just sneaking out after him like he always does, leaving the vampire unwatched.
Sam flicks a glance over his shoulder at Benny because he really should be a bit more wary of the blood drinking monster lurking within arm's reach and a bit less distracted. Or maybe he's just trying to distract himself from his dreadful future prospects.
Benny meets his stare with raising eyebrows. He looks lax, somewhat comfortable back there, and Sam remembers again that there's even more problems gnawing at the back of his head than their patented brand of separation anxiety. Like vampires, secrets, and odd references to ridiculous things that Sam can't even begin to unravel the significance of.
As if sensing Sam's inner turmoil, Dean's hand in his clutches tighter, pulling the skin of Sam's mauled palm. Sam immediately returns his gaze forward, leaving Benny alone to stare down at the marks from his own teeth in Dean's pale skin.
Everything Benny's said in the last couple hours, every revelation he's dropped on the constantly shifting scale of Sam's priorities has sent Sam reeling. Darting back and forth between several different concerns like an exhausted ping pong ball. Starting with talk of mates and ending in Purgatory.
Sam glances at Benny again, cursory and without much purpose beyond ensuring he's not about to go for their throats. He wants to ask him for some kind of clarification, to point the knife back at the base of his throat and demand he just tell him what he knows all at once. Without the thin veneer of some kind of agreement, without having to force Dean to work alongside this monster he clearly wants to kill.
But it wouldn't help. It wouldn't work. Sam can only do what they're already doing. He can only follow the natural progression of events and that means he'll have to leave Dean here in the Impala, feral with a vampire he hates, and hope he doesn't come stalking after him.
Dean follows the signs for the small town of Ferriday, Louisiana. It's still three times the size of Clayton, more than a main road and some shops.
Probably with good reason, the hospital stands just off the highway, visible as soon as they exit. Convenient and easy. It's not much more than a few white paneled, single story buildings crowded together on a large plot of land. They all share one oversized parking lot among them and there's only about ten cars out front that Sam can see. Pretty sparse for a hospital with a dedicated ICU.
The signs indicate emergency and urgent care as well as several physicians, pharmacy and lab, alongside what appears to be the main entrance beneath a large sign reading Riverland in a decorated font.
Overall, it looks sort of dingy, but quaint. Sam can only hope there's still a place for dead people in there, otherwise they're going to have to stop somewhere else again. Sam definitely cannot handle having to go through this inevitable conversation more than once.
"Just park anywhere," Sam says, freeing his hand from Dean's so he won't try and maneuver the Impala one-handed. But really so that Sam can muster up the necessary fortitude to tell Dean they're going to have to divide and conquer this problem, which necessitates no longer touching.
Dean at least doesn't take offense to being shaken off, using that hand to slide the Impala into park just a few rows back from the front.
Silence falls ominously when Dean shuts off the engine, tugging the keys free as if he's going to tuck them into his pocket and come along. Sam steels himself for the confrontation to come, heart beating unsteadily in his chest.
When Sam looks over he sees Dean sitting stock still, watching Sam under a brow that's been permanently furrowed ever since Benny popped up. Sam swallows the spit in his mouth. He just hopes Benny stays obediently quiet during this ordeal.
"So we need blood," he starts in a casual way, as if the tone can ease the gradually intensifying tightness in Dean's muscles. Like ripping off a bandaid, Sam quickly rolls the rest out. "I think I should go get it and you should stay with him."
He tilts his head in Benny's direction as if it's necessary, but the movement startles Dean out of his stiffened posture. His hand flies up and wraps in Sam's shirt again, tugging urgently. The distance between Sam and Benny increases just as the distance between Sam and Dean decreases. A cause and effect Dean will always support.
Sam has to brace himself against the seat as his shirt stretches and almost pops a button, regarding Dean with wide eyes and suppressing an irritated curse. Dean has a good case of tunnel vision right now, watching Sam the way one might watch a freshly unleashed dog. Sam loathes how apt he finds the comparison with an unhappy purse of his lips.
He grabs Dean's wrist, hand wrapping so completely around that the tips of his fingers touch his own palm. It only reminds Sam how much bigger he is than Dean and his big brother's whole protect Sammy, keep him safe thing even more ridiculous than it usually does. Sam can watch out for himself.
Dean's eyes dart down to where they're touching and he angrily pouts, a growl rumbling in his chest and vibrating down his extended arm. Sam gives him a moment to say his protest, raising his eyebrows in expectation and Dean delivers after an irritated grinding of his teeth.
"No, Sammy," he says his recently favorite phrase. It's a low warning. Sam thinks that's all he's going to get but Dean screws up his face and continues. "Together or no." He punctuates the final word with a shake of the fist still in Sam's shirt.
It shakes Sam's hand too and he releases Dean's wrist to wedge his fingers up under Dean's where they're curled into his shirt. Sam eases into that tight fist just enough that he can press nails into the healed bite Sam left there. The bite that's more than a bite, despite Sam's best intentions.
Though Sam would be lying if he didn't intend something untoward when he sunk his teeth hard into Dean's hand that night. Maybe marking him, owning him.
There's an almost sense of satisfaction in the way Dean's face changes when Sam's nails dig at the scabbed skin, tearing at the healing wound. The twisted, displeased scowl slides off, to be replaced by an uncomfortable wince of injury. A pink lip is wetted before pulling between white teeth, narrowed eyes never leaving Sam's face.
The hand in Sam's shakes, just a slight tremor.
Like a key slotting home, turning in the lock with the perfect matching set of grooves, Dean's fist unfurls. Somewhat reluctant and numb, as if Dean hadn't done it on purpose, as if the muscles of his hand are releasing at Sam's behest rather than his own.
That bitten lower lip slides free from Dean's teeth, red and swollen, and he blinks hard once. Then shifts targets. His hand twists in Sam's, hooking around to clutch at Sam's palm in a persistent claw. Clinging yet again.
A small, immutable part of Sam's brain registers the roughness of their matching bites grating against each other. It whispers mating bites over and over in a distracting litany.
The way Dean's watching Sam now doesn't bode well, no longer marred by an angry scowl or scrunched up in pain. With eyes fanned by those long lashes, bright in the blue lights of the parking lot, and dampened, he's almost pleading.
Sam knows from the pout of his reddened lips to the draw of his dark eyebrows, Dean is about to shift tactics. He'll beg with that face that's disarmed Sam since he was old enough to have a weakness for beautiful things. Or maybe it's just his brother.
Quickly without giving himself time to find reason, Sam avoids Dean's face, finding Benny in the backseat where he's casually reclined, watching them with a pointed sharp stare. Those two blue eyes prick identical holes in Sam's brother-dominated train of thought and he clears his throat, sitting up a bit straighter against the Impala's door.
Where their bites meet is too distracting, too interesting for that small spot in Sam's hindbrain and he has to put the knife on the dashboard, freeing up for his inevitable escape. He grabs Dean's wrist to try and tug his left hand free, fixing his difficult brother with a frown.
"Let go," he says, firm.
Dean doesn't budge, doesn't even let that sad, desperate look slip. Sam's starting to worry Dean knows its power, as he closes his eyes, inhales long and deep.
When he opens them again, he's worked out a tentative appeal.
"It'll barely be ten minutes. All the other times we've been out have I ever gotten hurt? All that time I was alone before you came back? Dude, I can take care of myself for ten minutes." He tries for earnest and slightly bratty, a bit like that time he was nine and had a very similar conversation. Back then Dean was concerned about kidnappers and creeps, but now? Sam can't imagine.
His plea falls on mutinous ears. Dean still unrelenting, in both his grip and his pathetic expression. His eyes are all glossy and seem to telegraph an emphatic please don't leave me vibe that makes Sam's chest tight and empty with something like guilt. Dean's gotten progressively better at convincing Sam to go along with his antics lately.
Back before all this, Dean would've just gotten mad, accusing and irritated in that machismo way he always did when Sam tried to get away from him. That would've only led to a fight, Sam meeting that anger with his own annoyance, until they're both grateful to be apart for a while.
But when Dean looks up at him, looking vulnerable and heartbroken, Sam's powerless. Dean's honed it so well now, Sam wonders if he's been too transparent lately. Yet Sam can't afford to give in to this, to coddle Dean just because he's a little traumatized, a little different.
He has to leave Dean behind, not just now for the hospital, but for every eventuality in the future. They can't stay like this, Dean sticking to his side like they're one and the same. Feral and protective and owning.
Luckily for Sam, two can play at the puppy eyes game and he's been doing it a lot longer.
"Dean," he says in a much gentler voice than before, fond like he always feels about Dean in that lizard brain way. The tone is enough to pique Dean's attention, practically perking up as his eyes go wider with interest. All big and green, anticipatory. He probably thinks Sam's about to give in to his whining.
Sam pulls out his most pitiable expression, bowing his head so he has to look up at Dean just slightly. He lets his eyes get big and beseeching, the way he's done since he was four and conning Dean into giving him ice cream for dinner.
It's practically written in Sam's DNA at this point, the one skill he could never lose, and he tilts his head to the side with a calculated almost pout. The effect is practically instant, Dean's own expression falters, muscles in his jaw ticking in uncertainty.
Sam feels confident when he reassures, "I'll be okay."
He doesn't expect the immediate skepticism that deepens dimples over Dean's pursing lips, frown returning in full force. Dean squeezes Sam's hand in his fingers, wrist flexing under Sam's tight grip, and he grumbles in his throat. The unhappy sound makes the tendons in his neck jump and Sam almost winces.
"Don't go," Dean says, and it registers as both desperate and demanding, an order and a plea. Sam hates the way it makes him want to never leave Dean's side. More than he usually does.
This is stupid ridiculous, how they can't even separate for the ten minutes it would take to run an errand, Sam's fully aware. He has to clamp down on the frightening urge to say fuck it and leave Benny behind in the Impala.
But, at the same time, Dean's hand is a vice around Sam's, constricting. Untrusting in the way Dean has always been when it comes to Sam's safety, his life. Dean doesn't let anyone or anything but himself take care of Sam, not even Sam. This isn't news, but it does reaffirm Sam's age old independence streak from his teenage years. The very same feeling that urged Sam off to college, away from his overbearing brother.
Sam can't abide Dean's clinginess when it really means Dean's mistrust.
He plays dirty. The last card he knows will bend an irascible Dean to his will, based on prior evidence. He doesn't think about Benny in the backseat or the words he said by the grave. He just raises Dean's restraining hand to his lips.
Their palms slide apart as if in mutual agreement, exposing Dean's heated skin to Sam's mouth, and Sam figures it's because Dean has an inkling for what's about to happen. Allowing it, encouraging it.
The bite mark is still red and angry from Sam's fingernails and he lines it up with his teeth as if it's natural, and maybe it is now.
Slotting incisors back into their places, the places made just for them, Sam bites down into Dean's wounds with a satisfaction that worries him as much as it thrills.
It feels right, inevitable, to press down hard and make Dean bleed, to mark him and taste the aftermath against his tongue. He laves against the tearing skin, pulling his teeth free to sooth the freshly remade wounds. There's metal, dirt, and sweat and Dean. Sam looks up when a subdued breath stutters past Dean's lips.
His eyes are almost foggy, unfocused, and his face has flushed a pretty pink that makes his freckles glow and stand out ridiculously against the pale of his cheeks. He's sucked his lip back in between his teeth, biting down into the plush of it hard enough that Sam imagines it's his own hand getting the treatment.
An electric thrum shoots through the center of Sam's body, a sudden immitigable wish to slide his own bites up against those lips, replace them until his bites are burning. Instead of all that, Sam sinks back into Dean's hand with a vengeance, lapping up the way Dean gives in.
He's melting like honey in Sam's mouth, pliable and sweet and easy. Mollified. Tension Sam hadn't even noticed slips out of Dean's limbs, sagging him weak against the seat. That static fuzz goes haywire in Sam's head, blocks Benny's mating bites out completely, before he makes some kind of connection he isn't quite ready to make.
Prying his mouth away is a bit like pulling up the foundations of a house, coming up against gravity and the Earth's wishes. Sam leaves behind spit and blood and warmth in his wake. He eyes his work carefully, taking in the fresh depressions that align with each of his teeth, imprinting a space that only he can properly fill.
Without dedicating specific thought to the task, Sam translates the meaning out loud.
"My Dean," he states plainly, running a thumb along his mark.
It doesn't quite register that he's spoken aloud and he only realizes when he feels Dean's hand tremor in his hold. A yielding breath stumbles past Dean's parted lips, fluttering and damning, and entirely distracting.
Sam glances up sharply, catches that look again in the open mouthed, bright eyed stare. The one that's pure, awed affection, satiated and wanting and having and fond. The shine there, in the green of his irises, reflects something that burns Sam's skin.
Devotion. Sam might call it that.
He almost can't find his voice, something thick cloying in his throat took it away, and he has to clear it to say more, to redirect this exchange between himself and Dean.
"I'll be fine, Dean," he says, rough and scratchy, but sincere and sure. When Dean can only stare, Sam smears a thumb against his mark in Dean's skin and plows on.
"I'll come back," he says. To you, says that mark.
A moment of hesitation, breath that burns in stinging lungs, and then Dean's flattening his mouth into a line, dimples and unhappy frown overtaking his face. Sam has the immediate fear that his stubborn, jerk of a brother still won't let him go as he watches Dean's gaze drop away from his.
Without a word, Dean tugs himself free of Sam's hands, not unlike that time they argued about the bites in this same situation just two days ago. But instead of angrily plopping himself as far away from Sam as he can get, Dean wipes both his palms against either sides of his own neck, smudging grave dirt and sweat into the lines of them.
He's still got that scowl as he slides his hands free and holds them up for his own inspection. Sam can only stare with open curiosity, taking in the bloody, messy sight without a word.
Dean eyes his grimy calluses, breathes in with a short nod like he's satisfied, and bridges the distance between their bodies, short as it is. Sam doesn't think to retreat, unsure of what's happening, as Dean presses those palms to the sides of Sam's neck.
There's a hot pressure of sticky, mucked up skin on skin and Dean's fingers curl into the hair at Sam's nape. No doubt it's smearing the mess of Dean's hands all over Sam's neck, but he can't help the way he inclines his head to give him more room, leaning into the press of Dean's fingers at the base of his skull.
His movements earn him an approving hum from deep in Dean's chest and Sam eyes the accompanying expression from down his nose. Paradoxically, that unhappy scowl is still firmly in place as Dean watches his own hands press into Sam's throat and Sam can't make sense of what this could possibly be accomplishing. But he can't quite find it in him to pull away.
"Okay," Dean suddenly says, voice stilted and unwilling as it escapes the marred curl of his lips. The fingers in Sam's hair at the back of his neck curl once more, tight enough to sting, and then Dean's slipping his hands free. Sam has to resist the urge to follow the rough warmth, watching Dean and completely lost.
He almost chokes on his spit when Dean grabs his shirt collar in both free hands and yanks. Sam fumbles down far enough that Dean can press his face into a spot his fingers just vacated, behind Sam's left ear.
A deep inhale raises Dean's chest, nearly presses it to Sam's own, and a line of chills follows in the wake of damp breath over Sam's skin. He can feel the light touch of Dean's nose drag along his pulse point, bringing with it a cool wash of air like he's just breathed in deep again. It happens again, the ghost of breaths, and Sam thinks Dean seriously might be smelling him.
"...Dean?" Sam says quietly, trying to ignore how the sensation over his sensitive neck makes his whole body tremble. Dean hums again, an acknowledgement, and then there's the scalding wet silk of a tongue at Sam's throat. Just a short drag up over his pulse, surely tasting sweat and dirt and the blood of Dean's own palm there.
It's too much suddenly, flushing Sam hot from head to toe in a rush of discomforting pins and needles. Sam huffs out something punched and garbled, clenching every muscle in his abdomen to keep from jerking free to prevent his lower body from reacting. Whatever this is, Sam doesn't want to interrupt it, if Dean needs to do this to let Sam leave, then Sam can endure it.
The overwhelming, dampened heat gives way to an abrupt coolness that has Sam aching when Dean finally leans back. His eyes find Sam's, burning and vehement, and Sam can't move. When his lips part to speak, Sam stares down at them, lightheaded and deliriously wanting to taste.
"Sammy," Dean starts, acrimonious. "Be careful."
It's an order. Sam finds he doesn't mind this one though.
Dean slides his hands free of Sam's collar, so slowly it's almost petulant, forcing Sam to bend at the same awkward angle until Dean fully releases him. There's a sharp edge to Dean's attentive stare, a warning and a potent disapproval. Sam only sits up straight, nodding.
"Yeah, of course," he assures, taking the tacit permission and running with it before Dean can change his mind and hook back into him.
As he gathers himself, turning to swing open the passenger door, he catches Benny's eye from over his shoulder.
There's a crook to the small smile Sam glimpses, almost a smugness. Those pointed blue eyes having seen everything. All the codependency, the clinging, the desperate fear.
Seeing and knowing.
Sam doesn't like it. He doesn't like the lilting cajun drawl that repeats in his head, those are mating bites.
Sam slides out of the car, two pairs of eyes boring into his shoulders.
Didn't he tell you?
Notes:
benny watching all this like: lmaoooo what kinda drama did i walk into
btw, is everyone who's subbed to this fic getting emails in a timely manner yet? i'm just curious if it's still a bit delayed or nah. ALSO we are gonna go to weekly updates, every friday, until chapter 20 since there's a bit of work i gotta do with this. therefore next update is friday july 17!! see y'all then~
Chapter 18: Storm
Notes:
the "graphic depictions of violence" archive warning and the "blood and gore" tag come into play this chapter. i don't think it's that bad, especially if you're an spn fan, but i also watch hannibal casually so my perception might be skewed...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Turns out, snatching a couple O negatives and two syringes of blood from a dead body is even easier when the hospital they're in sits sleepily in a small, southern town. Unsuspecting, the nurses were all smiles and pleasant nods of acknowledgement as Sam slipped in and out of the understaffed medical center with stuffed pockets.
Stealing human fluids for the inevitable vampire confrontation wasn't the hard part.
The hard part was how utterly bad Sam felt. Not because he was taking the precious resources of a medical facility, but because for the first time in three days he didn't have Dean within his sightline.
It was almost disconcerting how much it bothered him to peel out of the Impala and half jog across the tar of the parking lot, the distance between he and Dean growing wider and wider like some gaping chasm.
It left him raw and delirious like the ripped side of a particularly resistant piece of velcro. Not unlike the time when he was two and a half and Dean had to leave him with Dad to go to school, already behind the other kids. Sam cried so hard he puked. It feels a bit like that now, and maybe, in a way, it's always felt like that.
He couldn't even preoccupy his mind with concerns about what Benny knows, what Dean might also know, because his thoughts wouldn't focus on anything but how empty the air around him felt.
It was unsettling, a jarring sense of loneliness Sam has only ever felt in the Dean's absence. His chest felt like it was caving in again, the subtle anxiety of a rising panic, but Sam managed, like a robot on autopilot, to steal the blood without issue.
Pushing through a side exit door and back out into the wet, outside air is an overwhelming relief, like finally breaking out of the thin film of a soap bubble. Sam breathes a heavy exhale, already skirting the outside of the hospital on quick, desperate feet. Desperate to get back to the familiar warmth of the Impala, the familiar warmth of his brother.
A sudden drizzle of rain has started oozing out of the clouds overhead, so faint and draping, it could almost be mistaken for an impossibly thick fog. Sam glances up at the sky, blinking in the cool mist that dampens his face, and feels the moon's absence the way he feels Dean's. He misses its bright blue blanket across the night, now hidden completely behind dark and looming clouds. Almost ominous, almost a warning.
He's scowling but he doesn't really know at what, dropping his gaze back to the cars that span the parking lot.
Baby's black shine is easy to find among the old trucks and busted sedans. With the incoming threat of a heavy rain, her engine is purring again, headlights catching the drizzle and piercing through it. Two bright signals in the misty night that Sam will always be able to find.
He doesn't pause to examine the abrupt knot loosening in the cavern of his chest. That abated panic he felt in the hospital bleeds away with every pump of his heart and Sam blinks away the sprinkle of rain that's clung to his eyelashes.
Through the window he sees Dean and has to fight the immediate, instinctive urge to grin. The apprehensive set to Dean's brow is unmistakable as his eyes stay forward facing, no doubt affixed to the hospital entrance Sam disappeared through. Right now, Sam is out of his line of sight, having rerouted inside to sneak a bit more surreptitiously out a different exit.
As he crosses the parking lot on feet that almost seem to be moving of their own accord, Sam can't manage to tear his stare from Dean's face. It's an instant calm under his rib, the organ inside steadying the closer he gets to sliding back into Dean's space. Light rain pastes a few wayward strands of hair to his forehead and he's less than twenty feet from the Impala.
Dean, behind the water speckled glass of the window, doesn't divert his attention from the hospital doors.
He does open his mouth.
Sam frowns, watching Dean form words past the angry curl of his lips, his face twisting into something vicious and hostile. He must be talking to Benny, grinding out some kind of threat. Sam can barely make Benny out in the dark of the Impala's back seat, if he's perhaps done something to elicit Dean's verbal lashing.
Though, the concept of Dean talking to anyone without Sam feels strange. At least lately.
Sam steps a little quicker, eyes trained on Dean's moving mouth. He comes up on the passenger side just as Dean catches sight of him, anger wiping off his face like rain from the windshield.
Dean's jaw snaps shut when Sam pulls the door open, hinges groaning. Falling into the Impala, Sam immediately wants to ask what Dean was saying, but hungry hands grab at him before he can get any words out.
Fingers dig greedily into his shirt and pull and Sam's suddenly hunching over Dean's lap, wrenched across the bench with enough force to knock his knees against the dashboard. The gesture is so abrupt, Sam only had just enough time to fling his hands out and catch his downward momentum against Dean's legs. It's the only thing that keeps him from faceplanting and crushing all the bags of blood inside his jacket.
He feels rather than sees Dean push up into the juncture between his throat and shoulder, under the collar, and he just knows he's being smelled again. Heated breath and uncomfortable chills running along his damp skin.
Rather than focusing on that feeling, Sam squeezes Dean's thigh hard and pushes up to try and escape it. He doesn't get too far, Dean making low noises in his throat and clinging close and unyielding.
A tongue runs along the grime and dirt and blood Dean left behind as if he can taste where Sam's been on his skin. Sam's erupting in goosebumps again, a wave of discomfort rushing down his back in a rush of electric sensation. He wants to tear free, to wiggle away from that overwhelming thing under his skin but he can't. Or maybe he can't bring himself to try again.
He lets the smothering continue with an almost resigned slump against Dean's front. It's mostly an accident that he ends up pressing into the space between Dean's arms, that familiar warmth as inviting as always as he molds the velcro back together. Sam pushes into Dean's space then, no longer wary of the tingling buzz in his skin so he can adjust their positions just enough to rest his chin on Dean's shoulder. He doesn't want to escape anymore, maybe he sort of enjoys the closeness.
There's an understanding hum from Dean, rumbling through the space where their chests touch, and he shifts to hug Sam close, the way they do when the distance between the souls in their bodies suddenly seems too far. His arms go up over Sam's shoulders like always, tight and supporting like always. Unrelenting. Very Dean of him.
Sam sighs because the air around him smells like his brother again, and the comfort he finds in that isn't new. Dean's face scruff is rough and itchy against Sam's neck, apparently he's no longer distracted with tasting the sweat on Sam's skin and Sam can be grateful for that. The hug is warm and familiar and nice. Like pressing a reset button and erasing Sam's anxieties.
He almost forgets he got in the Impala's cab with a question in mind when his eyes close for just a moment. Dean's hugs always feel like this and Sam always feels like staying there forever, but he can't and they can't and Benny is undoubtedly watching them with those pinprick eyes. They were talking about something and Sam doesn't have the time to waste curling up into Dean like he did when he was a kid.
Even so, Dean's the one to pull away first. As he pulls away in quick, jostling movements and takes his body heat along with him Sam can't think of a time Dean's ever been the first to let go. It makes his chest tighten up again as he's pushed back with an urgent strength. Hands grab his arms, holding him steadily upright, and Dean is scowling at him, brows furrowed and serious.
Those bright eyes are busy scanning all over Sam, checking his torso and legs and head. One hand releases him just to brush Sam's damp hair away for a clearer view. Sam has been subjected to this exact once over a million times in his life, the you were away from me check up. It takes a few severe moments, Sam sitting still for Dean's occasional patting and prodding hand until he's satisfied.
Finally, Dean meets Sam's gaze head on, expression easing into something a little less distressed, the lines of his face smoothing out.
"Okay, Sammy?" he asks, voice roughened up with concern as if they've been separated for longer than fifteen minutes. His right hand rests on the nape of Sam's neck, thumb and palm pressing into the cut of Sam's jaw. If Sam tries to, he can make out the uneven scrape of the matching bite.
A satisfied curl winds in Sam's gut and he quirks a half smile in the face of Dean's overprotective concern.
"I was careful," he says, deceptively light. "I came back."
He sounds childishly proud, the way Sam always used to get as a kid, but he intends it to be pointed in its simplicity. A plain declaration of Sam's obvious ability to take care of himself. That was the whole point of this, wasn't it? Separating with the assurance that Sam would be fine and he was, of course.
At the nape of his neck, Dean's fingernails scratch gently at his hairline and his thumb presses against Sam's cheekbone with an assessing look.
A beat passes and Dean nods once, curt.
"Mm, my Sammy," he says just as simply.
Sam can't tell if Dean really gets it. If he really understands this means Sam can be trusted to go off on his own occasionally now and come back unharmed. Even if separating is a little hard, a little rough, they should be able to do it like normal brothers do.
He squints at Dean, disbelieving in the agreeable statement, but Dean's eyes have left his. They're wide and focused on Sam's mouth.
Dean seems to be leaning in, clear intent to take Sam's lips in his, and Sam can't say he doesn't find the prospect kind of agreeable. But he cuts his gaze over to Benny in the backseat, watching them with an amused interest, and he tilts backwards out of Dean's hold. It's tight and clinging and he has to use his hands to tug Dean's off him, as gentle as he can be.
Dean winds their fingers together, confused exhale huffing out.
It'll be easy to distract Dean from his endeavor to kiss Sam, earlier question prodding viciously at the back of Sam's head the way a tongue can't leave a loose tooth alone.
"What were you talking about? Before I came back." He keeps his tone indifferent, a casually affected curiosity.
His words wipe any satisfaction off Dean's face, expression shuttering as he immediately avoids Sam's neutral stare. The fingers in Sam's clench tight, twisting the bones a little too hard. Dean shoots Benny an angry, almost accusatory glare.
He has a few teeth bared, narrowed eyes, and he bites out, "Nothing Sammy."
It's clearly not nothing. Sam can see that pretty easily and he follows Dean's icy gaze to raise his eyebrows at Benny. Considering Benny doesn't seem to have any kind of suspicious loyalty to Dean at all, Sam can probably just ask him if Dean isn't willing to share.
Benny is meeting Dean's eyes, uncowed. Something seems to pass between the two, communicating in the twist of Dean's mouth and the unimpressed tug at the corner of Benny's lips. Neither of them are looking at Sam and once again he feels that irritating sense of being excluded, deliberately left out of whatever strange thing has happened between the two of them.
He should pry into this. He should demand Dean tell him the truth like before, outside the Impala with mating bites burning on his tongue. He wants to. He wants to shove at Dean just to break that eye contact, yell at him, kill Benny.
But everything about this exchange is odd. They both could've easily glossed over their secret conversation with some casual explanation and Sam probably would've bought it too. He would believe Dean was only threatening to tear out Benny's throat, warning him not to try anything on the drive to New Orleans.
Yet all Dean could manage was a suspicious nothing, an attempt to brush it off and away, and Benny is just as unwilling to elaborate. At the same time, they don't seem to have reached a consensus, there isn't some kind of unspoken agreement sitting in the air between them.
It feels like the opposite, some kind of dispute, some kind of tension. Swirling and thick and tinted with something inscrutable. Sam wants to sink his hand in it to fish out an explanation, deeper and deeper until something makes sense, but he doesn't think he'll be able to find anything. Not right now, not when he doesn't understand what's happening with them.
Later then.
Sam settles back against the passenger door and out of Dean's hold, dropping the subject. The space he puts between himself and Dean earns him an anxious grunt, Dean's head tilting to the side like he's worried Sam's mad.
"I got O negative, hope that works," Sam says, ignoring Dean to dig out a couple blood bags. They were pressed into the heat of Sam's body and now they feel oddly warm in his hands, like a pair of organs.
"Anything will do," Benny drawls, eyes catching the parking lot lights and sparking. He holds out meaty hands for Sam to drop the bags into and when he does, Dean jerks a little. Like he wants to yank Sam's away before he can get too close to Benny. But he keeps his hands to himself, settling instead for a disapproving growl of a breath, eyes attentive as Sam hands over the blood.
Benny eases back against the seat, fiddling with the top of a bag and digging in. Sam turns away so he doesn't have to see him suck warm blood into his mouth like it's a juice box.
He tugs out a syringe loaded up with dead man's blood and waves it high enough that Benny can't miss the black liquid thick in the barrel. It's sort of a warning.
Sam gets a grunt in response and assumes it's been acknowledged.
"This one's yours," Sam says to Dean, handing it over. Dean must remember how it works because he doesn't ask. The other syringe sits inside Sam's jacket, a reassurance against his side, and pushes it aside to tug his phone out. He goes back to the maps, pushing the interrogation he wants to lob at Dean to the back burner like he's become quite adept at later.
The port city of New Orleans is three hours south of Ferriday. That'll put them at the docks around 1 am even with the incoming rain which is probably a perfect time to meet up with a group of sketchy vampirates.
"New Orleans is a few hours away." Sam pats Dean's thigh once, in what he hopes is an encouraging gesture. A gesture that imbues the kind of energy he doesn't actually feel. A promise to believe what Dean told him, believe Dean hadn't said anything to Benny before Sam got back.
Dean chases that hand with his and catches it like he always does. His thumb presses along the worn, bruised and torn skin of the marks there. It sparks something agitated up through Sam's wrist and he quickly shakes his hand free, putting on his phone too.
"Just get back on the highway and head south," he says, pretending the screen has a very interesting bit of information on it so he won't have to meet Dean's eyes.
Dean exhales loudly, petulant and irritated, and finally shifts the Impala into reverse. They head out in silence, rain coming down slightly harder, and Dean follows Sam's directions without complaining. Sam can sense the staggered, distracted glances he sends Sam's way though, undoubtedly because he doesn't have a hold on him.
Sam doesn't humor the impulse and he doesn't reach over to bridge the distance. The minutes bleed into an hour and the view through the windshield changes little beyond the heavy barrage of rain pelting the glass.
Keeping to his side of the Impala, Sam's angled against the window for a while now, warring with curiosity and plain old annoyance about what Dean said to Benny. Not to mention everything else that makes Sam want to grit his teeth and start shooting. Like what happened to them in Purgatory, why they won't say it, what kind of relationship they had. How tired he is.
Eventually Sam's stomach decides to proclaim its lack of food, loud and gurgling, even over the Impala's engine. It earns him a glance from Dean who's clearly still unhappy with how he's had to keep both his hands on the wheel. Sam realizes they haven't eaten since before Liz's house and as the night rain pours down thunderously, he tallies up what's left in the cooler.
The convenience store food doesn't exactly sound appetizing but Sam's used to it and there should be a bag of corn chips. Maybe one of those ham sandwiches that are nothing more than a piece of meat between two slices of white bread. None of which is appealing at all to anything but Sam's empty stomach.
The urge to ignore it and continue stewing in his head is pretty strong, but eating would at least give him something to distract from all the what-have-you's storming around and making him all irritated. He pulls his lip between his teeth and slides upright so he can glance over at Benny.
Dean doesn't miss anything, shooting Sam big eyed looks under a frown that Sam promptly ignores. "Hey, can you reach in there," he points at the cooler Benny has propped himself against, an arm over the lid. "Hand me anything that looks remotely like food."
If Benny doesn't appreciate the role he's apparently taken as caterer in the backseat, the only indication is a quiet scoff. He pops open the lid with a creak of weak plastic and muddles around inside. The sandwich appears, alongside a water bottle, both fitting into Benny's single hand easily.
Benny holds them up, "This good enough?"
Sam nods, reaching over to delicately take the items in a way that keeps their skin from touching. He remembers the corpse-like cold of vampires and he doesn't enjoy it.
"Thanks," Sam says without thought, settling back and peeling the packaging of the sandwich open. He can practically hear Dean's grinding teeth, whether because he's hungry too or because Sam was talking to the vampirate and taking things from his hands. Sam bets it's both.
"You hungry?" he asks, grabbing one of the pre-sliced bread triangles out of its plastic wrap. They can split the halves if Dean's starving too, which he should be since he hasn't eaten since Sam ate.
There isn't an immediate response and Sam takes a bite off the corner, glancing over at Dean peripherally as he chews. Dean turns his whole head to look at Sam straight on, eyes jumping from the sandwich to Sam and back again.
Sam's about to tell him to please watch the road, but Dean turns away before he can swallow his dry food.
A hand whips out to snatch the sandwich right out of Sam's fingers, like a particularly vicious bird.
Sam startles, glaring over at Dean with a slackening jaw. "What the hell?"
The question hasn't even completely left Sam's mouth when Dean chomps into the sandwich, practically inhaling the entire thing in one fell swoop. Sam's eyebrows dance this little twitchy disbelieving thing and he smacks Dean's bicep in full offense.
"Dude, I was eating that," he admonishes, staring forlornly down at the other half of the sandwich in his lap. He was going to give that one to Dean, but apparently it's his now.
Sam's mildly annoyed.
He grows severely annoyed when Dean shoves the very last bite of his sandwich back under Sam's nose. As if Sam would want it or something. He flinches back and side eyes Dean with his mouth twisted in distaste.
"I don't want that," he says like it's obvious, because it should be. Dean grunts and waves it again, a demand. Sam's pretty sure it's actually just bread at this point.
He's about to protest again when the Impala starts to veer towards the shoulder, Dean's preoccupation with shoving his leftovers down Sam's throat distracting him enough to drift to the right. The wheel is expertly maneuvered back and Baby adjusts onto the highway center with only a subtle jerk.
"Dean seriously, pay attention," he says, pushing at Dean's wrist in front of his face.
"Take it, Sammy," Dean replies, and Sam really can't understand this hill he seems determined to die on. But the Impala is drifting off course again.
"Fine, whatever," Sam mutters, picking the last bite out of Dean's fingers and popping it into his mouth with not a small amount of irritation. Dean drops his hand to Sam's thigh and lets it sit there, apparently never having planned to return it to the wheel.
The Impala mysteriously drives straight with ease.
Sam glares at Dean's offending hand, debating how much force he would need to crush it with the end of his water bottle. He fishes out the other half of the sandwich.
"You want the first bite of this one? I'd like to actually eat it," he says, only slightly as bitchy as he feels. He mostly doesn't mean it but Dean cocks his head in his direction and opens his mouth expectantly, still watching the road from the side.
Sam wishes he had something else to shove in there, like his fist maybe.
But he just wants Dean to pay attention to the road in the damn rainstorm and so he holds it up to Dean's lips with an angry exhale. Dean bites off a chunk and chews happily, returning to the stretch of wet highway and humming in satisfaction.
After squinting at him for a few long, supremely tired seconds, Sam regards the last of the sandwich in his fingers. It's significantly less appetizing with a bite taken out and it wasn't even that appetizing in the first place.
As Sam tries to enjoy the sandwich, or lack thereof, a chuckle comes from behind him. It's low and rough, entirely too entertained. Sam peers over his shoulder into the dark of the backseat, shooting Benny what he hopes is an extremely dissatisfied stare.
"Something funny?" he asks after swallowing a bite.
Benny's face is mostly cast in a shadow, flickering with the swipe of the windshield wipers, but it's easy to make out the smile.
"Nah," he draws out the vowel and his eyes dart over to the back of Dean's head. "He always like that?"
A growl rumbles in Dean's chest, the hand resting on Sam's thigh curling a fist in his jeans, clutching at him. Sam ignores his obvious distaste for the subject. "Like what?" he asks, shifting so he can more comfortably see Benny behind him. The hand with the last bit of his sandwich props up along the back of the seat.
Benny's bright eyes are still watching Dean, like the cut of his hair has revealed something very important. He huffs another light chuckle.
"Nothing," he finally says, sitting up straighter to procure the last bag of blood. As he tears into it, Sam assumes the conversation is effectively over on his part. The immediate request for elaboration clambers up his throat again, but he doesn't get a chance to say it.
Dean snatches the last bite of the sandwich right out of Sam's fingers, shoving it in his mouth with a grumble. It draws Sam's attention away from Benny like it was a coordinated effort, incredulous and more than slightly fed up.
He bats away Dean's hand when it comes back to rest on his thigh. "Hell no, sandwich thief," he says while uncapping his water bottle. Dean pouts and lets his hand rest pathetically on the bench between them like a wounded puppy. Sam ignores it.
Taking a healthy swig of room temperature water, Sam can't help but think that this sequence of events is kind of familiar. Dean stealing his food. Dean forcing Sam to eat. That first time eating fast food and Dean shoving his fries at Sam, insistent. The same at the roadhouse too, and Dean snatching Sam's beers away to down them shamelessly, especially memorable that night in the Impala when Dean kissed him.
There's some kind of odd behavior pattern Sam's only just now realizing exists. Something he hasn't bothered to question or notice but now, with Benny's amusement leaving a bad taste in his mouth, it seems significant. Something new and strange that Benny knows about, something not unlike mating bites.
Sam inwardly cringes, squeezing his plastic bottle too hard. He doesn't want to suddenly read into every little strange thing Dean does now, overanalyze and worry that it's something deeper, that they're all somehow related to Benny's revelation.
But he can't help it, the whole bites thing is still gnawing away at his insides, subtle and easy to ignore if he properly distracts himself with more pertinent things. He doesn't want to try and work out how he feels about them, about anything Benny has said or will say.
"Sammy," Dean says roughly, forcing Sam out of his thoughts. The hand that rested on the seat between them raises, open and waiting. Sam stares at it. He can't tell if Dean wants it held or something else.
Dean clears his throat. "Thirsty."
There's definitely a pattern. Sam hands the water bottle over, watching as Dean takes it, curious and uncomprehending. Dean downs all of it but the very last gulp and hands it back to Sam.
"If you're gonna drink that much just finish it," Sam says instead of taking it, frowning at Dean, scrutinizing.
Dean only scowls and shoves the almost empty plastic into Sam's chest. He lets go and forces Sam to scramble for it so the water doesn't pour all over him. "Dean!" Sam holds the bottle aloft, checking his shirt for spills. "What's with you?" he mutters, more to himself, because he already knows Dean isn't going to answer.
"You finish it," Dean says easily enough, less rough than usual. He reaches over to tap the knuckle of his index fingers against the mouth of the bottle.
Sam really doesn't know what to make of it. He almost wishes he could go back to three hours ago when he didn't think every odd quirk of Dean's secretly meant something more.
Surely, sharing food and drinks can't possibly mean anything as crazy as mating bites, right? Sam isn't reassured by the thought, a fluttering in his gut making him anxious. He drinks the water anyway, painfully aware of Dean's quick glance at him as he does.
Benny even laughs a laugh that quietly dissolves into a small cough. He's either trying to cover up the fact he was laughing or he's choking on that O negative.
If they weren't currently cruising down the highway going seventy in a rainstorm, Sam feels like he would point a knife at both of them and demand someone explain.
Dean's hand inching its way back onto his thigh would make an easy target and Sam scowls. He crunches up the empty plastic bottle, pretending it's Dean's head, while he stares out the windshield in silence.
He already decided he would pry the information out of Dean later, whatever he and Benny were talking about before, whatever the mating bites shit means to him, what all he remembers of Purgatory. Everything. Later when Benny isn't right there to stir everything up. It's the only thing that keeps him calm, despite how much he feels half like a kid who's been left out of an inside joke and half like he's being lied to by someone he trusts.
Sam's churning thoughts and the lulling beat of rain on the Impala's roof distract him enough to be thoroughly thrown when Dean's hand grabs his upper arm and heaves Sam into his side. The world tilts sideways and Sam almost falls into Dean's lap all over again.
Dean certainly isn't letting him go free anytime soon, if the way he's dug in is indication enough. Sam finds himself lopsided, left hand commandeered into Dean's lap and fingers wound around each other like one of those twisted nails puzzles. No freedom in sight.
He has to slump in the bench seat to make up for his canted upper half, unwilling to fully collapse onto Dean the way Dean has done before. In protest, Sam should tear himself free, he should resituate himself with some much needed distance. Maybe not just protest, maybe punishment. For being secretive, for making Sam second guess him.
Sam's angry, he's frustrated with everything about Dean right now. But at the same time, the prospect of pulling away from him, of enforcing space for any longer, only reminds him of the hospital. The way his skin felt peeled and raw without Dean close and pressed against him. In spite of his pride, Sam stays still.
As the highway disappears under the Impala's speeding bumper, the rain comes down even harder than before, attacking the windshield in noisy thuds as the wipers furiously whip back and forth. Sam has fallen asleep to these sounds hundreds of times throughout his life, curling up against Dean, relaxed and warm.
This time Sam can't bring himself to even close his eyes. Several trains of thought are tied to various corners of his brain and they pull along in opposing directions, threatening to tear his head in half. He really is tired, still dully aching from the grave digging and the endless day they've already had. He wishes he could put the anxious skepticism away for a few minutes and sleep.
But the events of the past day have him reeling, a super 8 film playing scenes and dialogue of everything that doesn't make sense.
He's most troubled by Dean. It sounds dumb as hell when he thinks about it but he can't dispose of that pricking needle in his skin, the one that lets Benny's words get to him. The worst part is he knows it isn't just what Benny said, what he's been implying, whatever he and Dean seem to share.
The idea that Dean could deliberately hide things about Purgatory from Sam, it's not a new one.
Sam has suspected Dean isn't being entirely truthful for a while now, at least since they pulled into Clayton and he started saying full sentences like he always knew how. Like he never forgot. From that to his insistent, desperate begging to cut Benny's soul out of his arm. Dean seemed adamant to avoid bringing Benny back, avoid interrogating him. Avoid learning what Benny knows.
There are times when Dean almost seems to be himself, pulling out his smarmy playboy attitude with Liz like it was nothing for one thing. When he speaks without struggling, remembers how to do things from before, licks into Sam's mouth with expertise, and stares at Sam with that look Sam's never understood but always recognized. It's like he's still Dean. It's like he remembers.
What all he remembers, Sam wishes he knew. It adds up strangely, a puzzle with jagged mismatched edges.
Benny wasn't bullshitting when he called the identical bites in Sam and Dean's skin mating bites. Dean all but spelled it out when he tried to kill Benny for mentioning it, when he clung to Sam with anxious eyes, when he bit back into the wounds anyway, staring back at Sam and willing him to understand.
There wasn't disagreement, just fear.
Now, as Dean massages his index finger along the impression of his teeth in Sam's palm, Sam wonders if he wasn't just worried. Worried and scared Sam would be angry with him. For hiding it, for doing it.
In a way, Sam is.
Not necessarily because they both share some weird Purgatory version of wedding rings scarred into their hands. But because he had to hear about it from Benny. The vampirate who seems to know Dean, or know about him anyway.
If Benny was right about the bites, then who's to say he isn't also right about other things? Namely, how he seems quite sure Dean is choosing not to tell Sam about what happened in Purgatory.
If Dean isn't telling Sam, then Dean remembers. If Dean remembers, why wouldn't he say something? Why would he hide it? Is it because he's ashamed of what he did there? Ashamed of what he's done now?
Sam glances up through his hair to drag his eyes along Dean's profile, dimly illuminated by the Impala's headlights.
He tries to see something else, some hint as to what's really going on with Dean, but all he sees is his brother. Scruffier than usual, but still the relaxed and clingy and sated and Dean behind the wheel. Dean who Sam has kissed. Dean who has kissed Sam. Dean who's wrapped his lips around Sam's dick and Dean who's come down Sam's throat.
The heat that flares in Sam's gut is immediately incinerated with a hotter shame, sweat beading on his brow. He doesn't regret this weird tilt to their relationship, in all its guilt inducing, handwringing reality. He can't lie to himself forever. He enjoys it too fucking much to give it back, but he can't fight the culpable, insistent fear that overtakes him when he thinks about it too hard, the nervous and frantic and scared but what about Dean?
What about Dean?
There's an implicit mistrust in their dynamic, one that has probably always been there in some capacity, exploited by demons and angels and monsters alike. Sam doesn't know what to make of Dean like this, feral and adoring and bloody, naked and keening, and my Sammy. He doesn't know why Dean would hide anything from him, why he would force Sam to have to work alongside a vampirate for information.
Sam might've thought, maybe, if Dean really had been choosing not to tell him about Purgatory then Benny would've been the last straw. That the possibility of helping a vampirate for those secrets he's keeping would've been enough to break him. That Dean would be so averse to doing anything but killing Benny, he'd tell Sam everything.
But it didn't happen like that.
Could he really be hiding something so bad? Or has he honestly forgotten it all and can't figure out how to say it? Sam can't say the latter is sounding all that likely lately. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek and stares at the raindrops the wipers can't reach. They run up the windshield with the wind and leave tracks behind.
Sam just wants answers. He just wants Dean to tell him everything, explain it all away, kiss Sam's mouth in apology and let Sam fix him.
It's a pipe dream. He can't help but blame Dean for it.
Dean was in Purgatory, fighting dead monsters to keep from being torn apart, a lonely human in a realm of beasts. A Dean without his Sam. In some ways, it must make sense that Dean has become what he's become. A beast in his own Dean way.
If that's the case, Sam wishes Dean would just say that. Say it with those words he knows how to speak, not the growls and bites he insists on using instead.
A familiar flare of irritation simmers in Sam's chest. It's directed at Dean, at his insistence for being so Dean but ten times worse. The protective, clingy, jealous brother Sam's known his whole life now laced with the sting of teeth and wet warmth of spit, to mess with Sam's perception, his feelings.
Everything's gone off kilter with them, and Sam wants to believe, however misplaced, that if Dean would just tell him everything, it would fall back into place, right itself its proper axis.
Then Sam wouldn't have to sit in the passenger seat of the Impala, stealing glances at his beautiful brother and wondering if that burning, flushed sensation throbbing up from his bite up into his mouth is something different. Something more than love, more than family.
Sam nudges his knuckle against Dean's bite wound and hates that he enjoys the thrill it floods through his system. Whatever it is.
The Winchesters have driven through New Orleans countless times. As a family, as individuals separated for the first time, as two brothers looking for their father—as whatever they are now.
It's a muggy city, somehow still vibrant and full of color despite the permanent cloy of aftermath that clings to every victorian building and sings of disasters endured, of help that never came.
But the city rebuilt for itself a reputation, one that lurks in the rumble of every street car, behind the soft beat of drums that spills past mainstreet from those looking to earn a quick buck, inside the cajun swirl of delicious gumbo stewing in the nearest restaurants.
Sam likes New Orleans, in theory. He never quite stayed long enough to call it anything other than a pitstop.
It hasn't changed since Sam and Dean last rolled through, more subdued in the early winter months than usual, and soaked through now that a storm has rolled by. They're driving into the heart of the city, following vague instructions to head southeast towards the ports and little else.
Dean rolls the Impala over the rails of a track as they roll up to a stoplight, and Sam glances back at Benny. He's cleaned out his two bags of blood and he looks less gaunt now than he ever has since popping out of that grave.
"This ringing a bell for you?" Sam asks, waving his free hand around at the general layout of the city all around them. Obviously, Benny didn't exactly have an address they could throw into the GPS and drive towards. Nothing more than the docks to go on and when Sam asked for specifics, Benny only remarked he would recognize it the closer they got to the sea.
They kept driving south until the skies cleared the rain and the air still felt wet.
Benny's staring out the window with light eyes, catching the glow of buildings that never sleep in their depths. Something not quite a smile hints under his beard. It might be the most authentically pleased expression Sam's ever seen on Benny's face.
"Very much so," Benny says in that careful way of speaking, each word it's own beat. "The port's just a few blocks further this way. Follow the signs to the shippin' cargo docks and we'll get there." He sounds confident, the way a small town man gives directions to the nearest gas station, a route walked hundreds of times over years and years.
Dean grunts a general acknowledgement, driving through a green light and skimming over the signs as they pass. They read several different shipping companies as the Impala gradually eases out of the hustle and bustle of city streets and towards emptier docks. Sam can only hope that the area remains relatively unchanged since Benny's last visit half a century ago.
It's a few more minutes of near aimless driving, Dean occasionally flicking impatient glances at Benny through the rearview mirror and Benny just murmuring, "A little more now."
Finally, there's a quiet chuff from the backseat as they come upon the fairly new looking sign reading Southern Wing Shipping in gold with a clipart of a boat in the bottom and a phone number.
"That's it," Benny says, pointing past the sign to a fairly large cargo ship about half a mile in the distance. It's not nearly as sleek as Sam thought it would be given that these vampire pirates have been operating for a hundred years now. But he assumes it's more low key appearance blends in easily which is likely what pirates would want.
Between the Impala and the ship in question, a wire fence with a padlock and chain runs parallel to the sea. Unsurprising, considering the port isn't exactly a tourist area.
"I'm assuming vampirates could hear us coming?" Sam asks and the Impala's constant rumble seems to punctuate the question. The ship itself might be far off, but vampire senses can't be taken lightly. Baby isn't meant for stealth either.
Benny only hums, eyeing the cargo ship with an intensity that Sam can find familiar. Back down the road they came, there was a parking lot with a smattering of cars out of view of the ship. Sam taps Dean's shoulder to direct him, but Dean was already looking at him. He offers a small smile.
"Let's park her back there. Go the rest of the way on foot."
When the Impala's comforting growl is no longer competing with the Gulf of Mexico's crashing waves, Sam leans against the passenger door to face Benny. They'll need a plan of action.
"How exactly are you thinking of doing this?" Sam asks, already mapping out the potential avenues. Benny adjusts his position in the back seat, drumming fingers against the door.
"Better if I go alone, I think," he starts, staring at the boat behind the wired fence like it has all the answers to any questions ever asked. "Can't exactly bring two hunters with me."
Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat, frowning with ill concealed skepticism. "And they're gonna be happy to see you?" He says it like the question it isn't. Benny's story from before, about being murdered by his old crew at the behest of his maker seems to suggest otherwise.
Benny catches Sam's eyes and cracks a crooked smile, human teeth glowing under the lights of the docks.
"Nah, they wanna shove a knife down my craw as much as y'all," he says and chuckles, raising his hands to crack a few knuckles. "But I wanna kill 'em myself, after I get what I need."
Sam doesn't doubt it, but he also isn't about to let Benny out of his sight. Not when he can't be trusted and he still hasn't elaborated on anything at all regarding Purgatory or Dean. Sam might have tried prodding him for small details on the drive in, but they both know the information is the only thing keeping Benny alive.
"Okay well, you can't go in there alone," Sam says, turning back to scan the general area. It's empty, which isn't unusual this late on a Sunday night, and Sam can at least appreciate that they won't have to worry too much about wayward humans getting caught up in the crossfire.
While there hadn't been anywhere to subtly hide the Impala, there are several locked shipping crates stacked in the dulled vibrancy of primary colors. Easy enough for Sam and Dean to use for cover and stakeout the proceedings with dead man's blood and a couple machetes.
"Any idea where the crew of vampirates is?" he asks, already formulating a vague idea of a plan. As long as the targets don't already have eyes on them anyways. Benny exhales a noisy breath, still staring out at that cargo ship.
"They'd be on the ship there," he says. "Ain't out 'n about right now, if that's what you're asking." Sam nods and glances down at the duffle bag by his feet. Over the drive, he dug out the rest of the human blood bags from his pockets and shoved them inside, along with the third syringe of dead man's blood.
"What's your gameplan here? Get on the boat?"
Benny snorts, shaking his head when the noise earns him a look from Sam.
"Hell no, they'd tear me apart there." He adjusts the collar of his shirt like he's preparing to leave. "Nah, the moment I show up by that dock they'll be on me."
Sam frowns. "Who's they exactly?"
Benny mulls the question around in his mouth for a long second.
"For sure a man goes by Quentin, I know he wouldn't have gotten chopped. Always willin' to bow at God's feet as he was. Maybe a few more of his crew. No more than three manning the boat at any time. S'for stashing what we stole," he says and he's being oddly forthcoming with their order of operations.
Sam nods along, because even if it isn't true and this is secretly some trap Benny's worked up to ambush them, he's not worried. They've slaughtered a whole nest with much less of an arsenal at hand before, not to mention he's been wanting to stab Benny for a while anyway. Still, he's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
"You can take on three?" he asks.
There's the implication of offered help in his words. Conveniently, they're three between them, and Sam and Dean can each handle a vamp without issue if need be. Benny licks his human teeth, glancing from Sam to the side of Dean's head. Sam doesn't enjoy the way his gaze lingers there, as if assessing Dean's usefulness. The way one might assess a dog before a fight.
The hand Sam has resting on the back of the seat curls into a fist, just a few inches shy of Dean's shoulder. "I think the best bet is you head down there first, through the gate like normal. We'll go the opposite way. Be around if you need help."
It's purposely vague.
Sam intends to keep to an undesignated area of shipping containers after cutting through the fence. He won't tell Benny that because, while he's reasonably sure at this point that Benny isn't intending to turn around and jump them with his crew tonight, it doesn't hurt to be cautious. Even if they could handle anything, Sam doesn't exactly want to fight for his life tonight. Especially not with the way Dean is.
Benny closes his eyes a moment and nods slowly. "Alright, you got yourself a plan, brother," he says, cracking a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but is certainly as convincing as it needs to be.
"Try not to need our help," Sam says, parting words as Benny leaves the backseat with the screech of the Impala's door.
He watches Benny skirt the chassis and head back towards the locked entrance with a stroll that's almost casual in it's confidence, relaxed. They can't trust him not to round the corner and disappear into the night forever, taking everything he claims to know about Dean with him.
But they don't have another choice and it burns Sam more than he thought it would. His only consolation is the conviction that he would chase Benny down if he tried to run. He would hunt him to the ends of the sea if he had to.
Beside him, Dean bridges the distance with reaching hands. He grabs Sam's jacket and tugs him a little, hard enough to be a silent reprimand.
"Sammy, let's not," he says, grinding the words out like each one is traitorous. Sam inclines his head back so he can see Dean properly, pretending not to notice how his jacket is being clawed at.
"Little late to protest now," he says, maybe too lightly and raising his hands to hold Dean's wrists. There's an unhappy huff, a little shake.
"I'm serious," he says, voice rough and lips pursed. Green eyes cast quick, nervous glances back at the cargo ship through the windshield and those angry dimples appear. "Don't wanna." It sounds a bit petulant and Sam opens his mouth to say so, but Dean yanks him close. Their breaths mix and Sam's shuts his mouth. "Don't want you hurt."
It takes a couple seconds to get his thoughts back in order, staring at Dean's lips like he's been doing so much more now. Or always has been, maybe now he just acknowledges it, feels like it's okay to acknowledge.
He stops and starts to form the right words to argue Dean's point, mouth opening and closing like an idiot, before finally settling on the ever well-said, "We have to."
He pulls hard at Dean's wrist, not hard enough to force him to let go, but hard enough to make a point. Dean acquiesces, fingers sliding free from Sam's jacket with a reluctant slowness. He looks like he doesn't have a counterpoint, but very much wishes his opinion was enough of a reason.
Sam shakes his head with a big inhale, extricating himself completely from Dean. He grabs the duffel from the footwell, alongside the machete from earlier.
"C'mon, if we're lucky Benny didn't pull a cut and run," Sam says, pushing his way out of the Impala and knowing Dean will follow.
They have to get another machete and some wire cutters from the trunk, but after that Sam leads the way through the maze of cars to the back of the wired fence, up against the large shipping containers. Dean all the while is sticking to his side and watching every possible point of attack like the vampirates will come crawling out of the dark at any moment.
In this instance, at least, his paranoia isn't misplaced. Sam tries not to think too hard about how maybe Dean is like this because of Purgatory, anxious and alert and suspicious.
There's a swell of empathy in Sam's chest as he crouches down to clip the wires, Dean pressing in close to his back like a warm, protective blanket. Sam doesn't shake him off. He doesn't even push at the fist Dean's got around his arm as he works to clip an opening through the fence.
The night is still quiet save for the steady calm of the ocean waves lapping at the dock with splashing gulps of sound. Benny hasn't run into any of his old crew yet, but by Sam's estimation, he should be nearing the cargo ship in the next few seconds.
"Careful," he whispers under his breath, and he knows Dean will hear it because his ear is right near Sam's mouth as he crouches over him. "The wires are sharp."
They slide through without issue, Sam holding the more razor like edges out and away from Dean as they do. Sam's the one wearing a whole canvas jacket, but Dean's still got nothing aside from a thin sleep shirt on. The contrast and Dean's vulnerability makes Sam's toes curl in his boots as they head in the direction of the ship, slipping from container to container and eyes on alert.
There's the faint mumble of low, angry voices as they grow nearer, finally coming up behind the set of containers closest to the docks. There are four stacked atop each other like a small tower and plenty tall enough to completely hide them from sight.
When Sam peers around the side, he sees Benny there, glaring at a white, yuppie looking man in a suave suit and coiffed hair. Sam assumes from look and demeanor alone that this one is Quentin. He's circling Benny, much like a cat might its prey, and Sam can't quite make out the conversation, but the tones are undoubtedly hostile.
Just the two of them stand outside the boat entrance exchanging unpleasantries, which Sam immediately takes for a good sign that Benny was wrong about more vampirates coming. As if to squash that hope, two huge silhouettes appear in the light of the docks. At their entrance, Dean growls low and throaty from where he's poised at Sam's back, fingers blunt and digging into Sam's shoulder. Sam can't tell if it's restraining or not.
Benny was right, it's a three on one. Vampires, especially vampirates, don't have a shred of integrity.
All three of them jump Benny in the kind of fight that humans aren't supposed to make sense of. It really makes Sam grateful for all the times they've had the element of surprise on their side when raiding nests. Benny goes down and back up in a matter of a second, the flinging of limbs and baring of fangs and hissed threats exploding into the quiet like an action blur.
Sam internally cheers Benny on, hoping for their sake that they don't have to intervene on his behalf. At Sam's back, Dean is tense and that claw digging into his shoulder is clutching even harder. A soft and angry growl vibrates his chest and Sam imagines he can feel it through his jacket. He doesn't tear his eyes away to check on Dean, letting him cling close just as Sam's clinging to the machete in his hand.
It's impossible to tell if Dean is so high strung because there's a quartet of bloodthirsty vampirates trying to tear each other's arms off ten feet away, or because Sam's within walking distance of said vampirates. Sam has to admit, it's almost grotesquely animal how those creatures fight each other, clawing and tearing and biting at hard flesh.
One of the unnamed cronies loses most of his right arm when Benny gets it in his teeth, ripping the skin right off, along with the hand. Sam cringes, not exactly enjoying the horror show as Quentin pins Benny down from behind, prepping him for the other backup vamp to claw into his leg.
They must be trying to hamper his ability to walk and make him easy to serve back to their maker once he's been subdued. Sam's fingers hurt from squeezing the hilt of the machete so hard.
Benny manages to fling off the extra lackey with a few flailing kicks, but Quentin has doubled down on Benny's chest, digging the heel of his shoe in and crouching down so he can tear into Benny's scrabbling arms.
The injured vampirate without a hand presses back in at Benny's face, blocking his view so he can't react to the other's sharp claws digging into the flesh of his shaking leg. Blood spurts up along with a muffled shout that's undoubtedly Benny. Then the leg stops kicking to be free, lying limp under the vampirate's hands.
Sam breathes shallowly, muscles bunching up in preparation to interfere. Benny's a good fighter from what Sam can see but not even he could hold his own with a fucked up leg. Dean's fingers dig into Sam's skin so hard it actually aches and Sam winces, attention diverting.
A hushed, warning, "Sammy," ghosts over his ear and sends a cool splash of water down Sam's back. He doesn't move, watching as Benny gets his fangs into the one handed lackey, shredding his throat in a spray of flesh.
There's more shouting as Quentin moves off Benny to shove at the other vampirate and get him out of the way as he screams. Quentin's aiming for Benny's neck, a splayed hand with nails out ready to break through the flesh with supernatural strength. The last vampirate stops his work on Benny's good leg to get his arms secured, keeping him from scratching at Quentin.
A moment, flashing, and Sam knows Benny isn't going to be able to get out of this one. Not with an intact esophagus anyways. Call Sam shallow, but the only part of Benny that's useful to him is his vocal cords and barring that, his ability to write.
Both of which are in immediate danger.
"C'mon," he hisses to Dean, syringe of dead man's blood secure in his pocket and machete brandished. It takes a surprising amount of strength to pull out of Dean's grip, and the angrily hissed, "Sammy no-" that Sam ignores.
He's rushing out from behind the container as Quentin descends on Benny's throat, no doubt with the intention to decapitate him, maker be damned. Sam hears the frustrated growl of Dean from behind and they're too far away to make it before Benny's neck is destroyed, so he shouts.
"Hey, Yuppie!"
Quentin spins around as if called by name and there's a confused shadow to his smug, country club face. Sam raises his hands up, machete out, making himself a very large and obvious target. He only needs to get Quentin off Benny for the next couple seconds, long enough that Benny isn't in immediate danger of being sent straight back to Purgatory.
But Quentin doesn't go after Sam himself, he flicks his head at his uninjured lackey who immediately spins around, baring vampire fangs at Sam. It rushes forward, hissing like a spitting cat, and Sam's already swinging his machete back out in front of him to stop it.
Before the vampirate can even get within reach, Dean is there.
Faster than Sam's ever seen him move, Dean full body tackles the vampirate to the concrete with a guttural, warning roar of a sound that echoes off the metal of the shipping containers. Sam's wide eyed as Dean bares his own human teeth, lips curling back, and slices his own machete clean through the hand that goes for his face.
It's almost instantaneous, how quickly he rears the blade around and swings it down. Right into the vampirate's neck, it separates the head from torso in one fluid motion. Blood sprays up and over his face, but Dean doesn't even stop to wipe it away, rolling to the side and back onto his feet in a crouch.
Quentin is watching them, expression slightly unsettled. He hisses, kicking at Benny in obvious fury, and aiming for Dean head on. Sam springs forward too, not quite trusting Dean's Purgatory training to render him as invincible as he apparently feels. But Quentin isn't alone as he practically collides with Dean, grappling for his dominant arm, and the last vampirate with the mangled hand aims for Sam.
Benny isn't going to be of any more use tonight from the looks of his prone form behind the charging vampirate, and Sam raises his machete to block the sharpened fangs going for his throat. He stumbles back with the force of it, his blade cutting into the vampirate's cheeks where it's sunk into an open mouth.
The strangled howl that follows sends Sam fumbling away, pulling his machete back with a wet noise. He narrowly avoids getting a broken arm from a swinging fist, rushing out of the vampire's immediate attack range. If Sam even had half of Dean's ferocity right now, maybe he could also just launch himself on the vampirate, use his size to slam it to the concrete and slice its head off without breaking a sweat.
But he can't get the jump on him now, not when the injured vampirate is spitting and rushing him, eyes trained on Sam like a targeting system. It's taking every bit of his concentration to block and dodge each one.
A strong left swing with the mauled arm has more force in it than Sam anticipates, slamming into his wrist and knocking the machete free. It clatters to the ground, not loud enough over the growls of the other fight, but Sam has to step back rapidly to avoid a second, stronger fist coming at him.
He recoils back just in time, but then the vampirate is jutting forward with more speed than Sam's seen it do until now. It catches him caught off guard, a fist wrapping in his jacket and jerking him forward. He's headbutted by what amounts to a solid rock, bright pain erupting in his skull like an ugly migraine, splotches of light dancing in his eyes.
Momentarily stunned, Sam exhales heavily through his nose and grabs at the vampirate's wrist as it reels back with its fangs out. It's going to go for his throat, Sam's seen this before plenty of times, the angle of its head, the way its lips pull back and its fangs extend. The vampirate is about to tear Sam's throat out and he scrambles, frantically trying to get free with an almost whimper choking up in his chest.
His foot wedges between their bodies, preparing with every bit of strength to kick the vampirate away from him before he can reach Sam's neck. The wet heat of spit dripping fangs ghosts over Sam's sweaty skin and he's just about to shove when the vampirate is ripped off of him like a bandaid tearing free.
Sam practically collapses forward at the sudden absence of the vampirate's weight, catching himself from slamming down into the concrete with hands on his knees. He's sucking in great gulps of air, panting hard, and then there's the sound of snarling like he's never heard before.
With a frantic glance Sam spots Quentin's mangled corpse just feet away, torn up into an unrecognizable pile without a head. All Sam can make out is a blazer beneath the dark blood and the unclean edges of his shredded neck stump. It's like his head was sawed off, rather than cleanly cut.
In front of him, Dean is coated in the red of vampirate flesh and blood, lips still pulled back in that vicious snarl, growl ripping from his chest like the rev of the Impala's engine.
He doesn't have the machete anymore, pummeling the vampirate's face with sickening crunches that Sam can only hope aren't Dean's knuckles. He punches so hard and so angrily the vampirate's fanged mouth caves in, giving way to more blood, fountaining out and around in dark rivers.
Only then is Dean finally satisfied. His hands, soaked so thoroughly it's like he's wearing gloves, move to dig into the shredded flesh of the vampirate's throat. With a heavy exhale, Dean sinks his nails into the gnarled flesh, tearing into its skin like it's nothing more than moist clay in the earth.
Sam doesn't move, frozen in a horrified fascination as Dean scoops out bits of skin and gore with his fingers, digging so deeply into the vampirate's throat he essentially decapitates it with his hands alone.
There's a sickening, wet crunch of Dean's grip on the vampirate's spine, breaking it into separate pieces and rendering it dead. Sam's stomach churns, but he can't look away. The dark, viscous blood drips off the tips of Dean's fingers as he raises his hands out of the shredded corpse, almost delicate.
From where he's standing just a few feet off, Sam can only see Dean's profile. Half his face is cast in the shadow of the dock light, but Sam clearly sees his feral snarl slide into a satisfied, toothy smirk. Sam hesitates, breath catching and holding in his chest, because he doesn't understand what that means. He can only blink, curious.
Dean shoves off the vampirate's corpse with a grunt and then his eyes go wide. The smirk falls away as he frantically looks around, lips parted for anxious sounds.
His gaze lands on Sam like a bolt sliding home, locking into place and trapping him there. Dean's face is coated in blood, completely drenched like he's the star of a slasher film, but his eyes are big and worried, and he whines out a desperate, "Sammy?"
Sam nods, an answer to an unasked question, holding his hands out to show he's unhurt. In the next breath, Dean's at his side, still so quick, so much lighter on his feet than Sam's used to.
Those gory, blood slick hands grab Sam's face at the jaw and tug him down so Dean can check his throat, ensure the vampirate hadn't gotten its fangs in him. Sam allows himself to be jerked back and forth as Dean does his check, hands flying all over and leaving dark prints of blood in their wake.
"I'm okay," Sam says quietly. He's honestly more concerned about Dean, seeing as he's now dispatched three vampirates on his own and he's absolutely coated in pieces of them.
Dean grunts, a soft rumble in his throat, and then he's grabbing Sam's face again to press their mouths together.
It's urgent and furious anxiety, warm and wet and disgusting, and Sam doesn't pull away. He lets that feral weight slide into his mouth and settle in his chest. He can't even protest.
His lips will be red too after Dean lets him go.
Notes:
whew, i always cut it so close lately haha it's because i leave stuff til the last minute and then i'm scrambling smh like my whole college career. who else likes dean covered in blood and killing things?? it's surely not just me...
the next chapter is friday july 24! (at least in the US timezone ^^;)
Chapter 19: After
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Benny looks rough.
Sam is covered in imprints of Dean's red hands when he finally has half a mind to spare for the only vampirate to make it out alive. Thanks in no small part to Dean's effective murder spree that was only cut short because of his subsequent Sam-related distraction. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if Dean tried to kill Benny too while Sam was busy if Sam wasn't busily in danger.
Benny's spread out, unmoving, on the concrete and at first glance Sam wasn't sure he actually had gotten out alive. He can make out the sad remnants of what used to be Benny's right leg, smashed and ground up into a shredded sack of flesh. There's still blood seeping out of several other wounds, chest all scratched up and left arm split open.
Vampires probably can't die from exsanguination or losing a couple limbs, but it's disquieting to see him in such a state. Especially still conscious and talking.
"We should get to the boat there," Benny says, coughing out a sputtering of blood. It dribbles down his chin and soaks into the white cotton of his shirt.
Sam's crouched beside him with Dean draped over his back like the world's heaviest poncho. Both Sam and Benny are in an apparent silent agreement not to verbally acknowledge anything, as Dean clings close with his arms hanging off Sam's shoulders.
Since smearing vampirate blood on Sam's lips, Dean has become tumorous. He's sticking to Sam's body as if he was born from there, sprouted up out of Sam's back as an irritating growth that's very firmly attached. No concern for the gross bits of gore he's pasting onto Sam's jacket.
Sam didn't try to tell him to lay off or wiggle free. When Dean stared up at him that feral shine in his eyes was brighter than the blood smudged around them and seemed to promise something dangerous if Sam tried to escape.
More than that, privately to himself, Sam feels like he's wearing armor with Dean draped over him like this. Protected against the night and whoever might be coming after all these headless vampirate corpses.
"Won't there be more coming? Is the boat safe?" Sam asks, glancing around at the lifeless bodies that lay in various states of evisceration. He scowls. The blood soaking stains into the ground can't be helped, but they'll have to hide the bodies if they're going to stick around any longer than the next hour. Maybe sink them down in the ocean with something weighty before the cops come calling.
Benny huffs a choked laugh, more liquid than air. "Nah, the boat's safe for now. Won't anyone come knockin' for a good few days now that Quentin's gone." He tilts his head so he can see Quentin's headless corpse and laughs wetly again. "Plus, I ain't get the castle's address from 'em. Your boy did a great job of murdering our leads, I'll tell you that."
He doesn't sound that mad about it. Dean only scoffs, the movement vibrating against Sam's back. Even if Benny and Dean are fine with having lost all their leads because Dean went into some kind of berserker kill mode, Sam's completely annoyed.
"What does that mean? We did all this for nothing?" He's almost tempted to shrug Dean off of him as some kind of punishment. But Dean winds his arms around Sam's neck, hanging on like he could sense Sam's fleeting thoughts.
"For now. The boat'll give us an idea, I bet," Benny says and he seems to be decently confident in the notion so Sam rolls with it. It isn't like they have many other options, with their vampirate half alive and completely mauled. Sam and Dean are both in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. Maybe also a nap.
"Do we need to carry you? Are you just gonna heal or what?" Sam asks, glancing over Benny's useless leg with a wince. Dean growls against his ear and it's the only vocal contribution he's made to the conversation so far. Sam doesn't know what exactly he's protesting but he is definitely protesting something.
Benny himself screws his eyes shut, inhales deep enough his injured chest visibly rises.
"Yeah, I'll heal," he says through his teeth and it sounds strained and uncomfortable. "It'll take the night though. And some blood."
"We can get you on the ship and then double back to the Impala. First we'll have to clean up all this." He jerks his head in the direction of the bodies scattered around them in various states of desecration and pretends not to hear the overly pleased noise Dean makes like he's proud of himself. "If we're planning on staying the rest of the night we can't have the police sniffing around."
Benny nods in short, stunted movements. "Seems like a plan. Least 'til I'm good as new."
Finally on the same page, Sam pats Dean's forearms where they're crossed in front of his chin. "Get off, we need to carry him to the boat," he reiterates, in case Dean wasn't following their conversation closely.
The order gets an unhappy chuff of a noise against Sam's earlobe, damp and very plainly displeased, and Sam realizes why Dean was grumbling before. Carrying Benny necessitates separating.
Sam sighs, impatience making his chest feel too heavy. "The quicker we get him up there, the better, okay?"
He doesn't wait for any agreement, grabbing Dean's arms in either hand and pulling them away. Dean makes a token protest, disgruntled huff escaping his nose, but he actually does relent without too much struggle and peels off Sam. Their separation makes a gross gooey sound and Sam pretends it's the surgical removal of his growth of a brother that causes it. What it actually is disgusts him too much to dwell on.
"Grab the other shoulder. Let's make this fast," Sam says, reaching down to slide one of Benny's arms around his neck and easing him upright. Dean does as told, impressive scowl on his face and eyes still glued to Sam like another vampirate will come stalking out of the ocean.
Sam meets his gaze with what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and together they lift Benny to standing. With his weight heavier on his good leg, Benny's pained groan peters off into harsh breaths, eyes squeezing shut for a long moment. He keeps a tight grip on their shoulders despite the obvious pain he's in.
Sam doesn't really have any sympathy so he just heaves Benny up more securely and starts off. They maneuver over to the docks and up the ramp with small, stuttering steps that take much too long for Sam's liking. At least no one goes for anyone's throat.
It's a hassle to get the door open and even more annoying when they have to carefully step through the port without tripping or banging any heads. The inside of the cargo ship is roomier than Sam thought it would be.
A table and chairs are built into a sidewall, alongside a small counter space for food and an even smaller fridge beside that. Two doors branch off this main area on either side of the furniture, one directly in front of them and the other across the room. The opposing wall is decked out with windows looking out onto the oceanside and other boats bobbing along the docks.
Overall, quite quaint and nothing really screams Vampirate Lair. No bloodstains, or dead bodies, or treasure boxes full of loot. Sam can imagine Dean's disappointed mumbles at how drab and plain it all is.
"Familiar?" Sam grunts, still holding Benny's wrist over his shoulder with a supporting arm at his back. Dean's hand is back there too, wrapped in the end of Sam's jacket sleeve like a vice. Benny glances the place over on a weak neck, half resting it against his arm. The interior is decorated dully in the ugly yellow light cast by a lamp dangling over the table.
"Just like I remember," he says with a slight cringe of pain even if he can't possibly be telling the truth. Sam would peg this boat no older than 1960 based on the upholstery alone, but in some way a cargo ship's universal layout must be one Benny can recognize.
Benny taps Sam's shoulder with a few fingers, pointing towards the closest door. "This here's got a bed. The other one leads deep in the ship, plenty of room for things 'n a whole crew. Means there's more bunks for y'all. Get some human shut eye if you need it."
"Awesome." Sam releases Benny's wrist and pushes open the nearest door with delusions of a comfortable sleep.
There's the loud groan of old metal, and the large door heaves inwards to reveal a double bed covered in a fluffy looking duvet. The area is fairly small, the bed barely a foot's length from the walls surrounding, but it definitely doesn't look uncomfortable. Sam and Dean heft Benny inside and deposit him on the white duvet with slow movements lest his leg come completely off.
Benny is still oozing blood and it stains the sheets darkly when he reclines back into the pillows. As Sam and Dean step back, Benny hisses out a breath like he was trying to keep it in until they weren't so close. He doesn't look scared, but there's a ghostly white tint to his skin, worse than before as it pulls strained and taut over the bones of his face.
It could be pain. It could also be he's realized he's too injured to defend himself. He has to rely on the help of the very same people who kill his kind for a living.
The reality of how canted the power structure has become in Sam and Dean's favor settles over all of them the way Benny's blood poisons the white of the duvet. Spreading out and leaving its inky stains on every moral fiber Sam has.
If he were a worse person, more desperate, without Dean, he would dig a knife into Benny's open gouges until he screamed. He would pull the answers he wants out of every torn bit of flesh until Benny was just like those corpses outside.
Sam's stomach knots up just thinking about it.
Maybe Benny sees something on Sam's face, a twisted scowl from the things flickering grotesquely in his head, because Benny huffs out a high wheezing chuckle. "Appreciate it if y'all don't torture me right now," he drawls, almost smooth, almost unaffected. His pupils shake when he looks at them.
Dean shrugs a shoulder with a thoughtful tilt to his head, lower lip pouting out like Benny's words are a suggestion instead of a plea. Apparently considering it and finding it an inviting idea. Sam only shakes his head, grabbing Dean before he can try anything untoward.
"We're gonna get you blood and dump the bodies. Shouldn't be more than an hour if you'll make it that long," Sam says and it's almost askance, checking if Benny really might die right there in the bed. He might not care for Benny, whether he lives or dies—in fact Sam would prefer him dead eventually—but they still need whatever information he claims to have.
Benny is free to die after that though.
"I'll be alright. Take all the time y'all need," comes the gruff reply as Benny sinks into the pillows and closes his eyes.
With one last glance, Sam hurries out of the ship's cabin. Dean follows so closely and so frantically, he almost trips over the doorway, a hand flying out to grab at Sam. It entangles in the back of Sam's jacket, knotting up the material so thoroughly it tugs at Sam's shoulders. If Sam wasn't already starting down the ramp back to the docks, Dean might have tried to completely engulf him in his arms again.
Sam might have tried to prevent any attempt at another back hug, but he doesn't have to because Dean only rushes after him like a puppy on a leash.
The vampirate bodies look even grosser from the ramp's vantage point, smattering across pavement in sprays of flesh and blood that Sam carefully steps around as he nears. A full body cringe works its way down Sam's limbs once he surveys the pulpy mush that's become of the nearest vampirate's neck. Effectively mauled and dispatched by a pair of naked hands.
An unsettled weight fumbles in Sam's stomach, undoing that knot into something a bit heavier and a bit more solid. Not quite concern, but more a peculiarly disgusted interest. Dean did all of this, the brutality, the sheer violence he was capable of without even a moment's hesitance. He practically slaughtered them all.
Bloodlust isn't exactly new for Dean. He's always been the more violent of the two of them in a general way, less in need of a specific trigger or reason to kill monsters. Sam's always had a bit more reason, a bit more hesitance.
But this is a little different. Sam has never seen Dean destroy something with his bare hands like claws to slash and pull and rip into flesh. So completely engrossed in killing, Dean hadn't even pausd to wipe the blood off his face, his mouth. Even now, it's starting to dry across his pale skin, flaking off where a small frown creases lines over his cheeks.
Sam's not horrified really, not completely disturbed by this murderous, blood soaked version of his brother. He's more perturbed by it. Confused.
Maybe a bit fascinated.
They should do something about the carcasses first. In the event a dock worker decides to come to work a bit early, or leave a bit later if the analog clock inside the ship is anything to go by. It's nearly 2:00, but Sam doesn't put it past anyone to wander where they don't want them to. They've had to deal with that fallout of a delayed coverup once too often.
He pauses once his feet find solid concrete again, stepping off the boat ramp to concrete again. His sudden stopped movement makes Dean smash full body into his back, a warm and heavy weight that hits him hard enough to press together but not hard enough to send him stumbling forward. Sam doesn't think it was an accident when both of Dean's messy hands grapple at his waist.
They'll have to sink the bodies in the ocean for sure. Burning them would only draw attention they're trying to avoid, sending suspicious and disgusting plumes of smoke up in the wet, night air. There were piles of cinder blocks back by the wire fence, the remnants of some construction work in a cracked mess. Those would work well if they grab some rope from the Impala's trunk and tie the various body parts down.
Beneath the scattered limbs and decapitated heads, there's the extremely suspicious pools of blood. It isn't a problem Sam can solve though, unless the cargo ship is hiding a massive stock of chlorinated bleach and a couple bristly sponges somewhere. Not to mention, it would take hours to try and scrub it out of the porous concrete and Sam's exhausted.
They would probably have better luck coming up with a reasonable excuse for it if they cops come by then trying to get rid of it. At least, that's what Sam's going to tell himself. First, body disposal. Then the O negatives for Benny. Then perhaps a long nap.
A particularly large puddle of blackish blood ekes out from under the yuppie vampirate's neck stump, growing their troubles by the second as it heads towards the tip of Sam's boot.
All of this would go quicker if they could split up. One goes to the Impala for the rope and cinder blocks, and the other drags the bodies into a heap by the water's edge. They probably only need two blocks per body. Maybe one a head too. It would go quick.
But Dean's got two hands in Sam's jacket and his chest melded to Sam's back like they can blend into one person if he tries hard enough. This is maybe the worst Dean's been about sticking close since Sam first got him back in that motel room. Separation doesn't seem to be on the table, but Sam tries anyways.
"It'd be a faster clean up job if you let me go to the Impala and you pile up the bodies." Sam is once again reminded how much the two of them radiate a very strong serial killer energy when dealing with the aftermath of monsters. Today is worse than usual, but Sam's not too bothered.
Dean peers around his shoulder, sliding to the side so he's still pasted to Sam's back but now he can shoot him a look. He's got the downturned eyebrows, the unhappy dimples over his red lips. Sam makes it all out easily under the gore speckling his face, maybe because he's used to the expression these days.
"I'm just saying," Sam says lightly with a shrug that jostles Dean slightly. "We'll be permanently separated if we go to jail for this." He waves at all the unrecognizable corpses around them, half joking, but he doesn't think Dean is really listening anyway.
When he looks closer, Sam can see his pupils are shaking. He's got an almost buzzing, tense air thrumming around him. Like the adrenaline rushed too hard and too fast and now it's all cooped up in his body with nowhere to go. He's practically bouncing on his feet, hands digging into the loose edges of Sam's jacket and clinging there as if he'll float away if he lets go.
There's a minute shake of the head, a jerk of his chin. That's all the reply Sam gets beyond that wild eyed, furious stare.
Sam expected this reaction though and he worries Dean will be like this the entire night with the way things are going. He's not exactly looking forward to scrubbing all the blood off the both of them later. Their clothes are already long gone.
All the hydrogen peroxide in the world couldn't save what's become of Dean's shirt.
Sam raises his own stained hands to see the red smears across his calluses just from touching Dean rather than from any violence on his own part. Guilty by association.
Not that Sam would have it any other way.
He cups those messy hands around Dean's jaw when he turns, pressing to either side of his cheeks and holding him very still. It doesn't quiet the subtle vibration humming in Dean's skin, but Dean does part his lips and blink heavily up at him. Laser focused as if something very important is happening.
Sam only wants to gently extricate himself so they can get moving, but he gets momentarily distracted by the undivided attention. He clears his throat to keep his voice solid, forcing his eyes away from Dean's stained mouth, from thinking about how they smeared the same red across Sam's.
"We'll go together," he says in an appeasing way. A gentle reassurance as much as it is a request for release.
Dean's face, crusted in all that drying blood, cracks into a satisfied half smile, clearly pleased with the acquiescence. Those hands in Sam's jacket loosen like a reward for good behavior. He doesn't let go, but his hold is less of a restraint and more of a trap now. The catch and release kind.
Moving the bodies doesn't take long. Though it's a gross affair.
Sam can't remember the last time he touched a corpse as eviscerated as these are. At least freshly killed. Every dead body Dean made Sam poke at in morgues were bloodless and cold, prepped for autopsies.
These things are still pliant flesh and make the nastiest squishing sounds when Sam and Dean drag them to the side of the ramp, hiding them from view. Sam isn't weak in the stomach, but it does turn a little queasily when they get to the one Dean personally beheaded with his fingers
"I can't believe you did this," he says through a grunt, suppressing the urge to gag when the body is moved but much of its neck lags behind it. Bits of that spinal cord completely disconnect with wet, crumbling sounds as they work. Sam really doesn't want to grab it along, but they can't just leave it there. His face is all twisted up and he hesitates long enough that Dean notices.
Crouching by the bits of flesh and entrails, Dean takes one long look before scooping it all up into his hands like it's nothing but dirt. He frowns really hard as if the task takes a severe amount of concentration, or as if Sam's earlier statement has bothered him in some way.
Sam watches him toss the bones and flesh into the sea easily, stopping only to wipe his hands on his jeans and then returning to Sam's side. Those very much still dirty hands wind back into Sam's clothes, clutching at the canvas and sufficiently solidifying Sam's resolve to burn it later.
"Okay, now we get rope and blood. Some cement blocks to weigh the bodies down and we can finally take a fucking nap," Sam says trying to muster the energy necessary for carrying out the rest of their sick mission.
He's still aching from digging a grave five or six hours ago, fighting a vampire for two seconds also wasn't great, and now he has to hide bodies. Sam's really craving a long hot shower and a real bed.
Dean doesn't say anything, which isn't too unusual lately, but this time it seems like it's because he's too preoccupied with staring at the blood smears in the concrete.
That frown is stuck to his face permanently lately, cracking that mask of red over his skin and looking a little grotesque in the dock lights. It's been there since they started hauling the bodies over and Sam wants to ask if something's bothering him, but he doubts Dean would tell him.
Maybe he's just as surprised as Sam at the mess he left behind.
Getting everything done takes the better part of an hour as Sam predicted.
By the time the bodies and heads are safely sunk to the bottom of the port, Sam's managed to sweat most of the blood stains off his skin. Nothing but light pink smatterings remain on his hands.
Dean, though, looks as guilty of violent homicide as ever. The blood has just smeared in streaks across his face and arms from wiping hands, too much to completely come off without a dedicated shower.
They finally stumble back into the ship with feet heavier than the cinder blocks they threw in the ocean. The pools of blood stay sunken into the concrete behind them and Sam saves that problem for after he's gotten sleep.
Propping open the closest door, Sam sees Benny laying where they left him, nearly unmoved as if he fell asleep. Or died.
"Hey," Sam says in a loud, haggard voice as he digs around in the duffel bag over his shoulder. Once Benny opens a single, dreary eye, Sam tosses the blood bags at him. "Here's the last three. Try not to drink it all at once. We're gonna go find those bunks, maybe see if we can find anything on the nest while we're at it."
Sam's words feel a bit hollow in the echo chamber of the metal ship, and he doubts he'll be doing any kind of investigative work tonight but he figures the offer will keep Benny from getting too agitated as he heals.
Benny's already taking a blood bag and tearing into it without a word, and Sam takes it as acknowledgement enough. Letting the door close, Sam eyes the common area and pretends that Dean's heavy weight against him isn't giving him a headache. Dean's stuck so closely to him, an arm hooked around Sam's waist as if Sam's a physical crutch he can lean into.
It exacerbates the thudding ache in Sam's bones, but he doesn't push Dean off him.
His first priority is to find anything remotely resembling a working shower so he can wash the both of them up as clean as possible. Afterwards, he wants to pass out for at least a couple hours if he can get away with it. His body longs to be horizontal on something even a little bit cushioned.
He just needs to muster up the will to move his weighted feet.
Dean takes the lead for him, the fist in Sam's jacket drags him around the table and towards the second door. He shoves it open with loud creaking sounds and a narrow hallway greets them on the other side. It's faintly lit by lights mounted on the walls, white and sterile and not exactly welcoming.
When Sam tilts forward to see over Dean's shoulder, he can make out several more doors varying distances away from them, the furthest can't be more than twenty feet. There's also a set of stairs across the way, descending down into the hull. Checking all of them isn't going to be fun, Sam's walking corpse already protesting with painful cramps.
The bench seat behind them is almost more inviting, but there isn't enough space for both of them.
Sucking in a rallying breath, Sam counts the doors with bleary eyes. He miscounts twice, recounts, and finally settles on a solid and real number. Eight individual doors. Any of which can secretly hide away some showers or a couple beds.
"Guess we check 'em all," Sam murmurs, resting a heavy palm over Dean's shoulder half to support himself and half to support Dean.
They step into the hallway, attached like some oversized four legged creature, and this search is going to take twice as long just because Dean's still got that twitchy, shaking hold on Sam. They can, however, cover more ground if Sam holds his hand rather than letting him cling to his waist.
He skirts fingers down Dean's wrist and winds their fingers together. The bites there look absolutely terrible under all the dried blood and Sam doesn't look for too long.
Dean's hand trembles against his, a buzz of frenetic energy like Sam's trapped a hummingbird between his fingers. Despite how much he hasn't come down from that murder high, Dean manages a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, isn't quite assured. Sam can only return the expression, before stretching ahead to start heaving doors open.
It doesn't take long to identify the bulk of them as miscellaneous storage rooms, or other various locations that are probably important to the running of a cargo ship, but not exactly relevant to Sam and Dean's current needs.
Closets, controls, and more halls extending into cargo holds. Sam's most recent discovery is a five by five room with a small TV and an even tinier table scattered with a week's worth of mail inside. Sam takes a few long seconds to wonder if the post service delivers to cargo ships or if the vampirates have a P.O. box they have to check.
He exhales a breath that's almost a laugh when he tugs the door closed, and Dean blinks owlishly at him like he wants to share the joke.
"Find the showers yet?" Sam asks, rather than explaining as he crowds into Dean's space to see through the door he's opened.
There aren't any showers, but there is a fairly large bed, maybe even a queen size. It has a plush duvet spread across the top and significantly more interior space than the room they left Benny in.
Sam and Dean both could stand in there without bowing their heads or bumping shoulders. There's even a small side table with two chairs in the far corner and what looks to be two porthole windows.
"King suite?" Sam suggests with raised eyebrows, finding himself stupidly excited about this. He's already counting down the minutes until he's faceplanting into one of those downy looking pillows.
Dean snorts through his nose, but even his tension eases a little at the welcoming sight.
"Door 6, we'll come back for you," Sam says wistfully as they continue down the hallway.
It only takes two more rooms before they finally locate the bathroom on this God forsaken cargo ship. There's two toilets in stalls with no doors and a single shower with a draping, plastic curtain pushed to the side.
The shower itself is surprisingly large, like three showers combined into one large open space. It must be more of a communal situation for the ship crew as a means of conserving water, time, and space. Sam plans to do just that.
Beside the toilets there's a lone sink with exposed piping that groans and shakes with the slight swaying of the ship. Right next to it, there's actually a stack of folded towels in a small stand, white and fluffed.
A bed bigger than a double (with three pillows) and clean towels not only provided, but folded neatly. It's like they've stumbled into the lap of luxury on this ridiculous vampirate ship. Sam could actually cry in gratitude right now as he rubs at the warmth blooming in his chest. He might or might not be starting to grow a little delirious.
"If this thing has hot water, I will never complain about anything ever again," Sam says, escaping Dean's hand to drop the duffel bag in the sink. Dean is quick to shadow him, but he actually keeps his fingers to himself for the first time since the fight as Sam unzips the bag. Though that anxious energy is still making Dean all leery, glancing around the bathroom like he's searching for the safety exits.
It's starting to nag at Sam. Dean seems like he can't quite come down from the adrenaline rush of killing all those vampirates, twitchy fingers and paranoia making him almost appear antsy. This isn't a new concept for them. It's in the nature of fighting not to die on a weekly basis.
Sometimes, they just have to lay on the hood of the Impala and drink a few beers in the middle of nowhere to finally feel safe again.
Maybe they'll have to do something like that to get Dean to quit clinging so close to him and eyeing every space around them like danger is lurking in every shadow. How exactly they would accomplish that when they've got Benny in tow and a vampirate killing mission ahead, Sam has no idea.
He distracts himself from the anxious concern in his chest by fishing through the duffel, pulling out body wash and shampoo. The notion of finally getting to scrub this thick layer of dirt and blood and stink from their skin is extremely appealing. Probably even the most appealing prospect Sam's ever experienced and he promptly pushes the worries about Dean's behavior to the wayside.
A good scrub down will definitely do them both some good.
Sam toes off his boots and kicks them over to the wall by the door, followed by his ragged and torn up socks. He's pulling at the ugly mess that's become of his jacket when he notices Dean is just staring blankly at him, motionless with a scowl like he can't quite figure out why Sam's stripping.
"You too," Sam says, gesturing with a bare foot at Dean's brand new boots. They're significantly less nice now, the leather splattered and darkened by chunks of vampirate.
Dean stares for a few long seconds, long enough that Sam raises his eyebrows at him, and then finally does as told. He doesn't take anything else off, just stands there barefoot like Sam, fiddling with his fingers as if he needs further instruction before he can continue. Sam doesn't give any, grabbing an armful of the folded towels and stepping past Dean to toss them over the nearest side of the shower.
The bottles get placed in the corner, within easy reach, and Sam grabs a couple of the smaller folded washcloths to hang on the hooks beside one of three shower heads. As he's doing this, the tile floor is cool and sticky against his bare feet, each step sending a shiver up his legs.
He balances his weight to shuck off his jeans after everything is situated and it's like peeling a layer of grime away, resistant. They're definitely unsalvageable, mucked up with dead stuff as they are, and Sam doesn't feel bad about tossing them to the side of the bathroom by Dean.
As he goes to undo his shirt, Dean steps up to the edge of the shower still fully dressed. He's frowning very seriously at the buttons on Sam's shirt, just under his fingers where Sam's started to undo them. Something about this situation feels vaguely familiar and Sam hesitates only because he's worried Dean's going to try and rip this shirt open too.
A tentative hand stretches out to bridge the gap between their bodies, hooking around Sam's wrist in a vice grip. Dean's palm feels clammy and it's still got that tiny tremor to it, Dean squeezing tighter like that'll keep it from shaking. He's grinding his teeth, an almost audible clicking sound in the echoey bathroom, and Sam doesn't move.
Clutching hard enough the bones in Sam's wrist start to ache, Dean stares at where they're touching and refuses to meet Sam's concerned stare. He chews his lip once, hard, and breathes in softly.
"Together?" he whispers, tentative. His thumb presses into Sam's pulse point with enough pressure that Sam can feel his own heartbeat thudding up to meet Dean's skin. The atmosphere feels oppressive, heavy like something more is going unsaid but Sam has no idea what it could be. He just tilts his head.
"Have you seen how big this shower is?" he asks with an incredulous huff, going for something lighter, something that's a bit easier to understand. Like he can't see how vulnerable and frustrated Dean looks right now, clinging onto him like a kid, despite the blood coating him, despite the violence he's capable of.
Sam shrugs when Dean doesn't say anything. Guess he'll have to elaborate. "I'm beat. Showering together is faster and the faster we go, the closer I am to passing out. So yeah, get naked."
With the hand trapped in Dean's clutches, Sam pushes forward to tug at Dean's gross shirt collar. Altogether, Dean seems to finally understand, and he releases the death grip he's got Sam in to fumble out of his gore encrusted clothes like he can't be free fast enough.
Or maybe because he wants to get his hands back on Sam.
As soon as Sam's followed suit, stripped out of the ruined shirt to be left in just his underwear, Dean hooks back into his space with a hand around his bicep. Sam can't help but feel a bit like a grounding rod when Dean clings like this. The only thing keeping Dean from getting shocked by his own electrical current.
He slips free of his boxers with one hand since Dean's got a hold of his other side and pretends not to notice the slight frenzied tremor he can feel through the places they're touching. Just as naked as Sam now, Dean stands so close they're nearly hip to hip and Sam can hear his quick breaths, see his wide, darting eyes.
Like this, it's hard to say if Dean looks more like a prey animal full of fear or the beast it's hiding from.
Once Dean realizes Sam's done undressing he grabs onto him even more, wrapping Sam up at the waist in a pair of strong arms. Some of his fingers dig in a little too sharply at Sam's hip, but Dean's finally distracted from his nervous energy to zero in on every visible inch of Sam's skin, assessing for injury like always. This close up, Sam can see his pupils are steadied, slightly blown as they rove over Sam's torso.
"You okay?" Sam asks, tugging away just enough to work the shower. Its spray comes on with a loud rush that sends Dean startling back and dragging Sam along with him with a surprising amount of strength. Sam jumps slightly, nearly falling into Dean and feeling a bit like he's about to be thrown over Dean's shoulder and hidden away somewhere safe.
Dean's huffing out a growl on every heavy exhale with his eyes narrowed at the shower head like it's spraying acid.
Sam has to repress the strong inclination to spin in Dean's hold and grab his face between his hands, squeeze his cheeks until his lips pout out and he's finally calmed down, until he realizes the fight's over and they're safe now. If Dean was still all Dean and not the wild version of himself he is now, Sam might've.
But this Dean is an unknown element and Sam has to tread carefully and handle him well. He probably just needs a few hours for the killing intent to wear off. Maybe even more after going through Purgatory like he did, whatever that experience could have brought with it. Sam can't blame him for being this way and he eases over to adjust the water to a temperature Dean would like.
By the time steam is starting to visibly fill the bathroom, Sam pats Dean's forearm where it rests over his stomach.
"Let go, we're scrubbing you down first," Sam says in a casual tone, hoping his close presence and the hot water will help ease Dean's nerves. He pushes at Dean's shoulder lightly in a bid for some semblance of freedom, at least enough that they can actually wash down, but Dean only grunts a protest.
Before Sam can get annoyed, Dean slides around him without actually letting Sam go, positioning them so they're front to front but he can still cling as he likes. Being so close, this naked, Sam would normally be distracted by things other than the way the pink and red blood colors the water that sluices off their skin. But he's too determined to get them clean to let his thoughts stray that far.
"Okay, it's gonna suck tryna scrub you down if you're attached like this," Sam says reasonably, grabbing a washcloth and holding it beneath the spray so it's nice and soaked. Dean only stares up at him, blinking wet lashes furiously when the water mists into his eyes. A bit like he can't understand, though Sam knows he can.
A sigh works its way out of Sam's chest, the rise and fall of it pressing into Dean where they're plastered together. There's no use trying to force Dean to ease up enough and if it means he'll get better faster, Sam isn't going to keep complaining. He drops the subject in favor of pressing the washcloth to Dean's forehead.
The body wash can be added later once Sam's gotten the top few layers of dried and crusted blood wiped away. Dean closes his eyes as Sam scrubs at his face, leaning harder into Sam's front like he's using Sam as a support.
The water is too hot for Sam's liking, but he ignores the steady run off that drums into his skin to gently slough off the vampirate evidence. His other hand flies up to cup the base of Dean's skull, keeping him still and pliant as he works. Dean doesn't quite relax against him, but there's an implicit sense of ease in the lines of his shoulders where he's still got Sam wound up in his hold.
Blood and gore stains come off quite well under the scald of the water and the rough cloth under Sam's hands. It's a lot like that first night Sam got Dean back, when they shared a shower just like this and Sam had to put his back into working out all that dried dirt and gunk out of Dean's hair.
At the time, Sam had no idea what or how Dean got like that, completely filthy with unidentifiable grime and half out of his mind. Sam shifts his focus to the line of Dean's cheekbones, his forehead sufficiently clean and rubbed pink from the wash cloth. Now though, it makes sense Dean looked like he had.
In Purgatory, Dean must have been like how he was with those vampirates. Feral, bloodthirsty, and vicious. He must have slaughtered the monsters that came for him, fought endlessly not to get torn to pieces as the one human that wasn't supposed to be there. He must have clawed into their flesh just like this, covered himself in their blood and bones like armor.
Become something else to survive.
Sam can't say he wouldn't do the same. He finishes with Dean's cheeks, thick smears of brown and red sloughed away, and debates scrubbing at his lips too. The washcloth might be too rough for them though. Instead, Sam uses his thumb, rubbing at their softness with a frown of concentration.
Under Sam's attention, Dean smiles a tiny thing and his eyes stay dutifully closed. But he goes a bit softer against Sam, even more pliant. It's not quite at the level he gets when he's okay, when he's sated and happy and warm in bed, but it's better than that paranoia, that buzzing adrenaline.
Dean's lips shine pink and wet and Sam starts at his jaw, careful of the scruff there as he angles Dean's head up. Peripherally, he notices the green of Dean's eyes slipping back open to stare somewhere above Sam's sightline. When he fully glances over, Dean's scowling and Sam has no idea why. Which seems to be happening a lot lately with Dean's off kilter behavior. It can't just be leftover adrenaline, can it?
The washcloth has tinted a fine pink by the time Dean's face is almost blood free and Sam's aiming for Dean's left ear when the arms around his waist abruptly release.
Sam's jerked down by the back of his head, Dean's grabbing onto him and manhandling him like he's going to kiss him again. But Dean only glares furiously at Sam's forehead as if there's something monstrous there. From the awkward angle, Sam can make out the curl of a snarl on his face.
"Hurt," Dean growls into Sam's face, fingers prodding lightly at a spot around Sam's hairline. It throbs when Dean touches it and Sam immediately remembers the sharp, painful impact of the vampirate's head against his own.
Right. He was headbutted.
His forehead aches now as if it forgot it hurt before and now that Sam remembers, it can make itself known. The extremely likely risk for a concussion comes along with it. Sam probably shouldn't go straight to sleep after all, just to be sure. His whole body practically groans in protest.
He just wanted a nap.
Dean's still staring unhappily at the injury and Sam can imagine it doesn't look too good now.
"Just got slammed by a thick skull," Sam explains, spine starting to twinge a little from how he has to hunch down for Dean's cross examination. "S'it look bad?"
It really isn't that big of a deal as long as Sam isn't concussed. But Sam usually has pretty good luck in that department if the hundreds of blows he's taken to the head are any judge.
Maybe he's the one with the thick skull.
Sam's attempts at assuaging Dean's raging overprotective drive don't seem to land. Dean's scowl doesn't change at all, it might even get deeper. This isn't exactly new territory for them, and obviously Dean is a bit more than he usually is, but Sam really doesn't think a small bump on the head is anything to get this worked up about.
"Seriously, I'm okay," he says carefully, grabbing Dean's wrist to try and gain a little leeway. At the very least so he can look Dean in the eye and try to really impart on him how perfectly fine he is.
A low, angry noise rumbles all guttural in the well of Dean's throat and he twists his hand so he's holding Sam's wrist instead. His grip is tight, but not enough to hurt, and surprisingly careful despite how mad he looks.
Sam's just grateful he can stand up straight again without Dean's palm tugging on the back of his neck and pulls up to his full height to regard Dean with a curious skepticism. Dean's face is all creased with his constant scowl and he lifts Sam's arm up between their chests as if he's trying to prove a point.
When he angles Sam's forearm by turning his wrist, it reveals swelling pink and yellow soon to be bruises from several hard impacts. Sam frowns at the injuries and he can't recall where exactly in the tussle with the vampirate he got them. Probably just when he was blocking a few swings, but they're so insignificant Sam hadn't even noticed.
Dean's fingers brush along these too, caressing the raw skin like it could tear under his calluses. Those lines creasing his face are deep and serious. A muscle in his jaw flexes.
"Dean?" Sam tries, a cautious attempt to get Dean to refocus. The washcloth dangles uselessly in Sam's free hand and he doesn't know what exactly he should say to assure Dean that he's perfectly fine. These injuries are pretty much nothing in the grand scheme of things Sam's gone through. Whatever is roiling around in Dean's head as he glares at every visual hurt he can find on Sam's skin, Sam just wants to soothe it away.
But Dean hasn't acted like this in a very long time. Like it's his own personal failure Sam came out of that fight with minor scratches, like Sam's nine years old again.
It's such a stupid reaction. Dean was the one who completely mangled the vampirate that hurt Sam in the first place. Dean was the one who threw it off him and sunk his fingers into its neck, tore and tore until it stopped moving. Until he could snap its spine and he was black with blood and smirking with his teeth out.
Sam's chest flares with an uncomfortable heat and he refocuses, flexing the forearm in Dean's hand.
"You killed it, Dean. I'm okay," he says and it's so much like similar conversations when Sam was just starting to join his family on hunts. When he was young and fragile and even the weakest poltergeist could keep him bed ridden for a couple days. Dean, angry and regretful, soothing Sam's every little injury with promises he'll keep him safe next time, he won't let it happen again. Of course, that was never true, but small Sammy believed him. His hero, his big brother.
Dean's mouth works like he wants to say something, but it's hard to force it out. For the first time in a while, his bright eyes meet Sam's, fanned with wet eyelashes. Impossibly big and impossibly furious.
"Want," he starts, tone vicious but delicate. A light, familiar frustration. "Wanna kill it again." He finishes the sentence through an angry pout, but he looks extremely serious so Sam doesn't laugh like he kind of wants to.
"I think you killed it pretty bad," he says and he means it with all the affection he accidentally fills it with. He tries not to think about how heated he feels in his skin. How every time Dean's killed for Sam's sake, he's always felt sort of warm, sort of loved, sort of cherished. It's crazy, it's absolutely deranged, but it's very Sam and Dean.
He pushes that image of Dean—wild and dripping and victorious—far out of mind and keeps his attention wholly attuned to the gentler, softer Dean clinging close.
"Is this why you've been acting weird?" Sam asks, easing his forearm out from under Dean's hands so he can return to the original task. The washcloth whisks away the blood under Dean's ear and Sam can see the muscles of his throat work when he swallows, gaze glued to the side of Sam's face like if he blinks Sam will disappear.
It takes a few attempts, a few tries inside Dean's mouth, before he speaks again. Sam has already tilted his head to get at the other ear.
"Sammy got hurt." Dean's words are simple and obvious, but Sam can tell it isn't just a statement of fact. He can hear it in the way Dean’s voice mimics the fluidity of the water pelting into their shoulders, forcing out of his throat in a torrent like he couldn't keep it down if he wanted.
"And I'm fine," Sam reiterates and figures the thanks to you goes unsaid but obvious as he scrubs hard at a particularly persistent speck of what looks to be more than just blood in the cartilage of Dean's ear.
Dean has freaked out about a million minor things in Sam's life, but this one is really starting to take the cake. It's just a few bruises and Sam has had so much worse, he hadn't even thought to check himself over afterwards.
"Don't worry about it," he tacks on as an afterthought, though he's probably never said more useless words in his life. It's Dean's natural state to fret over Sam in every possible capacity, if he isn't it's because he's dead. Maybe not even then.
Finally done with both sides of Dean's head, Sam leans back with raised eyebrows and prepares himself for whatever miserable expression he's bound to find on Dean's face.
He isn't prepared to find tears.
Dean's eyes are big and shiny and wet and his lower lip quivers like he's fighting down choked breaths, chest rising and falling with an alarming rapidity.
"Dean?" Sam starts, almost frozen in place. "Are you crying?" His voice pitches up at the last word, a near hysterical lilt to the question.
"No," Dean growls out but his voice sounds all watery and strangled, a tear in his left eye welling up and over. Sam watches it fall down, join the rest of the water splashing over them, and feels his chest cave in like he's been hit head on by a truck. The freeze in his limbs breaks and he cups Dean's jaw with both hands, squeezing his face so he's pouting even more in the spray overhead.
"Seriously, dude what's up with you?" Sam asks and he's desperate to know, desperate for Dean to give him a straight answer so Sam can fix it and put Dean back together like he always does.
Dean's eyes squint closed, hiding away their teary redness like that'll somehow make his earlier protest true. But the action makes another tear fall down the bridge of his nose anyway, guilty evidence. He sniffs loudly and drops his head forward against Sam's collarbone, heavy and solid and hiding away.
A little exhale puffs past Sam's lips at the weight and he moves a hand to the back of Dean's head, up into his hair. He doesn't really know what to say when Dean's acting like this, when he refuses to tell Sam's exactly what's bothering him. Dean's always been that way and Sam still doesn't have a good strategy to get him to come clean. He can remember all the times Dean was clearly struggling but pretending not to for Sam's sake, making everything worse in the process. Sam does it too sometimes.
Absently, Sam scratches at Dean's hairline at the base of his neck in what he hopes is a comforting gesture as Dean continues to lean into him, still clinging.
He supposes it makes sense that Dean would be more on edge than usual after the confrontation with the vampirates. It's the first time they've been in any kind of life or death situation since Dean came back really. At least, the first one where Sam was in actual danger. (Though Sam was about to take the vamp out before Dean came charging in.)
Since Dean is refusing to elaborate, Sam can't really do anything else but indulge him until they're clean, dressed, and in bed. After everything that's happened today alone, Sam's had way too much to think about and just soaking in the hot water of the shower with Dean wrapped around him is kind of nice.
He was originally planning to confront Dean about everything as soon as he had the chance to talk to him without Benny around. About the entire mess they've gotten into, about Benny and what he talked to him about, about everything that happened in Purgatory. It's not like Sam's looking for an argument, he just wanted an explanation.
But now, it feels like it would be almost cruel to demand answers when Dean's literally crying on him. There's obviously way more to this than Sam has any idea of and he can't exactly force Dean to talk about any of it when he's like this. He can focus on getting them washed up and settled in and as soon as Dean's calmed down, they can gently have a conversation. No yelling, no arguing. Just talking.
Sam doesn't think he and Dean have had a real, honest conversation with actual words that lasted more than a few sentences. Dean's lack of speech isn't the only reason for that.
"If you don't wanna tell me right now, that's fine. But we gotta hurry up with this shower, we're losing heat and I know you hate cold water," Sam says, conceding to his fate, and prying Dean back off him. Dean comes away like hot glue, which is not really at all. There's a rough, sad noise that is very disagreeable and the arms around Sam refuse to yield as Dean keeps his face buried in Sam's chest.
Sam debates the merits of threatening to headbutt him to get him off, but he doubts Dean would appreciate the humor in it.
Instead, he cups under Dean's jaw and says, "Kiss?"
Shockingly obedient, Dean allows his face to be lifted as if the hot glue between their bodies has melted away. His eyes are open again, a little red and glassy with former tears, and he sniffs loudly, somewhat pouting.
Sam smiles, small and kind, and presses their lips together. This time there's no blood between them. It's a careful, soft pressure and Sam tries not to think too hard about how used to these light kisses he's become. How things have changed so much. Dean takes the opportunity to nip at Sam's bottom lip, tug it in his teeth and pull it away with him when Sam tries to put distance between them.
His lip pulls free with an almost pop of a sound, wet and barely audible over the shower spray, and he’s just happy Dean isn't crying anymore.
"Alright, let's make this quick as possible, huh?" Sam says, finally having a good reason to escape Dean's arms so he can grab more washcloths and shampoo. He shoves a dampened cloth into Dean's hand after he forces it to let his arm go.
"Do I have blood on me still?" It's not accusatory but the unspoken implication is quite clear. If he does have blood on him, it's Dean's fault and is therefore Dean's responsibility to clean it off.
That at least is enough to distract Dean from trying to get their bodies stuck back together. His cheeks bunch up under his eyes, not quite a smile, but certainly pleased with the task as he goes in on the underside of Sam's jaw. It hurts, a little rough against his beard scruff, but Sam lets him do as he pleases.
Dean's hair is in desperate need of a wash, nasty bits of clumped blood and other unmentionable things in need of a stringent removal. Sam can do that for him.
"Teamwork," he says to himself with a chuckle as he squirts some shampoo over the crown of Dean's head. Dean can scrub him down and he can take care of Dean's hair, it's way faster than doing it themselves when they can't see if they've gotten all the muck out. They should've been doing this a long time ago.
When they were kids it was practically the norm, fast and efficient as Dad liked it. But as it goes for most people, once puberty hit and they were too large and too in need of privacy, they split up showering. When it comes to Sam and Dean though, privacy is really just a vague concept anyways, and lately Sam's never been more aware of that.
Maybe there were other reasons they stopped showering together. Sam doesn't think too much about it because he knows exactly where it will go, lathering the shampoo into Dean's wet hair. His blunt nails scratch along Dean's scalp as he goes and he makes a face at the carnage that comes scraping out along with them.
There's a happy purr of a sound from deep in Dean's throat as he moves the washcloth to get at something on Sam's neck. It's much more welcome than the anxious and irritable grunts from before and Sam welcomes the pleased little noises as he tugs Dean's hair. It really hasn't grown at all in those three months Dean was gone, strands just an inch or so long when Sam pulls them out straight.
Now knowing what he knows about where Dean's been, finally having the biggest, angriest piece slotted into place, Sam wishes he felt some relief. Purgatory must not experience the passing of time like they do here, things unchanging just like they are in Heaven and Hell. Dean's body simply ceased living for three months while he fought and killed monsters. Having an explanation doesn't really make Sam feel any better though.
Once Dean's hair is finished, vampirate gore properly removed, Sam lifts Dean's head by the chin so he can tilt him back under the spray. As he does so, he realizes Dean's no longer scrubbing him off anymore and the washcloth is sitting abandoned over Sam's shoulder. Instead, Dean's scratching at the planes of Sam's chest, fingers kneading at the fuzz there with a distracted look on his face.
"Dean," Sam says, chest reddening under the attention. "Get your shampoo out while I do mine."
That absent stare slides up to meet Sam's eyes and he huffs an impatient thing but does as told with surprisingly little fanfare. The hand that was enjoying Sam's chest lifts to run over the top of his own head, dirty shampoo sluicing off after it. His other hand sticks to Sam's nape and refuses to let go.
Sam won't get much more freedom than this, and he makes quick work of washing his own hair before Dean can try to offer help. At least Sam doesn't have to worry about getting all the pieces of vampire croney number 1 out the way he had to with Dean.
Perhaps by virtue of having about ten percent as much hair as Sam, Dean finishes his task in record time. Unsurprisingly, he sticks himself back to Sam's front like a very persistent burr as soon as he's able to.
Hands still wound up in his own hair, Sam just lets Dean grab onto him. He presses his face to the middle of Sam's chest and just sighs a soft and relieved sound. Like he can feel Sam's heartbeat through the skin. Sam doesn't do anything about it, or rather, he can't do anything about it. He only wills his heart rate to maintain its calm and steady thudding against Dean's cheekbone.
As Sam maneuvers them around so he can wash out his shampoo, he can't help but notice how different this shower feels from the last one they shared. The night Dean came back, he clung a little like this too. This time isn't so frantic and overheated, so anxious and distracted. There's no rabbiting heart, no accidental heat rushing south because they're too close.
It's not that hard to see why. They're miles and away different now than that they were that night. Not just in how much has changed between them, beyond Dean's strange behavior, beyond his complete lack of personal space, beyond the way they casually kiss each other.
Sam still can't make himself think about what the fuck their relationship has become. Between the sex and the lack of clear communication, everything is a jumbled mess Sam doesn't want to try and untangle. It's existing in a bizarro alternate universe of their lives, one that's all wrong and tilted, but not. As if someone taped a blurry, translucent film over Sam's eyes.
Or finally pulled it off.
The shampoo takes all the hard work of the last twenty four hours away with it and Sam prepares a washcloth with body wash this time, determined to get the both of them as squeaky clean as possible.
Maybe he can't define what's happening between himself and Dean, why it's happened at all, but he can appreciate how comfortable they've become with being close. Even stuck together, completely naked, Sam feels warm and safe and he's not worried about sporting a physical reaction to the proximity anymore. Maybe it's a good thing.
"Full body scrub time, you do you and I do me," he says when Dean eyeballs the washcloth like it's solely responsible for anything bad ever. Since it's existing between their bodies, Sam supposes Dean believes that.
Dean opens his mouth like he's going to suggest something different, something that perhaps doesn't involve him removing his hands from Sam's waist, but Sam beats him to it. "Just do it, I wanna get out of here."
Dean must see something in his face because he grabs the washcloth, blinking angrily at it, and starts washing up. Sam can almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he thoroughly scours his skin with the Irish Spring soap. He imagines Dean is coming up with some sort of reason why it'll physically kill him to stop touching Sam for the rest of the night. And Sam will probably fall for it.
With that comforting vote of confidence, Sam copies Dean and works at every inch of his body, scraping away sweat and grime with each press of the cloth. From armpits to belly to ass to the bottoms of his feet, Sam dutifully cleanses his physical form of all reminders that the exhausting toll on his poor body was ever taken.
Dean finishes first again, just as Sam has migrated to the backs of his left knee. Balanced on one foot, Sam's got his knee raised to reach, and when he glances over he sees a glint in Dean's eyes.
"Don't touch me." He'll topple over and they'll both die if Dean even so much as lays a finger on him. Dean practically scours Sam's precarious position as Sam scrubs at his left calf and pretends not to feel the intense stare.
Rather than grabbing onto Sam despite the warning, Dean drops to a crouch and starts scrubbing his other leg with his wash cloth. A pretty easy way to quicken the whole process.
Quickly dropping his foot, Sam can only stare down at Dean wordlessly. He fights a slight oversensitive shiver that zips up his thigh when Dean manhandles the squishy part of his calf, raising it up so he can get the soapy suds between Sam's toes. He's got that look of extreme concentration on his face like this is a very serious task.
After the bottoms of Sam's feet have been washed to Dean's taste, he drops the washcloth to the tile with a wet plop and surges up to standing. His hands are on Sam without hesitation, wrangling his waist to drag them chest to chest again.
It's warm, extremely wet, and a little slippery, but they're finally both clean so Sam can't protest. He doesn't really want to anyways.
"Just in time," he says as the water hitting them drops down a few degrees like a warning to hurry up and get the fuck out. Sam throws his own washcloth onto a nearby hook and twists the shower head off, immediately throwing them into a deafening silence.
The towels are fluffier than Sam has ever had in his life and he has a feeling the yuppie's to blame for it. He grabs them from the wall to the side and drapes one over Dean's head, the other around his own shoulders.
The fluffy towel covers Dean's eyes from view, but he grunts something that sounds a little disapproving. He looks very much like a grumpy, wet dog and Sam laughs, drying Dean's hair for him.
When he grabs the end of the towel to dab at Dean's dripping jaw, it slides back off his head and reveals Dean's impressive frown over big eyes. Sam meets the expression with a smile that's maybe a little too indulgent. Seeing his rough and tumble brother all wrapped up in this overly fluffy towel is a juxtaposition that's almost cute.
"Finish drying off," Sam says, swiping at Dean's pouting lip with the towel and grinning at the way he tries to bite at it.
With Dean suitably distracted again, Sam dries himself as efficiently as possible. Now that he's freshly cleaned, all putty and warm from a long shower, his aching body wants nothing more than to spread out on that giant duvet past Door 6 and sleep away their troubles. Just the visual of it makes him want to cry grateful tears.
Dean throws his towel on the bathroom floor just outside of the shower, letting it spread out as a bathmat for their wet feet and glances back at Sam. Mostly dry now, Sam doesn't stop Dean from grabbing onto his left hand, dragging him out of the wet shower and onto the damp towel. They both curl their toes in the fluffy material, watch it bunch up under their feet just like they did when they were kids.
After a little finagling, they get their teeth brushed and Sam spares a thought to the pack of disposable razors he saw among their clothes in the duffel. They're both in desperate need of a shave, but just the thought of going through that whole process when Sam's whole body feels like gelatin is depressing.
"You don't care about shaving tomorrow, do you?" Sam asks, deciding to put the choice in Dean's hands in case the itchy scruff on his face is unbearable. It's sort of unfamiliar now, asking Dean his opinion on something like this, or anything at all lately. Sam's been pretty much calling the shots since he got Dean back. They haven't really communicated much like they used to, before the bites and the kisses and the touches.
He kind of misses hearing Dean's voice all the time.
When a verbal answer isn't forthcoming, Sam glances over at Dean to see an expression that can't be read any other way than, I don't fucking care. Which is an expression that Dean has perfectly mastered since he was about eight if Sam's memory serves.
It only further highlights just how non-verbal their conversations have become, and as Sam fishes fresh underwear out of the duffel, he decides tonight they'll talk. Actually talk, with words. Sam might have a concussion anyways, so he can't go straight to sleep for at least another hour or so. It's not exactly ideal, and Sam's shoulder muscles alone protest the idea of staying conscious just to talk to Dean for the sake of talking to him.
But there's a lot that's gone unsaid between them, things they haven't so much as touched on, even in the press of biting teeth. A day like today, reckless and bloody, is only going to repeat if he and Dean don't get on the same page about everything. Purgatory, Dean's memories, his relationship with Benny.
Not to mention the slew of other things Sam keeps burying deep. From mating bites to kissing to slamming each other down and getting off.
Sam cringes and forces that line of thought to die before the memories come back in technicolor while he's ass naked and not up to dealing with a stiffy. Dean's got a hold of his left hand, a tether that refuses to release, and Sam procures two pairs of clean boxers.
"Here," he says, wriggling out of that tether with effort and filling the empty, searching hand with the boxers. As they slip them on, Sam determines the rest of the their clothes can wait until morning. They barely ever sleep in anything else, and that bed has a very thick and very soft duvet. After they talk, Sam's going to curl up under it and hibernate until Benny's able to move again. Hopefully for several hours.
Grabbing Dean's hand before it can grab his, Sam scoops up the duffel too. Thick, callused fingers entangle with Sam's, one thumb pressing gently into the imprint of Dean's teeth. More gently than Sam thinks Dean ever has.
He twists the door open, stepping over the threshold, and Dean follows. As always.
Notes:
this chapter is the longest in a while?? i got tired editing it and yet it's my fault it grew an extra couple thousand words in the process... we're coming up on a huge climax in the coming 3 chapters and the next update is going to be very steamy but also very tense ;)))
chapter 20 will be up on friday july 31 <3
Chapter 20: Mine
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Deciding to have a conversation is the easy part.
Sam's very aware of this fact. He's spent his whole life deciding to have conversation with Dean about something big and meaningful and important, but when it comes to opening his mouth it comes out all jagged and awkward.
Each potential way to start gnaws at the lining of Sam's stomach like voracious little parasites, some new jumble of words that won't sound bad. Every iteration of an opening question that bites at Sam's insides sounds overly aggressive or demanding or even too soft, too easy to brush off. This conversation needs to be productive in some way, neither of them can afford to keep going like this.
Sam desperately needs to find a way to kick off a conversation that isn't really just perching at the top of a slope, one wrong phrase away from careening down into a confrontation. He doesn't want to have a fight, but he's not very good at making sure it doesn't devolve into one.
They've always had that problem between them. The miscommunication comes with unintended tones, accusatory words, and unspoken implications.
Sam's said things that came out wrong, starting desperately needed conversations with the worst words possible, and they end up fighting like two angry brats who think the other doesn't love them anymore.
Neither of them have gotten any better at it in the past few years. He just gives Dean a sad, dewy expression and hopes he doesn't take what Sam says in a way he doesn't mean, that they don't end up yelling at each other until someone storms off with the door slamming behind them.
This cargo ship's heavy doors aren't made for slamming.
When Sam shoves Door 6 shut behind him, he puts his back into it just to test it. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't sound any louder when it seals closed with the ringing sound of metal hitting metal. He pauses there for a long moment, hands on the cool steel as if bracing himself for an inevitable battle.
Dean's fingers have been wedged in the band of Sam's boxers since the bathroom. They touch Sam's skin just at the small of his back where he imagines a scar from the point of a knife blade would be if Sam still had it. Dean's knuckles are two warm points of pressure there, the base of Sam's spine, and it might be intended as comfort but it only makes Sam more nervous.
With the door successfully shut and locked, just in case Benny wasn't telling the truth about anything, Sam doesn't have any more of an excuse not to face Dean and start gently hashing out the issues at hand. He swallows but his mouth is dry, his body’s protest for the incoming tightrope of a conversation, and when he turns around, his stomach unsettles.
Close at his back like a persistent and clingy shadow, Dean has to release Sam's underwear to let him move. Rather than completely let go, his fingers just coast around the cut of Sam's hip, running along the inside of his waistband as he turns.
The touch is ticklish and burning along the sensitive skin there, too distracting for Sam's already busy brain to handle, and he wants to tug free. Except that won't make anything better on Dean's part and then he might get preemptively defensive.
Peering down at him, Sam realizes Dean isn't watching him like he usually does. His gaze is cast down to the hard floor under their bare feet with that expression he's been wearing off and on since he slaughtered the vampirates. Concentrated frustration in the tight frown of his brow, the purse of his lips with the dimples showing above them. It’s becoming a familiar look on Dean.
Sam realizes he still hasn't quite gotten a reason for it, at least not one that's more than Sam's blind shots in the dark. He supposes he should start there, safe and easy, before getting into everything else that's happened on this seemingly endless night.
Between Dean's earlier adrenaline buzz, his even clingier behavior, and those tears that stopped Sam's questioning in its tracks, Sam really can say he's worried about his brother. Clearly something, or several things, is bothering him. Enough to distract him and send his emotions all haywire. The fact that he never really explicitly said why when Sam poked and prodded only makes Sam more concerned.
Not that Dean's been too great at answering anything Sam asks since he came back, but in the last few hours his reticence has started to feel deliberate. Secretive. From all of this vampirate aftermath, to his unexplained conversation with Benny, to everything Benny's been talking about with the mating bites, Sam feels like he's the only one who doesn't know anything.
Even when he asks, he doesn't get a real answer. But all he can do is ask, if he doesn't want to start fighting. So he asks.
"Dean? You finally gonna tell me what's up with you?" It comes out tentative like each word is a step along a precarious ledge. Sam almost expects silence again, or some evasive non-answer on Dean's part, but he waits patiently anyways.
The two fingers wedged between his waistband and lower belly wiggle a little to readjust the hook of a grip they've got. Under the downturn of his brow, Sam watches Dean's face, expectant and hopefully non-judgemental. He wants to project nothing but the genuine concern he's feeling.
Dean breathes in. It's audible and almost shaky in the quiet, as if he's shoring himself up, preparing. His eyes from beneath dark lashes jump from point to point, somewhere along the lines of Sam's body as if cataloguing every bit to memory. Or trying to distract himself. That muscle in his jaw clenches.
With a soft, stilted sound past parted lips, he finally says something. "I don't," stutters out and stops. Dean stares at the middle of Sam's chest hard like the words are scribbled there and he just has to make them out. Not unlike the instructions Benny cut into Dean's skin, now slightly more healed and illegible.
When Dean swallows, Sam can see the muscles of his throat contract tight, and then Dean forces out the rest. "Don't wanna do this."
Sam keeps his voice low and careful, ducking his head so he can see Dean's face better. "Do what?" He almost wants to reach out and grab Dean's chin, raise his head so they can meet each other's eyes, but he doesn't want to force Dean to do anything. His arms hang at his sides.
Dean licks his lips, blinks a few rapid times like it'll save him a few more minutes to come up with a good answer. Sam doesn't give him the leeway. "Dean."
Almost startling, Dean's eyes flick up and over Sam's shoulder at the door. Almost wary in how wide and shiny they are. His jaw is still clenched up. "Don't wanna help vamps, " he hisses the word past teeth. A brief flash of something vicious and feral curls his mouth down, twisting in the muscles of his face.
Then he's wiping it away with an almost concerted effort, easing the harsh and furious lines of that expression back into something more human. Smoother and gentler with wide, imploring eyes that nail Sam straight on like a bullet lodging in its target. Sam freezes and Dean steps across the small distance between them to nearly touch chests.
"Sammy let's go," he says, staring up through his eyelashes. His other hand slides up Sam's ribcage to press there, wanting and desperate. Almost begging.
Beneath the rough callus of Dean's palm, something surges up in Sam's chest. It isn't anger, but it's hot and churning like it. A frustrated welt of feeling. "Go where? We have to find the nest, we have to kill the vampirates."
It's what they're supposed to do, as hunters. Helping people by killing monsters. For Dean, that alone should be enough. For Sam? Well, Benny won't tell him what happened in Purgatory unless they help and Sam won't pretend that he's motivated by anything else.
Dean's blunt nails scratch into Sam's ribs, not enough to hurt. More like a nervous gesture. "We don't," he says roughly, rubbing his finger tips in an irritation against Sam's skin. He clarifies with an exhale. "We don't."
Sam understands and he wants to dig his own fingers into Dean's skin too to make him understand.
"We do, Dean." It sounds final, it sounds unrelenting. The kind of tone that always forces their conversations to derail into an argument, into a full blown, childish fight. But Sam plows on. "If we don't, Benny won't tell me what he knows."
About you. What you won't tell me. The rest of it is unsaid under the thin veneer of civility Sam's trying to maintain, to keep this from becoming the accusatory, angry confrontation it's teetering towards. He doesn't say it, but the way Dean slightly recoils, he might as well have.
His hands don't leave Sam, but his eyes dart off to the side, pulling on that look again. The furious, feral one that shows his teeth. "Benny," he spits it out, digging his hand into Sam's side so hard it'll leave red marks. "Doesn't know anything."
He sounds so sure. So angry and sure, and Sam wants to pull out of the aching hold on him, but that's the quickest way to derail the conversation. He stands still and rigid, restraining himself.
"How do you know that? How do you know anything?" he asks, voice tight in his throat like a guitar string pinched to play on a higher note. "If you don't remember what happened to you in—in Purgatory," Sam hates the way he catches on the word and hates more that Dean flinches. "What Benny knows can help us."
There's the growl of a clear protest, but Sam barrels on.
"I don't wanna work with a vampire either, Dean, but you're not really giving me a lot of options here."
His volume's raised a little, not yelling, but certainly no longer calm, gentle, or non-confrontational. It's too late to reel back in now, rolling straight downhill and gaining steam. Sam inhales deep enough to raise his chest under Dean's hand and he might as well just say everything.
"If you would just tell me everything, we could leave. We could grab all our shit, take Benny's head off, and get the hell out of here. We could go, but Dean, you're not. You talked to Benny in the Impala before, you won't tell me why. You knew about Purgatory and you didn't want me to bring Benny back in the first place. You're—you're biting me and it means something else? Acting all cagey and refusing to say anything to me about anything. What am I supposed to do?"
Sam wants to shake Dean by the shoulders, rattle him hard enough that he finally spills everything out like an overturned bottle of the beer he's always stealing from Sam. But if he grabs onto Dean he might press just as hard as Dean's pressing into him, might jerk him hard and close and angrily. Might devolve into a fight.
His fingers clench into fists at his sides, resolutely unyielding.
The hand Dean's clinging to him with, the one scratching into his skin, twitches and flutters across Sam's ribs and Dean's frowning severely. Sam can't tell if he wants to yell or cry again, so he glares at him and doesn't move. It's aggressive, challenging. Sam's just daring him to lie to his face again, daring him to pretend that everything that's gone on between them hasn't been strange and off and misshapen.
Dean meets Sam's challenge with a scowl that's almost defiant, as if to say none of this matters Sammy. It makes Sam want to shove him off.
"Sammy, just—" Dean's voice is rough and deep in his throat like he'd rather be growling this in nonsensical unhappy noises than using his words. He grits his teeth, gnashing them. "Just don't do this," he forces out, each word like rusted nails in his mouth, and he clings harder to Sam's skin, digging hooks in, as if he can feel Sam wanting to pull back.
"Don't want you hurt for—for this." It's sweeping and derisive, the very clear and very obvious none of that matters. Sam raises a hand to grapple Dean's wrist away from him and Dean leaves red scratches along his lower ribs when he goes.
"Sammy," he growls and it's not desperate like before, not begging. It's an order, stern and commanding and furious. Sam shoves Dean's hands back and away from him, gets himself disentangled so there's a breathing space between their bodies. Disbelief bubbles up into an incredulous chuckle past his lips.
"Dean, you're not saying anything. I mean you're talking and you're demanding things, but you're not answering me, you're not telling me anything."
He feels like he's talking alone in this hollow room of a huge vampirate owned cargo ship rocking in the ocean waves. Like everything is nonsensical, completely unreal, and Sam's only been dreaming up this entire ridiculous situation. Like Dean's the sane one here and Sam just forgot to press into the old scar of his left hand to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
How can Sam understand anything that's going on when Dean keeps acting like nothing is?
"What's the point of having this conversation if you're just gonna keep worrying about killing some vampires, huh? You say you don't want me to get hurt, but you won't tell me anything I wanna know. I'm going into that nest because of you, for you, there's no other option and I'm sure as hell not sitting this out just because you're worried I'll get hurt."
I'm not a kid anymore Dean wants to spill out of his mouth, bratty and indignant and spoken so often it's engraved on the backs of Sam's teeth.
"Just me, Sammy," Dean offers then, almost desperate. Not quite getting the point. "I'll go, I'll kill 'em all for you. You stay here."
Stay safe.
Stay out of the way.
It's the one hundred percent wrong thing for Dean to say. It's everything Sam would never want and he presses his lips together hard enough to ache so he doesn't let out that Dean going to a vamp nest without him, without Sam there to back him up, is absolutely fucking stupid. Who cares how much Dean's killed in Purgatory, how good he's gotten at hunting without Sam beside him. It makes bile raise up in Sam's throat.
Not an option. Sam won't even entertain the prospect, he won't even acknowledge Dean's offered it.
"If you didn't want me to do this so badly, you'd just tell me everything," he says instead. "Purgatory, Benny, mating bites, and everything else you know about. I promise I won't get mad at you but Dean, you have to tell me."
It's almost easy how quick and demanding the words fall into the warm space between their chests. How Dean's response could come just as easy, settle everything between them, if he would just be honest with Sam. If he would just trust Sam to handle everything.
Of course, he won't.
Dean's hands reach back for Sam, that slightest tremor returning. "Sammy," he sounds absolutely pathetic, wrung out and needy, almost scared. Sam backs up a step, out of reach and insolent.
A noise whines out of Dean's throat. "My Sammy," he says, strangled and slow like he doesn't know if it's true or not, like he's asking. His hand hangs in the air between them, begging to be taken. To be assured.
Sam crosses his arms and Dean's bright eyes find and track his left hand, the palm of it where the bite is like a fly to honey. It's the proof of everything that's happened, of every claim Dean's made on him. Sam tucks it in against his side so it can't be seen and he's vindicated by the shuddering in Dean's gaze, eyes dimming.
Frustration and exhaustion wind Sam's body up so tight he feels like he could collapse against the door behind him. He only wants answers, why can't Dean just tell him everything? How bad could it be? What could Dean have possibly done that he can't tell Sam? 'His Sammy?'
A fresh wave of hot irritation floods up into Sam's chest like a punctured lung bleeding out and taking his breath along with it. He closes his eyes in a hard blink that makes spots of color appear, fighting back the budding headache, the urge to shout.
"Just tell me, Dean," he says through a choked exhale, imbuing it with every last ounce of tired resignation he feels, every bit of finality.
When he opens his eyes again, Dean's way closer than before—so quiet in his movements now—close enough Sam can feel the heat coming off his skin, close enough they're almost touching again.
But he's not opening his mouth to tell Sam anything at all.
It's a hard line across his face, pressed and distraught. Unforthcoming. Sam stares at those sealed lips and a delirious thought lances a stab of cruel irony through his chest.
So Dean can open his mouth to kiss him, but telling the truth is out of the question.
Sam wants to be anywhere but right here, anywhere but trapped between the heat of Dean's bare chest and the cool steel of the door.
He shakes his head, a short abortive movement, and raises his hands to keep Dean at bay. "You know what? I'm gonna sleep out front," he says, already pushing Dean back and turning to undo the door's latch.
The bench seat in the common's area didn't look nearly as appealing as the fluffy duvet here, but anything is better than this suffocatingly enclosed space where he stuck close to his stupid brother who won't tell him a single fucking thing.
Sam only gets as far as unlocking the door.
Persistent heat at his back presses into him, enough to burn, and a familiar growling rumble of a sound is tears out of Dean's mouth like Sam just threatened to leave for California again.
A fist hooks around Sam's bicep, hard and bruising, and Dean jerks Sam around so hard he almost stumbles into him. Maybe he does, it's impossible to tell when Dean's bodily shoving him back against the steel door, chest to chest. And he's leaning so far into Sam's face, Sam can see every single tiny freckle under the flush of his cheeks.
He doesn't look pissed like Sam expected.
Green eyes shiny and huge under his lashes, Dean's lower lip trembles where it's trapped in between the anxious bite of his teeth. Every line in his face is deep and drawn like cracks in a mask. Something fearful peeks through.
It kills the angry shout Sam had perched under his chin. He only stares, unable to comprehend what he's seeing between those cracks, what it means. Why Dean looks so fucking scared.
"Dean—"
Sam is stopped short by the press of lips to his own, soft and careful. So common now between the two of them, it's become a comfort. The way that the familiar scent of home lulls and calms, the plush of Dean's mouth on Sam's does.
Dean's tongue wets Sam's lips, a gentle slide that belies the desperation of his hands as they press into the divots of Sam's body like they're slotting back into their rightful places.
He's still so overheated against Sam, even worse now that they're touching, and his hands are even hotter. They slide like firebrands up Sam's stomach, clutching back at the edges of Sam's ribs where Dean's chest doesn't quite cover as if every part of Sam has to be under Dean.
Cold, biting metal stings at Sam's naked back where he's pushed against the door and he flinches away from it—towards Dean's warmth like it's an escape. Distraught and mad at himself and Dean for whatever this kiss is trying to accomplish, Sam makes a noise that's supposed to be a protest out of his mouth.
It only parts his lips for Dean's tongue. Just as familiar, just as intimate as always, Sam tastes his brother's spit in his mouth and he should throw him off. He should bite Dean's tongue for distracting him, but it's familiar and it's instinct and Sam sucks at the tongue between his teeth.
Kissing like this, tasting each other like this, now it's nothing new. It's everything Sam knows and he loves it and he wants to be so angry—he is angry at Dean.
But Dean whines, a throaty little thing that spills into Sam's mouth and he swallows it down like the fuel it is. Like it’s all he needs to burn up the smarter part of his brain telling him to stop this, to stop letting Dean distract him like this. He incinerates it and slides his hands up to hold Dean's jaw so he can angle him properly, kiss him deep.
Those fingers claw at Sam's ribs, clawing like they want inside his chest and finally get at the throbbing heart that they've always owned. It stings, burns more along Sam's skin, and Sam hums roughly into the kiss. He pushes off the door completely, pressing harder against Dean's body, and forces his way into that pliant mouth—always so pliant for Sam, always so open.
Except not always, apparently. Not when Sam asks.
Surging forward with a flare of furious indignance, Sam bends Dean's neck back to lick into his mouth as if he can taste the truth in there and draw out the explanation past Dean's lips. Dean bows under Sam's height with a soft groan, hands at Sam's chest clinging and caging.
Sam wants to leave, he wants to rip himself away from Dean's mouth, from his arms, from Dean and his obstinance, he wants to. His anger is swirling hot and rabid under his skin and it's flushing his whole body red, magnetizing him to Dean, tying him down to the only thing in his life that can fix it all.
Tasting every bit of Dean's mouth, Sam's finding nothing to say what Dean refuses to, and he's frustrated and he's swelling up in his boxers where he's pressed into the line of Dean's hip and he almost wants to cry he's so fucking frustrated.
It chokes out of his throat like a sob, like a whine, and he breaks the kiss to breathe in a big, gulping breath that makes his lungs inflate so big, it aches like drowning. Bringing with it a foggy sense of clarity, a sense of what he should do.
Releasing Dean's jaw, Sam's about to shove Dean back, off him and away so he can escape and get some fucking air. But Dean senses it, Sam knows he can, because his arms wrap Sam up like a hug, pulling him close and tight to him.
Sam's upended without warning.
With a strength that makes Sam's stomach clench up, Dean full body tosses them both down on the bed. Sam hits into the fluffy down feathers with a grunt, the duvet puffing up around him like a cloud, and before he can get his bearings, Dean's there, climbing over him. His arms and legs on either side of Sam, Dean's trapping him as much as holding.
They're touching chest to thigh, mashed together, and Sam feels an abrupt flood of indignity at his own semi against Dean's soft dick. He glares up at the hovering, flushed face of his brother, annoyed for so many sensical and nonsensical things now, and immediately tries to throw him off with flailing arms.
His hands are caught easily, almost too easily Sam might have thought if he wasn't so mad, and Dean pins both wrists down to the mattress. He has to raise up slightly at the waist for the leverage to hold Sam down and it only presses their hips harder together. Sam's blood is rushing faster at the friction, pulse thudding hard enough he can feel it in his thighs and his reaction is impossible to ignore now.
He opens his mouth, embarrassed and red with it, and he wants to demand Dean get off him and let him leave.
But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything at all and Dean watches him sternly, patiently. Sam can't find the right words that wouldn't make him sound whiny and pathetic. He can't force anything past the blockage in his throat that refuses to let anything past but needy, breathy sounds.
He settles instead for scowling righteously up at Dean, silent and admonishing and completely ignorant of the way his cock is hard and hot where it's pressed up against Dean's.
As pissed off as Sam is very sure that he is, because he doesn't know anything, because Dean won't tell him anything, because he's starting to think Dean's using his mouth to distract Sam from these facts, that he might have always been, Sam doesn't actually want to go sleep out in the commons area. He doesn't want to leave Dean's side.
Dean knows this—has known this and that's why he hates letting Sam leave. Neither of them really want to.
"Sammy," Dean says and his tone is lilting and low like liquor spilling free. Dripping with something husky and wrecked, just the way he was after swallowing Sam's load down his abused throat.
Sam rolls his hips up against the jut of Dean's pelvis in an involuntary stutter of movement. The blessed friction of the simple action has his whole head humid with steam, fogging up his sense of reason like condensation on a mirror. He abruptly wants Dean's mouth on him again, the sweet relief of that wet heat Sam can't forget, and he bites his lips to keep from asking for it.
Blinking down at him in a slow, careful thing that fans his eyelashes over his cheekbones, Dean doesn't quite smile but it's something small and proud and over warm.
"My Sammy," he says, just like before. Not quite a question, but an imploration. Like he wants it to be the truth, for him it's the truth, but he needs Sam to agree. He needs Sam to say it too.
Sam refuses to, jutting his jaw out in defiance like the most entitled brat. He tugs against Dean's hold on his wrists, testing the weight of it to see if he could full body overthrow Dean with enough strength. A slight show of resistance, Sam's wordless warning.
Dean isn't having it. His own shine of desperate defiance lights his green eyes up from the inside and he rolls his hips down into Sam's like it's a punishment. Delicious friction shoots a pleasant buzzing hum up Sam's body and he keeps his lips bitten as a moan bubbles up inside his mouth.
He can't stop the way his stomach quivers, abs flexing, and his thighs tremble to keep from thrusting up again, from using Dean to chase that relief. The knowing look on Dean's face is humiliating enough, the fact that Sam's the only one who's cock is hard between the two of them only makes it worse.
"My Sammy," Dean says again through the slight uptick of his mouth. Sam knows he wants Sam to confirm it, to say he's Dean's, to assuage whatever fears he has. If Sam doesn't just agree, Dean will undoubtedly make this a long, torturous night
So he doesn't.
Even if Sam knows it's true. He's always known he's Dean's, the way Dean is Sam's. Every introduction they've ever done for each other starts with the words "this is my" and every intention by it is the same. Sam's had Dean's brand under every inch of his skin since he was born and vice versa.
He doesn't know why Dean's questioning it now, over something like this, but he isn't going to soothe his fearful heart. Not when Dean can't bother to tell Sam the truth.
So he bites his lip and seals his mouth and stares up at Dean like he doesn't understand, like they aren't on the same page, like he isn't Dean's.
The thing that rumbles up from the depth of Dean's chest is furious, that muscle jumping in his jaw like he's clenching his teeth too hard and his eyes half lidded. Sam might be preying on Dean's apparent insecurity as a punishment but he's pissed off and horny now.
His cock throbs in his boxers, missing the press of Dean's, and he humps up off the duvet, seeking some kind of release. But Dean pulls away before Sam can establish anything satisfying at all, scowl on his face.
"My Sammy," he huffs, almost to himself, and releases Sam's wrists to crouch over Sam on his knees.
If Sam had less dignity he'd whine, half hard and feeling cold in the absence of Dean's warmth, but then there's a tight grip on his bicep and he's flipped over like a sack of potatoes. His face buries in the duvet, prickly feather ends poking at his cheeks, and he starts to get up, annoyed and hard and not okay with the manhandling.
Dean pushes Sam back down into the mattress, one hand right at the center of his back holding him down. On a rough exhale, he whispers, "Mine." It doesn't really sound like it's for Sam's benefit and Sam makes an affronted noise, turning his head so his cheek is pressed to the duvet.
His palms dig into the bed, preparing to shove up and back against Dean's weight, but Dean's other hand grabs him by the hip. The grip is hard, hurts where it presses against the bone there, and Dean tugs Sam's ass up in the air so quickly, his knees almost don't catch him time.
It's sudden enough to disorient, Sam's balance and sense of gravity getting thrown off and now he's laying there with his ass in the air, entirely at a loss. In his chest, his heart is thudding so wildly he can feel every vein under his skin, blood rushing loudly in his ears and making his cock ache.
He understands the position he's in now, somewhere vague and mystified in the back of his head grasps this, but he doesn't do anything. A bit like a deer in headlights, he just crouches there as Dean kneels behind him in plain view of his offered up ass like he owns it.
"My Sammy, my Sammy," Dean mumbles like a punctuation to Sam's incoherent, scrambled thoughts. Both his hands find Sam's hips, hooking into the curve where it meets thighs and Sam's pulse is rabbit frantic, but he can't seem to move.
Callused fingers slide around the edge of Sam's boxers, tracing along the hem of each leg and leaving chills in their wake. Sam flinches, hips stuttering just a bit, and Dean only punches out a little exhale of an acknowledgement. Not quite a laugh, but almost. Then those fingers are slipping up under the material at the back of Sam's thighs, snaking up and under to press into the give of Sam's bare ass.
He growls lightly when Sam's hips twitch forward and away again and he palms into Sam's ass, squeezing hard enough to leave something behind, hard enough to keep Sam still, have Sam gasping.
The feeling isn't foreign, Sam's had his ass fondled hundreds of times, but this is Dean. These are Dean's familiar calluses, Dean's matching bite marks, rough and catching up underneath his boxers like it's a secret.
Sam's cock is swollen and hard up against his stomach, straining in the tight pull of his stretched underwear. Heat simmering underneath every point of contact and sending warm signals directly to the base of Sam's cock and he would scramble away before he starts leaking precome on his fresh boxers, but he doesn't think he can.
It's even worse when Dean's tight grip parts his cheeks, soft material of his underwear brushing his exposed hole in a flutter of sensation that makes Sam want to bite something very hard. He only clenches his teeth to each other, trapping any whiny, desperate little noises inside his mouth, hands curling into fists against the duvet.
"My Sammy, mine," Dean says and he sounds far away, a hazy absent string of words Sam isn't translating anymore. His cock though jumps anyways, a tacit agreement that Sam refuses to say out loud.
Dean's right hand shifts, just a slight angling to the side against Sam's ass, and the rough pad of a thumb presses against Sam's hole, sudden and curious.
The pathetic, surprised yelp of a sound that squeaks past Sam's lips goes unfettered, and Sam's clenching up entirely at the foreign feeling, at the way his nerves are sparking straight down to his balls. Dean presses harder without sinking inside and Sam's whole body shivers, that ring of muscle twitching under Dean's touch.
A soft desperate sound wheezes out of Dean then, going directly to Sam's straining cock, now beading up wet in his boxers and Sam huffs out a quiet, confrontational, "Dean."
He doesn't really know what he's hoping to accomplish with the proclamation, but Dean's reaction is quick and immediate. His hands slip out of Sam's underwear and Sam just manages not to voice a protest when those same hands jerk the same underwear right down his thighs.
"H-hey!" Sam's fumbling out as his dick bounces free and hits his stomach, exposed with his waistband perched under the bottom of his ass. His chest burns with an anticipation Sam doesn't try to dissect.
Dean hums, a low and satisfied gravel, and the familiar calluses are back on Sam's skin, kneading into him and wringing out punched, awed little exhales with every press. Sam doesn't think, pushing back into Dean's touch and very tempted to grab himself as he drips precome onto the duvet beneath him.
An encouragement sneaks into his mouth when Dean's thumb ghosts back along his asshole, but he resolutely keeps it tampered down.
"Only mine, my Sammy," Dean vocalizes, every m enunciated past pouting lips. He wants Sam to agree, he wants Sam to say it again, like the last time.
Sam doesn't and he's starting to worry that this isn't an argument anymore, but foreplay—then he wonders deliriously if their arguments haven't always been foreplay.
His silence, save for his heavy breath, earns him a little snarl from Dean, fingers clawing into the meat of his cheeks with a clear intent to mark, to own. They force his cheeks farther apart, an admonishment, and Sam groans low in his chest at the ache of it.
"Mine." Sam jolts at the damp heat of Dean's breath washing over his exposed asshole, suddenly realizing just how close he's gotten. Sam's entire body tightens up, abs clenching up, toes curling, and that ring of muscle quivers, pulled open.
"Always been mine," Dean murmurs and Sam's hands in the duvet are balled into two bone white fists to keep something loud and agreeing from climbing right out of his mouth.
He isn't at all prepared for the wet heat of Dean's tongue, pressing flat against his hole and shooting that same wet heat straight up from the base of his spine. Sam squeaks, breathy and shocked, jumping forward and away in alarm.
His hips cant forward, knees sliding out from under him, and then his dick is rutting along the duvet, precious friction forcing a stilted moan free. If Sam had any delusions that he had somehow escaped that overwhelming sensation of Dean's tongue on him, they're immediately quashed when Dean pounces back on him with a rough, angry noise.
Hands pry his cheeks apart with enough force to press Sam's cock harder into the mattress, compounding that sweet pressure with another quick lick of Dean's tongue. Sam's entire body goes aflame, red and flushed, and he doesn't know if it's because he's embarrassed or about to come all over the bed.
He whines something pathetic and desperate into the duvet under his chin, unable to resist the slight angling of his hips. Perfect to push himself into the sheets and his ass back up into the silky, hot press of Dean's mouth.
"Dean," Sam gasps out, forming some sort of token protest for his brother's sake in his addled head just as Dean's tongue drags along his rim. A growl vibrates into Sam's body and he's tingling from the ends of his toes, pushing back against Dean to shamelessly chase after that wet heat in his ass.
Dean acquiesces, benevolent, as his tongue circles Sam's hole once more before sinking past the muscle. Sam chokes, an almost unbearable rush of pins and needles heating him up into a writhing, whimpering mess. He's curling over the duvet, thrusting against the mattress with short, stuttering movements more or less directed by Dean's tongue in his ass.
"Dean, Dean, Dean," he's murmuring a quiet mantra of his brother's name and somewhere he thinks it was supposed to sound a lot more protesting than encouraging. He's teething into the sheets bundled up under his mouth to try and shove Dean's name back in, to not sound so fucking needy. It's like the last time they did this, the last time Dean took care of him like this, spread over his thighs and pumping his cock with fingers against his ass to make him come.
Thinking about it only makes Sam worse, gasping a hiccuping breath as Dean's tongue, so much wetter and softer and heated than Dean's fingers, pops past his rim and sucks at the muscle. Wet noises fill the room, and Sam rucks up one of his thighs, pulling his ass cheek and giving Dean more room as his cock thrusts into the sheets.
He wants to come again, wants that same vibrant orgasm as last time, crying and buzzing with a tightness that snaps like a rubber band. Sam wants to come with Dean's name on his tongue and those fingers finally in his ass like he wanted. He whines just thinking it, pushing back into Dean's mouth with a neediness that he can't even bring himself to be embarrassed by.
Pulling the request up out of his chest is like dredging through tar and Sam has to choke past a whimpering sob of a sound before he can mumble, "Fingers, Dean, please."
At first he doesn't think Dean hears him, sucking and licking at him, and he trembles, burying his face into the blankets because he could easily come from that alone. But Dean pulls off him with a graphic pop of a sound and Sam has seconds to pout and complain, before Dean's thick fingers are on his jaw.
He flinches away, eyes flying open to see Dean hovering over him, reaching for his mouth. A fingers prods at Sam's lips, slack in awe at just how puffy Dean's mouth is now, wet and shiny with spit that's dripped down his chin. It's easy for Dean to slide his middle finger into Sam's open mouth, pressing down on his tongue with a salty roughness that has hips twitching.
Dean smiles at him with his abused mouth. "Suck, Sammy," he requests, gentle and guiding as he strokes his finger along Sam's tongue, leaving the taste of him in his wake. Sam's balls ache, tight, and he does as told, coating Dean's finger with as much spit as he can. His eyes don't leave Dean's face as he does, soaking up the way Dean's green eyes get glassier, breath quickening into short bursts.
"My Sammy," he groans, and it's miserable and pathetic and inconsolable. His gaze goes damp and dewy, and Sam dutifully wet his finger in saliva. He doesn't—actually can't agree with his mouth full, hollowing his cheeks and sucking like it's Dean's dick on his tongue. He almost wishes it was.
Sam gets his intended effect when Dean presses the heel of his other hand between his thighs, a whimper wrecking out of his swollen mouth.
Sufficiently wetted, Dean slides his middle finger free. He darts down to capture Sam's lips in a biting kiss, hard enough to break a little skin. Sam tastes coppery blood and then Dean's angling back behind him. He runs his finger slick with Sam's spit around Sam's rim and it's much more solid and unforgiving compared to his tongue alongside it.
But Sam moves his hips up into the press of Dean's finger, and his cock fucking aches, leaking and painful with every muscle wound up in anticipation.
"Mine," Dean says against Sam's hole, and he sounds almost angry, but then his finger is pressing inside and Sam's sucking in a sharp breath.
It doesn't hurt, foreign intrusion pressing further inside Sam than Dean's tongue could ever reach, but Sam feels weird. His insides feel like a hot wire, static and thrumming with heated electricity, and the deeper Dean's finger sinks past his rim, the tighter the wire is pulled.
A burn starts to radiate up from the base of Sam's spine and he should say something, murmur an urgent, anxious wait but Dean's mouth is back on him. Licking and sucking and distracting.
Sam can only hold himself cautiously still as Dean's finger slides shallowly in and out of his ass, almost searchingly. He doesn't really know what he should be doing, too scared that the burn will only hurt.
He hasn't been fingered by anyone but himself before and his own attempts were unsatisfying and strange at best, hot only in the wrongness of it. Those orgasms Sam wrought himself relied more on the fantasy of the silhouetted, almost-familiar figure he imagined to be sinking inside him.
Sam doesn't think about it further, sliding a hand down under his chest to stroke himself in slow measured movements. He focuses solely on Dean's tongue in his ass, wet and warm and familiar, rather than the new and strange thickness of his finger as it sinks in deep.
He's not quite edging himself, but he keeps his grip light, just enough to thrust without going fully over, that overwrought, overwhelming hot wire strung up and pulled tight enough to almost snap. His orgasm is close, just faintly off the way, but he doesn't want it quite yet as Dean's knuckle catches when Sam thrusts into his hand.
Dean hums against Sam's rim, nipping at the muscle and sending sparks in his wake, and that alone is enough to make Sam's thigh clench, balls tight, but then Dean pistons his middle finger in and Sam's brain goes white. Dean's smashed into a spot somewhere deep inside that has Sam's toes curling hard enough to crack the joints, spine going rigid straight as he fumbles into the mess of sheets in a heap of limbs.
"Dean," Sam groans more out of instinct than anything else, gathering up his jelly bones to press back mindlessly into Dean's finger. His entire body shakes, wracked with these pleasurable little waves, his cock jumping in his hand as he chases that surge of nerve frying electricity again.
He can feel Dean smirking against his ass, the bunch up of his cheek and curl of his lips, and there's a satisfied noise almost like a purr.
"My Sammy?" he asks roughly, stilling his finger in Sam's ass, another hand holding him by the hip. His words are hot against Sam's hole and Sam clenches around Dean's finger with short, stuttering gasps Groaning, Sam buries his face in the sheets.
"Really?" he whines, flexing his hips and trying to push back into Dean's finger, but Dean completely retracts his hand, sliding out with an obscenely wet sound. Pressing his lips to Sam's left asscheek, Dean almost kisses him, unshaved jaw scratching at Sam's skin.
"My Sammy?" Dean repeats against Sam's ass, lower this time, warning. Sam hesitates, that nearly forgotten flare of anger from before starting to roil in his chest.
His hesitation earns him Dean's teeth. Replacing his lips on Sam's asscheek, Dean gathers a hunk of flesh in his jaws, biting down. Sam's breath punches out of his mouth, cock dripping heavy and painful in his hand.
He hates that Dean's biting only makes him worse.
"Okay, okay," he fumbles out on an exhale, gulping breaths, and Dean releases his ass to lick at his hole and send him sputtering again.
"O-okay, yes, Dean, yes yours. I'm yours, always yours, you know that, you fucking know." He's rambling, close to begging, as his balls ache and his cock twitches and he just wants to come already, just wants that fucking sparking pressure in his ass moving again.
Dean sucks at his rim, hums as he does, low and satisfied and approving and that's my boy and Sam whimpers.
Finger coated in fresh spit, warm and dripping, Dean dips back into Sam's ass and lands the mark on the first try. An action that sends Sam reeling. His hips stutter in erratic thrusts, trembling at the powerful, electric sensations when he pumps back into Dean with abortive, needy jerks. Quiet, pouty gasps of DeanDeanDean breathe free as Sam works his cock, chasing that mounting, snapping, bursting orgasm with his eyes screwed shut.
"Yours, Dean, yours," he pants just as Dean's finger hits long and hard and rewarding into Sam's prostate, mirroring the downstroke of Sam's palm on his cock.
He spills all over his hand and the sheets, his whole frame going trembly and overwhelmed with that sweet rush up from his core. He curls into the sheets, a shaking, shivering heap on the bed, with no other sounds but the heaving of his quivery, shallow breaths.
Dean slides free with one last drag of his tongue at Sam's rim. He sits back on his heels, something satisfied rumbling in the well of his chest, as his bitten right palm cups Sam's ass with a possessive squeeze.
"My Sammy," he says. This time it isn't tentative or unsure, it isn't asking, it isn't seeking Sam's confirmation. This time, Dean's tone is steady and even, confident like it never needed reaffirming in the first place. Like it's the only truth Dean has ever known, like he lives by that one singular principle: Sammy is Dean's.
Head foggy and unable to connect thoughts to words to make any sense, Sam doesn't think Dean has ever questioned that principle. He's just scared that Sam has.
It rings angry and guilty in Sam's head, in need of immediate rectification, and he forces himself to roll over onto his back, all floppy and sated and sleepy.
Dean is staring down at him, flushed all pink under his freckles, and his dick is hard in his boxers. Sam offers him a lazy smile and holds out his hands like he always did as a kid when he wanted his big brother to hold him.
Rather than request a hug, Sam pats his hips once, looking down his body at Dean where he can see him clearly between his own thighs. "C'mere," he murmurs, soupy and slow.
Dean doesn't hesitate, crawling between his legs until he's on top of Sam. He settles his ass down on Sam's hips, thighs bracketing Sam's waist. As he went, Sam shoved a pillow up under his own head, propping himself up for the show. From this angle, Sam has a perfect, beautiful view of Dean and his dick and he raises lazy hands to tug Dean's boxers down past his ass.
"Sammy," Dean breathes, not quite a question or an encouragement, staring down at Sam with hooded eyes and parted lips. His dick stands up against his stomach, leaking and strained, and Sam's mouth fills with spit.
But he's too exhausted and loose limbed to suck Dean off like before, even if there's nothing he wants more than to take Dean apart with his mouth, feel Dean's cock throb against his tongue. Right now, Sam can barely get his spine to cooperate with remaining intact as he eyes Dean's chest as it rises and falls in panting breaths, pink with heat.
Dean's thighs clench reflexively around Sam's waist, almost impatient and maybe a little nervous under Sam's warm gaze.
"Get yourself off," Sam says, languid and smooth, moving his hands to rest on the thick bulk of Dean's thighs. He squeezes into the give of the muscle and they flex under his fingers, Dean's hard cock reacts too, a bit of precome oozing out the tip.
"I'll watch," Sam says lazily, running his palms up and down Dean's thighs in slow, encouraging movements. Dean's eyelashes are damp and shiny like Dean has cried again and somehow the idea makes Sam's sated, liquid heat flare a little, interested. He just came and he's spent but he feels kind of bad thinking Dean is pretty when he cries, how he wants to make him cry.
Dean's eyes are clear though, no tears in sight, and he inhales deep. A tentative hand—the one Sam's bitten deep into—glides down Dean's clenching stomach.
Sam's never watched Dean jack off before, especially not like this. Sure he's walked in a few times on accident, with frantic, annoyed apologies and a scurry away. But this is heady, addictive. Dean spread out over him, practically on display for Sam, at Sam's request, wrapping his fingers around his hard cock. Hard because of Sam. Hard for Sam. With greedy eyes, Sam drinks everything in, memorizing the sensations and committing it all to memory.
As soon as Dean's got a grip on himself, Sam can feel those thighs twitch, sensitive, and a soft little noise puffs past Dean's lips. Dean is watching Sam watch him, his gaze hot and searing on Sam's face, but Sam is staring at Dean's cock as he slowly strokes it. The way the precome seeps down onto his fingers, shiny and wet with slick noises as he moves.
Dean's handiwork is almost shy, safe and deliberate pumps of his fingers, while his hips remain completely still. There's no slight thrust, no hint of any kind of undoing, until Sam trails his eyes upwards, tracing the hair that goes up to Dean's navel. His stomach and chest paint a much better portrait of the build up, quivering and flexing and stuttering as Dean works his own cock.
Sam blinks slow and heavy like his eyelashes are weighted, but he's too enthralled to let the sleep that nags at him take his attention away. He sneaks his fingertips up under the hem of Dean's boxers like Dean did to him, scratching at the skin there, light and dragging.
He wants to grin at the way Dean's body immediately reacts, visible and obvious in the way his abs clench up, stroke fumbling its rhythm. His balls are drawn tight, cock twitching in his fingers, and Dean's pulled his bottom lip in his teeth. He's going to abuse it even more than he already has and Sam wants to push a little more, a little farther.
Smiling up at Dean's heavy lidded stare, Sam keeps lightly dragging his nails along Dean's thighs. "That's good," he says in his fucked out, roughened voice as Dean pumps his hand, pink all the way down.
"Good for me," Sam says almost absently, sliding his fingers out of Dean's boxers to skate them up over his hips. "Always good for me." Dean makes a weak sound in the back of his throat, almost a keen, as he thumbs the head of his swollen cock. But Sam's not done yet.
He moves his hands past Dean's hips and grabs his ass, squeezing hard and possessive and just as owning as Dean had him.
"My Dean," he says and he means it, as much as Dean means it, as much as Sam's ever meant anything. As if Sam's flipped a switch, Dean's hips start to move in uncontrolled, frantic thrusts up into the circle of his hand, breaths short and whiny.
"My Dean, always mine," Sam murmurs, pleased and reassuring, as he sinks his greedy fingers into the flesh of Dean's ass. Dean's nodding, eyes wet with a familiar sheen as his mouth falls open to whine out a desperate, needy little whimper that sounds like S'mmy.
"That's it, Dean, c'mon," Sam's barely speaking for any other sake than Dean's when his breathing comes up so stuttered and erratic Sam knows he's almost there. His fingers dig hard and clinging into the flesh of Dean's ass, clutching at him as if he would ever try to escape and Dean pitches forward, thighs straining.
His eyelashes are glowing with faint tears and Sam wants to kiss them off, but he only licks his lips and smirks up at his wrecked brother over him. "You can come, Dean, huh? Wanna come? Wanna come to the sound of me calling you mine?" It comes out of him like wine spilling from an uncorked bottle and Dean hiccups, eyes squinting shut tight, muscles all overly tense.
"You're mine Dean, you know that. I'm yours, but you're mine. Only mine." Sam doesn't intend it to sound as vicious as it does, but he bites it out and doesn't think about why. Dean whimpers, almost a choked sob of a thing, and he cranes his head back with his pretty lips parted.
Sam admires the attractive stretch of his throat, thinks about marking it up, when Dean comes all over his hand and Sam's stomach.
His thighs and ass twitch against Sam, like muscles fresh after being worked, and he's gasping in desperate, shaky breaths. As if the only thing keeping him upright was Sam's request, Dean collapses forward over Sam with a groan.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, m'yours Sammy," is the husky litany that meets Sam's lips, Dean licking into his mouth and kissing him like a promise, like a benediction.
The arms supporting Dean tremble, barely solid enough to let him kiss Sam, and then Sam has a front full of his brother, chest to thigh. Dean tilts back enough to smile indulgently down at him, affectionate and familiar now, post orgasm. It's that look that Sam always gets from him, that Sam's always gotten from him, the one Sam still can't quite put his finger on.
He doesn't mull too hard over it this time, in his hazy, sleep deprived brain. Instead, Sam releases Dean's ass to ghost his fingers up along the broad his back until he can pet at Dean's hair like a soft puppy. He scratches at the nape of his neck, earning him a pleased little rumble for his efforts.
"Let's go to sleep," Sam murmurs, eyes already drooping almost closed. Dean hums in agreement, resting his chin over Sam's tattoo and seemingly okay with the come pasting them together.
Sam snorts, shoving at Dean's head to roll him off. "At least lemme throw the duvet over, this is disgusting." He has to maneuver it out from underneath the both of them with some expert, floppy bodied movements that include strategically wiping them as clean as he can get them along the way.
Fortunately, there's another thinner blanket beneath and Sam pulls it over the both of them in a sleepy, sloth like manner. Dean just watches him with that concentrated furrow in his brow and Sam assumes he's debating how best to wiggle himself into Sam's arms.
Beating him to the punch, Sam blearily throws his whole, giant body over Dean's. He wraps his arms in a constricting cage around Dean's chest and plops one of his legs over his hips too, for good measure. With a heaving sigh, Sam plops his head down on the pillow beside Dean's and lets his lips settle against Dean's ear.
He hasn't forgotten what led to this in the first place and where it would have been swirling uneasily in his chest before, now Sam's just tired and overly warm with affection. Enough to make him put everything off until they're a bit less spent.
There is one thing Dean said that he never addressed and he addresses it now, clinging close.
"You're not goin' anywhere," he whispers against Dean's ear, husky and half asleep. Dean shivers under the attention, but he settles into Sam's restraining cuddle like putty, molding against Sam with a soft, happy sigh.
Sam's almost drifting off, but he has to finish what he started.
"We're both still goin' to the vamp nest," he mumbles and doesn't mistake the way Dean's tenses just a little under the weight of Sam's limbs. "M'still mad at you, but you're not goin' anywhere without me."
He might imagine the way his final words ease Dean's tension, muscles slackening in Sam's heavy hold, but there is a quiet exhale from Dean's mouth and it's acknowledgment enough for Sam. He drifts off to the sound of Dean's steady breathing, safe and secure.
When he wakes up, Dean's gone.
Notes:
this update is slightly late by GMT standards ^^;; please send some encouraging words my way, it turns out editing fic is like 10x harder than just writing fic. i'm super critical when editing, whereas writing i can do whatever i want even if it's messy lol so anyways, lmk what ur thinking, especially about dean's behavior, and to everyone who comments i love you for keeping me sane <3
i was going to go back to the more random update schedule after this chapter, but i kind of like updating on the same day every week… so the next update (which is gonna be QUITE a chapter >.>) will be friday, august 7th ish. obviously subject to timezones and my own editing speed (ง ื▿ ื)ว
Chapter 21: Bare
Notes:
my beta skrub didn't catch as many mistakes this time as they usually do, which makes me quite suspicious. they said they're sleep deprived though, so if you spot anything let me know!! and my apologies haha
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Impala tears down the highway, engine roaring with the weight of Sam's foot on the pedal. Beneath her front end, cracked and gray street tar disappears from view at a frantic pace. Sam can't see the speedometer, but he knows it's too fast.
His hands are so tight around the wheel, fingernails dig aching divots into his palm. It stings and burns warm like it's bleeding from the pressure.
In Sam's chest, something hollow and overturned sits. His cheeks are wet with old tears.
A sign flies by. He doesn't read it, not really, but he knows what it said.
Livermore, 16 miles.
Sam remembers it, because he's dreaming.
He recognizes the inky black of night seeping into his body, insidious and lonely, that ache of driving and driving and driving with no destination in sight. But Dean—he should be here, Sam found him, Sam got him back.
When he tries to turn and check, to assuage that blackness around him with Dean's presence, his body won't cooperate.
His foot is still pressing the pedal down flat, heavy and unyielding, and his head refuses to turn. The field of his vision is narrow and secure to the road ahead, illuminated in the hazy yellow of headlights. He can't even blink.
An immediate fear beads sweat across his brow, clammy with anxiety. Not quite irrational, though he knows this isn't real. It still quickens his heart into a noisy, painful throbbing, going as high as his throat and choking his airways.
The desperate, suffocating sense of being trapped only makes him struggle harder, distress tugging at the foggy edges of his consciousness and it screams at him to movemovemove.
Nothing changes, he can't do anything and the Impala races along, ignorant of his rapid breaths.
There's no one beside Sam. He's alone. This realization brings along with the cool emptiness of a space recently vacated. Dean isn't lying curled up and injured across the bench with his head resting warmly against Sam's thigh, half naked and barely conscious. Dean isn't here at all.
A nightmare then.
Sam reels and his thoughts spark more in fleeting bursts of emotions rather than any coherent train of sense. Fear, worry, the creeping darkness of being completely alone. It touches at the back of his immobile neck like the claws of some horrible creature and he can't escape it.
He wants to slam the breaks, wants to spin the Impala around and look for Dean wants that creature to stop touching him—
The bleeding, sharp pain in his left palm screams louder than Sam is trying to.
This isn't real.
Sam wakes with immediacy, but the realization he's no longer asleep comes much slower than usual.
His eyes fly open then shut just as quickly in the bright light of dawn. Labored breaths taper off into a beleaguered groan and he cringes away from the sun, turning to face the opposite way. As he blinks away the stars, he expects to see Dean across the room as he always does, snoring in the bed beside him.
Sam squints blearily at the blank wall and realizes sluggishly that there's only one bed right now. Because he and Dean have been sharing lately. But Dean isn't curled up beside him, face buried into the pillow and drooling everywhere. The space beside Sam is empty, but for mussed up sheets.
The sharp staccato thudding of Sam's heart picks right back up again and for a delirious second Sam worries he isn't really awake. His body can move now though, he can sit up and turn and look for Dean now. Wherever he is. Propping up on his thighs, Sam casts urgent glances around the room.
No Dean. Panic surges up and over him like a high ocean wave engulfing him from behind as he barely treads water and it's like drowning.
But Sam tries to be rational, tries to take deep breaths to keep himself from rushing out of the room and screaming for Dean like a frightened little kid.
He had a nightmare, that's all. He's had nightmares like that before, where his body's like a meatsuit he can't control and it never fails to cling to him even after he's woken.
His skin feels coated in slick oil and sweat, fear having seeped right out of his pores and dampened him. He's thrumming with the aftereffects of a failed fight or flight response, muscles all over jumping and clenching reflexively. The paranoia nips at his peripheral, tricks him into thinking there's some unknowable danger just out of sight, just behind him.
And he doesn't know where Dean is.
"Dean?" he says uselessly and it echoes back in the hollow room. Staring at the closed door for a few wanting seconds, Sam almost expects Dean to come swinging in at his call with raised eyebrows and a knowing grin.
Nothing answers his gaze or his call and Sam throws the blanket off.
His palm stings when he does and glancing down, he sees red across his skin and on the sheets where he's touched.
Dean's bite has been cut into again, as if Dean slotted Sam's hand into his mouth and bit down harder than he has in a while. The healed scars are torn through again and new ones will replace them, but they'll never quite be able to fade away.
Sam frowns at the blood stains, thin, translucent streaks across his hand and over his fingernails from the fist he made in his sleep. It's impossible to tell if he did it to himself or if Dean was responsible. The wounds are slightly dried now, no longer actively bleeding, and it doesn't matter anyways.
He needs to find Dean.
Still slightly disoriented, Sam fumbles off the bed and sees their duffel bag on the floor at the end. He doesn't want to get dressed, he wants to find Dean, but the rational, semi-coherent part of his brain stops him short of rushing out and shouting for Dean in his underwear.
Dean is probably using the toilet or something, maybe getting a bite to eat. He wouldn't just leave Sam behind.
Ignoring the way his heart is still beating too hard up against his ribs, Sam drops to a crouch to dig through the duffel bag. All that's left inside is a single shirt and pair of jeans. Dean's already dressed, wherever he is.
The thought sits uncomfortably at the back of Sam's skull as he pulls the jeans on, hand smarting against the denim.
As he dresses, he strains to listen for any telltale indicators of Dean's presence, the heavy footfalls of his boots, or the flush of running water, but he only hears the quiet rush of ocean waves lapping outside.
His phone was also in the bag and Sam fishes it out to check the time, appropriately dressed. 6:13 AM, it reads. Sam's only slept for two or so hours at most. It's not a huge window of time for Dean to go wandering off, but Sam isn't assured.
The door clangs loud and ominously when Sam shoves it open to head for the bathroom. He can't believe he didn't wake up when Dean must have left before, considering the racket, and it only makes his nerves buzz uneasily.
Down the hallway, Sam resists the childish urge to shout for his brother like he always does. His throat burns with it, lungs inflating, as bare feet slap against the cold steel floor. Inside the bathroom, the familiar tile meets his searching gaze.
He steps through the open door and finds the room vacant, but for their used towels and dirty clothes from last night. His own shoes sit half overturned against the wall. Dean's are not beside them.
"Dean?" Sam calls again, forcing the tremor in his voice away by raising its volume. He's not quite yelling, but it's more curt now, sharpened with serious concern. Dean's blood smeared jeans lay in a heap among their laundry and Sam turns every pocket inside out.
The Impala's keys are gone too.
Almost tripping into the sink in his haste, Sam slips into his boots and hurries back out into the hall. All the doors are still closed, except one towards the front of the boat. Sam rushes to it, still willing himself to stay calm, willing his fear to be nothing more than an overreaction. Just a consequence of attaching himself to Dean's side for the last few days.
"Dean!" He's practically yelling as he skirts the open door and looks in with wide, hopeful eyes.
It's the room with that table covered in discarded mail and Dean isn't inside. Sam's chest flares hot like he's angry at all those stupid envelopes for not being Dean, for not having his location stamped across their fronts. His teeth clench, tight and grinding, and he bursts into the common area with an assault of furious panic under his skin.
Benny is there. Sam's gaze pins him down immediately, wild eyed, where he sits calmly on the bench, notepad in hand. His head whipped up when Sam shoved the door open and that needle point stare meets Sam's without fear.
Sam's on him before he really registers what he's doing.
"Where's my brother?" he hisses, grabbing Benny's jacket collar and forcing him roughly back into the wall behind him. Sam's acutely aware he doesn't have a weapon and this is dangerous but he doesn't care. If this bloodsucking thing hurt Dean, Sam would do just like Dean had and tear into its throat with his fingers.
"Whoa there," Benny says, meaty fist flying up to grip Sam's arm. He doesn't squeeze hard, even if he could probably break the bones there, it's just tight enough to prevent Sam from hauling him off the seat.
Keeping Sam's gaze, Benny frowns. "He ain't with you?" There's a curious, upward lilt to the question.
Sam's barely restraining himself, shaking with how taut his muscles are pulled, and his jaw aches from the pressure of clenching teeth. He scowls, breaking eye contact to reign in the irrational rage that urges him to just kill Benny right now.
"I woke up and he was gone," he grinds out, hand still wound in Benny's collar, so close to the flesh of his throat, to the kill point. Benny angles his head back and darts his gaze to the exit door.
"Your boy left? That not something he does?" he asks, as careful with his words as ever. Sam follows Benny's glance and glares at the door like it'll tell him if Dean's passed through it without Sam beside him.
After everything, the idea of that sounds impossible. Since coming back, Dean has never left Sam's side on his own. He wouldn't allow so much as a breath between the skin of their hands if he could help it.
This is the longest and farthest they've been apart since the night from Sam's dream. Since Dean came back. An itch plucks at Sam's skin, like it's pulling too tightly over his bones, shrinking away now that Dean isn't warm against it. He wants to peel himself free of it.
Worrying his jaw, Sam turns back to Benny and shoves him hard once with the fist in his collar. He wishes he had a machete to the vampire's throat instead of his bare hand.
"Dean wouldn't just go," he says harshly, throat aching with it, and he wants to cut into Benny's throat as if it'll spill his voice out, all the answers pouring down his skin.
Benny releases the grip he has on Sam's arm gradually, as if moving too fast will spook Sam, and maybe it would. Hands free, he holds them both up and out in a surrendering gesture.
"I ain't seen him and I've been out here for half an hour now," he explains, and then flicks his head in the direction of the exit door again. "Some Officer Graham came knocking about a disturbance reported and a lotta blood at our dock around then."
Sam's scowl deepens and his fists in Benny's collar ease up. Of course some do-gooder called the cops on their bloody fight. It was probably a guy in one of the nearby boats, there certainly isn't a shortage of them. They can't exactly afford to have the whole New Orleans PD hunting them down on top of killing a nest of vampires and finding out where the fuck Dean ran off too.
With a furious exhale, Sam realizes Benny's words have had their intended effect and he releases the collar in his grip to stand up to his full height. Crossing his arms, Sam has to ask. "What'd you tell them?"
He doesn't know if he cares about the answer and he knows that fear and concern and ripped feeling in his flesh has nothing to do with the police. Tucked in the crook of his elbow, his left fist clenches and releases reflexively, and Sam savors the acute focus the aching bites bring him. A small amount of control.
He wants to find Dean.
"I told him it was a fishin' accident," Benny says, shifting on the bench to pat his previously mauled up leg covered in torn trousers. Sam spares it a glance and catches unblemished skin beneath it. Healed up. "Showed him the leg before it was all fixed up and he went on his way. Nice little guy, kinda twitchy."
Sam's already tuning Benny back out, scanning the area for any hint to where Dean might be. He catches sight of the notepad Benny was holding before Sam grabbed him. It lays on the small table, yellow and lined with scribbles that look like a list going down it.
"What were you doing?" he asks, already picking up the pad to skim it over. They look like names.
"Yachts." Benny drums fingers on the table edge. "Targets. Just been trying to find the nest. Your monster boy ain't come through here, far as I've seen."
Sam drops the notepad and runs his fingers through his hair. He's on edge, jaw working up into an ache as he grinds his teeth and tries to figure out where the fuck his brother went while he was asleep.
He thinks about last night, about their argument that never quite resolved, about Dean's complete lack of information and his insistence on leaving the vamp nest alone. About them not going through with it because it's dangerous. Because Sam could get hurt.
But where would Dean have gone? It's not like running off would guarantee Sam's safety somehow. At the very least, it would only delay their planned attack on the nest by a few hours while Sam tracks his stupid brother down like a hound dog. Not to mention Sam's going to strangle Dean as soon as he finds him.
He just can't wrap his head around the thought of Dean planning this. Would Dean really wait until Sam fell asleep and then sneak away just to—do what? Sam doesn't know. It's hard to imagine Dean, now or before, coming up with this conniving scheme involving leaving Sam behind with Benny.
Or leaving Sam behind at all.
Dean has to feel what Sam feels when they're apart. Like coming undone at the seams, pulling a thread and unwinding the stitching with every step that furthers the distance.
It's like that right now, like Sam's thread is still wound around Dean's fingers, following him wherever the fuck he ran off too, twining Sam up into some shrunked husk of himself. Trapped. Lonely. It makes Sam's lungs burn, the husk of himself too small to house them.
He wants to scream.
He's practically pacing the small commons area, anxious energy pulsing out into his legs and making him want to go for a run to get it all out. Was this how Dean felt after killing all those vampires last night? The way he was practically thrumming with it, unable to come down from that scared, senseless ledge.
Sam's foot stutters, stopping his stride mid-air, and he catches himself against the wall.
Dean, last night. The vampires, the nest.
Wet eyes, pleading pink lips. "Please Sammy." Sam's body weighing Dean's down, containing him, caging him. "Not goin' anywhere without me." Dean soaked in blood and gore, smirking down at his work, fingers grasping at spine.
"You alright?" Benny's low drawl breaks Sam's thoughts and he spins around to face him, digging into his left hand scars with his thumb so hard it flares hot and painful. Grounding. Dean's.
"I know where he went," Sam says absently, working furiously, glancing around the interior of the ship again for whatever hints Dean himself already found. "The nest. He went to kill them all."
Benny shoves up to his feet, something fierce and indignant on his bearded face. It twists his mouth down. "Why the hell would he do that?"
Where could Dean have found the location? There has to be something. Sam waves Benny's anger off, finding no such answers in the commons area, and heading back into the hallway of doors.
"He must've figured it out, found the nest," Sam rambles, more to himself than for Benny's benefit, but he can hear Benny following at his heels. Dean's absence is more acute in Benny's presence and Sam brushes off the impending sense of abandonment in favor of his search.
The mailroom door is still open.
Sam's halfway to passing it and he stops, trying to remember if he had been the one to leave it open last night. He can't.
"Were you in here?" he asks Benny, stepping inside without waiting for an answer. White envelopes are scattered across the table, haphazard and uncaring. Disordered. A few have been opened, flaps popping up from the pile at random.
Sam sifts through them, pushing mail across the table and searching for anything that stands out. Benny's come in after him and he slides an envelope between two fingers, raising it with a frown. "What would I dig through letters for?"
The envelopes are all addressed in varying fonts, several places in several states stretching across the country. No single one stands out among the plethora of zip codes and towns as being particularly unique. Sam huffs a frustrated breath, digging inside of a few envelopes in case Dean found the answer there.
Rustling paper flaps in the air between them and then Benny's holding up a trifolded letter.
"NFL cable package?" he reads slowly in an uncomprehending way, and Sam's eyes shoot up. He grabs the paper free of Benny's fingers and skims the document for the active dates of service and the address receiving it.
Slamming the paper down on the table, Sam doesn't spare more than a glance at Benny's incredulous frown.
"This is it." He whips out his phone, typing the address into maps. "Someone gets service there, means someone lives there. It's isolated too, this is where Dean went." Routing the directions, Sam holds the screen up for Benny to see. "Only thirty-two minutes away."
He doesn't tell Benny what Dean must have thought of that distance, how Dean figured this all out on his own, how he saw the half hour drive and assumed he would be back before Sam even woke up.
Nothing but a short trip to slaughter all the vampirates like Sam wants without letting Sam come near them. Like the giant, stupid, protective asshole of a big brother Dean always has been and probably always will be.
It makes Sam viscerally angry yet inexplicably proud in equal, confusing measure.
Only Dean Winchester would consider breaking into a vamp nest and killing them all alone would take little more time than a trip to the movies. Not to mention the sheer reckless lunacy of it all.
When they find Dean, Sam's going to kill him. After he kills the rest of the vampirates.
"He's there right now?" Benny's asking and Sam doesn't mistake the way his face is shuttering, eyes averting and frown creased.
Obviously this isn't good for him either, not if he wants some sort of revenge. If Dean kills his maker before he can then what was the point of it all? Benny has no obligation to tell them shit. Maybe Dean thought about that too.
"Yeah, we gotta go."
Sam shoves his phone back into his pocket and moves with quick, urgent steps back to grab his stuff. He returns to find Benny already opening the exit door with a wan expression, no doubt aware of just how precariously his chance at vengeance hangs in the balance.
As they hurry down the dock, Sam is painfully aware of just how screwed he and Benny are thanks to Dean's impulsive decision.
They don't have a vehicle, but more importantly, they don't have the Impala. All of her weapons, and the extra syringes of dead man's blood Sam stole, everything is with Dean now and Sam's just got a duffel full of dirty clothes.
Benny follows close and silent as they bypass the shipping containers with long strides. Port workers are milling about doing their jobs or Sam would be sprinting out the gate. As it is, they've already attracted police attention once today and Sam's only going to be breaking more laws.
"We have to grab a car," Sam tosses over his shoulder, slipping past the gate he clipped through last night. He doesn't bother holding it for Benny behind him.
The parking lot from last night is half filled now which is a good thing. Not only will it be less noticeable when one inevitably goes missing, a few of the oversized pickup trucks can block him from view as he breaks in. As expected, Baby isn't there anymore.
A nondescript sedan looks like the best target, extremely common make and model on top of a white paint job. It'll basically be invisible. "Make sure no one's coming," Sam says to Benny behind him, before dropping down at the driver's door and getting to work.
He can't remember the last time he had to steal a car, but he does remember when he first learned how. Eight years old and extremely unwilling in Bobby's salvage yard. Only Dean could ever be so excited about teaching his baby brother how to boost old pimp mobiles for fun.
Sparking wires buzz along with the rev of an engine and Sam's just pleased something is going right. He waves for Benny to get in the passenger side and slides behind the wheel. They're on the road soon enough, but not soon enough for Sam's nerves.
The clock on the dash reads 6:31 AM and Sam's already wasted fifteen minutes on this whole ordeal, that's fifteen minutes longer Dean's spent in a nest of vampirates alone. Sam's fists tighten around the wheel, enough to sting, and it's exactly like his nightmare, the ache pulsing with each wave of fury pumping in his chest.
Benny's oddly silent as Sam drives and the silence is sort of welcome if only because Sam's too strung up to deal with Benny's bullshit right now. Following the street signs without saying a word and narrowly suppressing the urge to slam on the accelerator, Sam's too preoccupied with thoughts of Dean.
Dean, alone, fending off some twenty odd vampirates in their own home with no back up whatsoever.
Sam wants to yell again, feels it bubbling up his throat like bile. When he finds Dean, he better be in one fucking piece. Sam can't even broach the alternative, that cloying sick feeling from his nightmare unfurling at the back of his neck again. That fear. That loneliness.
He's practically hyperventilating, breathing heavily through his nose, as his chest rises and falls in a losing attempt to keep from furiously slamming his fists into the dash. He has to squeeze the steering wheel hard enough to tear the bite, just to refocus and actually stop at the upcoming red light.
Practically counting the seconds on the through traffic's green signal, Sam almost doesn't notice the warm, wet sensation coating his left hand. He pries it away like cement and of course the bites are bleeding again. Sam curses under his breath and carefully wipes it on his jeans.
It occurs to him in an absent, afterthought sort of way that he shouldn't be bleeding in a small enclosed space with a vampire. Glancing through the corner of his eye, Sam accidentally meets Benny's curious stare leveled at the side of his head. He quickly looks back at the road.
"What?" escapes under Sam's breath and he almost hopes Benny won't hear so they can continue in tense silence.
"Bite's looking rough," Benny says almost offhandedly, peeling that pinpricking gaze off Sam. "You or your boy's work?"
The light turns green and Sam slams the pedal so hard, they both slam back into their seats with squealing tires. Sam considers it enough of an answer. He doesn't say anything as he returns his left hand to the steering wheel. Like this, without Dean for the first time since getting him back, the last thing Sam wants to do is play Jeopardy with Benny's Purgatory facts.
He runs his tongue along his teeth, under his sealed lips, and can't wait until he finally has Dean back, at his side, in his grip, under his bite. In some vague, more logical corner of his mind, Sam realizes he doesn't have any answers. He could ask Benny for those now, now that Dean isn't around to protest.
But he can't focus enough to form any questions, his mouth doesn't want to make any sound at all if it isn't Dean's name. The answers don't matter, nothing else matters. Sam just wants Dean back.
Guilt, like something ugly and grotesque, burns at his skin and he knows he should've just been satisfied with having Dean back. He should've just let it all go like Dean clearly wanted him to, then Dean wouldn't be facing a nest of vampires alone right now. He wouldn't have left Sam behind.
"Why exactly's he going at this alone?" Benny suddenly asks in that drawl of his. There's a hint of an edge wheedling underneath his lazy tone and Sam knows he's just as displeased with this turn of events.
Sam doesn't want to talk. He just wants to drive until he gets back to his brother. But ignoring Benny, while pretty easy given how worked up Sam is, it's not conducive to busting into a vamp nest and saving Dean. So Sam explains as vaguely as he can.
"He just thinks it's more efficient to go alone." He's not going to tell Benny that his brother is just too protective, too attached, too scared to let Sam endanger himself. It would sound just as pathetic as it did when Sam was eighteen and running away to Palo Alto.
Benny makes a quiet grunt of acknowledgement and doesn't say anything else. Sam's not really expecting him to. What can he even say? Neither of them know the same Dean anyways.
They're only fifteen minutes away now, busy New Orleans city giving away to the smatterings of industry along the coastline.
Benny watches it all fly past and Sam debates the best way to infiltrate a vamp nest without any weapons and a single vampire as back up. Dean will probably be just as pissed as Sam is when he sees him. The prospect makes Sam feel a little vindicated.
"Y'know," Benny says after clearing his throat. Against his better judgement, Sam listens when he continues. "I'm a little surprised you ain't question me when I told you about the mating bites back at the grave."
There's not a question there, not obviously, and Sam just lets the statement hang between them until it stales. He makes a concentrated effort not to adjust his grip on the steering wheel, not to acknowledge the matching bite he shares with Dean. It's surprisingly difficult.
"See, I figured it was 'cause you already knew. How else would y'all match otherwise, right? But then after that…" Benny almost laughs, a soft, humorless exhale. "That conversation I had with him, I know that ain't the case."
Sam whips a sharp glance over at Benny, eyes darting over his face, and he hates what he sees there, the smugness of it in his profile, quirk to his mouth. He wants to scratch it off, wants some kind of blade to shove up under Benny's skin.
He just barely forces his stare back to the road and hates how the words stumble out of his mouth, unbidden. "What conversation? What'd he say?"
Dean's left Sam behind and Sam can't bring himself to even pretend like they're not hiding things from each other, pretend like they're some united front against Benny and all the secrets he knows.
Benny breathes in deep and exhales in a sigh. "Nothin' much, he ain't one for talking as you know."
The phrasing alone has Sam's hackles rising, that implication that Benny has any sort of knowledge about Dean from before—before Sam had Dean back. Some creature knowing parts of Dean that Sam doesn't.
"Just threats, that's all, not much worth telling. But enough."
Sam should keep his mouth shut. He should just ignore the thread of this conversation, ignore the bait that it clearly is.
"Enough for what?" he asks and he tries not to sound as angry as it makes him. Knowing that he has to get information about his own brother from a stranger, a fucking vampire, sets his teeth on edge. The needle of the speedometer inches past seventy.
"Enough to know what he ain't want you to know," Benny says and Sam can almost hear the humor in the words, the smile on his face.
Of course he would get a kick out of the apparent rift in their relationship. The way he can needle in between them with what he knows and use it easily to get their help, to get what he wants.
Sam only manages to refrain from snapping at him, because this has all backfired for Benny in the end anyways. Dean ran off to take his vengeance from him, for all they know, he already has. Sam's been watching the returning traffic just in case.
"Let me guess, you're not gonna tell me what that is," he says blithely, feigning a sort of nonchalance. Even if Benny did share the information, Sam couldn't in good faith take it for the truth and he has more pressing concerns right now than whatever the fuck Dean has been doing behind his back.
Namely, if Dean's alive and okay.
"Nah, if I did what would've been the point of all this?" Benny waves his hand. "But I will tell you something, only 'cause y'all two got me curious."
Sam can only imagine what about them has Benny's attention, gut flipping uncomfortably. Benny angles his head and the sensation of eyes trailing Sam's profile are like searchlights. Focusing on the road ahead, Sam pretends not to feel it.
"Ever heard of a rougarou?" Benny asks like he's asking about the weather, calm and casual.
"Yeah, starts out human. Then wants to eat people." Sam recalls the only one he's ever met, the tragedy of it all. So many monsters that aren't so different from humans and so many humans that aren't so different from monsters.
An image of Dean last night, dripping in blood, black in the night, flashes in Sam's mind.
The line between the two is paper thin.
"Mmhmm, plenty rougarous in Purgatory. Came across them myself in there, ain't a pretty bunch," Benny says and Sam can only assume the point of this will eventually rear its ugly head as he turns off the busy highway towards a less traveled bridge.
"See, I wasn't the only one who met them."
Dean. Sam can only imagine how many monsters he met in that place, fighting for his life, turning into a killing machine. The way he dispatched those three vampirates is enough to see that. Sam can't find it in himself to be anything but grateful for Dean's survival skills, no matter how monstrous.
"I figure your boy wasn't always like he is now."
Sam doesn't need Benny to elaborate. Dean's all teeth lately, that's what Purgatory brought out in him.
"When you're in Purgatory's craw you can't afford not to change, and when all you are is human? Rougarou ain't a bad place to start."
The sedan bumps over the uneven wood of the bridge, loud and jarring and just as rocky as Sam's thoughts. He can't quite place what Benny's telling him, the connection he's drawing out.
"What's that mean? Dean's not a rougarou," he says dumbly. Sam did all the tests when he got his brother back, Dean is Dean. Just—different.
Benny chuckles, some joke Sam doesn't know. It grates on Sam's fraying patience.
"No, he definitely ain't. But y'know what he picked up from them? It's written all over the both of you," Benny says, opening his left hand and holding it out with the palm up.
"Those mating bites, y'all got? That's rougarou behavior, brother. Teeth in the skin here." He draws a line along the side of his palm, just the same as Sam's. Dean's too. "Learned it from a nasty one when I cut up its mate. Means somethin' like 'these hands won't hurt you. With your teeth in me, I'm yours.'"
Owned, the bite says. Yours.
Sam already knew this. On some level Dean wasn't vague about it. Every time he sunk his teeth in he claimed something of Sam's. Sam could sense that, and he himself didn't intend anything different when he bit into Dean.
He can still feel the give of flesh in his mouth, the way Dean melted against him.
Rougarou mating bites, so what?
Dean didn't necessarily mean anything beyond what he's always meant. In every plea for Sam not to go, in every jealous offhand sneer, in the way he can't live without Sam. It goes both ways. They don't share a heaven for nothing.
What had Ash said then? Soulmates?
Sam blinks hard, refocuses before he can think too hard about any of that, about what it might really mean. "Okay, so? Dean learned some stuff from rougarous?" he asks once he's sure he won't ask something different. So we're mates? Dean thinks we're mates?
"More than just some," Benny says, clasping his hands together in his lap. "Sure you noticed, I did and I only been near y'all a day."
Sam's already raking through every odd behavior he's questioned in the last week, everything Dean's done that Sam's spared a second, curious thought. Beyond the growling, teeth baring, ferocity of him. Things, especially, that Benny has seen.
"The neck thing," Sam says, recalling Dean's palms at his throat followed by a wet tongue, just before Sam left his side for the first time to get blood. "When he put his hands on my neck and smelled me."
He doesn't frame it as a question, but Benny nods. "Yeah, that's scenting you. Putting his smell on your throat and deterring creatures like myself from biting on you. Don't exactly wanna taste of something that smells owned, especially by a big mean human like him." Benny's laughing outright now, patting his knee. "I'm sure he's just happy ta have y'all smellin' the same."
Sam's nodding because yeah, he can see the sense in that. In some ways, it falls right in line with the biting, the marking, the claiming. Sam smells like Dean, Sam is Dean's. With the added layer of potential protection should Sam be without Dean.
The train of thought is easy to follow and Sam can't blame Dean for, however unconsciously, he was mirroring these creatures in Purgatory, their habits and means of survival. It's still a very Dean behavior. In a way, Dean’s always done it when he insists on sharing clothes, body wash, blankets. Humans do it too.
Similarly, Dean's been very prone to swiping Sam's food and drinks away, offering his own in its stead. More sharing. "And the thing with the sandwich?" Sam asks, remembering the way Benny had eyed them both in the Impala with an annoying clarity. "And the water bottle?"
"Oh yeah," Benny agrees heartily, seeming to find plenty of entertainment in the information he's freely offering. "That's something funny, ain't it? Though, I don't really get it. Sorta ritual, sharing kills back and forth even when the other ain't hungry."
Benny snorts through an exhale and shakes his head. "Suppose it's a way of taking care of your own. I'll feed you when you can't. And a little bit of what's yours is mine, y'know?"
Sam knows. He knows it all too well, his whole life he's known it. Dean hasn't really made it a secret. He's always acted as if Sam and everything Sam's is just an extension of Dean and Dean's own. Clothes, toothbrushes, Sam's time and personal space.
Figures he would find a way to push his reach all the way to something as banal as dinner. Sam hates that it doesn't even bother him anymore. How he can't even treat Dean to the same irritating habit, because Dean's never acted like he owns anything himself—except for the Impala and Sam.
Benny glances over at him, Sam can feel his eyes on his face again and then he's scoffing. "We vamps ain't gotta taste for all of that tradition. Ask me, it's just a waste of food and energy."
Sam doesn't bother agreeing out loud, but he certainly does find all these strange rituals dumbfounding. Even stranger still that Dean became so entrenched in surviving Purgatory alone, he adopted the habits, maybe without even realizing it.
Dean isn't a monster and Sam thinks Dean knows that. But maybe all of this—the biting, the food sharing, the scenting—it's just Dean's way of reacclimating, a clutch for balance when he's been disoriented. Sam can't fault him for that, and he doesn't really mind any of it, especially if it's helpful in some way to keeping Dean sane.
He just wishes Dean would've told him they were Monster Married or whatever.
The road under the sedan changed terrain during their conversation, tar giving way to graveled dirt, and narrowing to a single lane. It's taken them deep enough into the small island's mossy trees that they can no longer see the ocean lapping at its edges. Not a single sign of life competes with the car's humming engine.
Sam squints down at his phone trying to determine if it's safer to hide the vehicle off in the trees now and continue on foot.
"We're about a half mile away from the place," he says, pulling off the road and into the grass. "I'm betting vamps would hear us coming in this?"
"Yeah," Benny says. "No doubt about that. Kinda wonder where your boy hid the loud one." He glances out the windows at their swampy surroundings as if the Impala's dark chassis will appear among the deep greens of drooping oaks.
Sam doesn't say he was already searching for it, every half mile they traveled he checked the mirrors and ditches. He didn't find anything, and he can't quite imagine Dean hiding her away without completely ensuring her safety.
Sam parks the little sedan in between two sprawling trees draped with algae coated moss without saying anything. The branches scrape along the hood and doors noisily, a few breaking off in the process, but Sam manages to inch the vehicle in far enough it can't be seen.
He kills the engine and sucks in a deep breath that fills his lungs like he's hitting the refresh button on his body, trying to ease the tension into something more prepared. Or as prepared as he can be without a weapon in hand.
"I don't have anything to defend myself," Sam says in the quiet, knowing how absolutely idiotic this whole thing is thanks to Dean. His hands look huge and empty against the steering wheel.
"I can see that." Benny's eyebrows are raised. "How exactly are you planning on takin' out anything with your bare hands?"
Sam closes them into fists, nails biting at the marks in his palm. "I don't know, but I'm not leaving my brother alone in there."
He flexes the muscles of his forearms, feels the stretch and pull of it as he twists his wrists. What else can he do but stumble into a nest of vampires, weaponless and utterly defenseless, if it means getting back to Dean? He has to.
There's a huff of a sound from Benny beside. "About that," he drawls, slow again like he's thinking over each word. "Y'all really brothers? Y'know, I call you brother but we ain't kin," he looks Sam up and down, "not with that height."
The humor is lost on Sam as he keeps his eyes on his fists, unblinking. From this angle he can still see the imprint of three of Dean's teeth, red and angry. Raw. It's muddier now than it's ever been, what Sam and Dean's relationship is, what it looks like to everyone else.
Sam deliberates how much he cares about any of that.
"We are," he says, confident in that truth and in telling it right now. "Brothers. Family."
They share blood, they were raised together, they're the only thing left.
Sam shrugs his shoulders, feeling Benny watching him and waiting as if there's more to say. Maybe there is. Because they're more than just brothers, they always have been, Sam knows that. They wouldn't have come as far as they have if they weren't. Sam wouldn't have gotten here, he knows.
Maybe Sam doesn't know what to call that feeling, whatever it is, but he can explain it.
He opens his mouth, spills out the words as easily as exhaling, "We only have each other."
The truth of it hits him like a cool flush of water in his system, tingling and almost painful in its reality. Achingly familiar. It's a truth Sam has known for a long time now. Ever since he got back into the Impala at Stanford even. Heavy and real and unashamed in the claustrophobic tightness of the sedan's interior.
Sam doesn't know why he ever cared about anything else.
Benny hums, an acknowledgement or an understanding Sam can't tell. He taps the dashboard in his eyeline, drawing Sam's gaze to his face. There's a rakish grin that doesn't reach his eyes, but shows his human teeth.
"Then let's help your brother kill some vampirates," he says and it's a tacit lack of disapproval, of any kind of interest in the oddities of Sam and Dean's relationship.
Sam can't believe how much he thought it would matter, how he anticipates a disgust, an inability to understand, and yet he receives nothing at all. It hits and echoes meaningfully somewhere deep in Sam's chest, but he doesn't have the time to examine it.
He only nods and climbs out of the sedan.
According to maps, the nest is a ten minute walk south, along the dirt road. They'll have to keep to the wooded area if they don't want any passersby to spot them, which will undoubtedly add extra time.
Sam's already feeling that immitigable flood of flighty energy in his bones, the overwhelming urge to run towards Dean and force the tremor out of his overly tense frame. He just barely refrains from breaking out into a sprint, gesturing for Benny to follow as he heads straight in the direction of a nest filled with vampirates and his brother.
The phantom weight of a machete blade against his palm is a painful reminder of just how ill advised this is. Every ounce of common sense warns him off rushing headlong into a dangerous situation essentially naked just to make sure his stupid brother is safe. But it's a feeling Sam's used to ignoring.
They move carefully and quietly, picking through roots and underbrush with acute attention, and come upon what Sam can only presume to be the vampirates' nest itself.
An enormous Victorian style mansion looms above the trees like some sort of gothic monument, ominous and foreboding, and every last bit the vampirate haven Sam would have expected. He stops short at the edge of the treeline, keeping hidden behind the draping moss and branches, and Benny does the same.
With a glance, Sam can see him staring up at the house with a look Sam can't interpret as anything other than a sort of conviction. After all, his maker is in there.
They don't have the advantage of a night time infiltration, the sun already much higher in the sky than it had been when they first left. He can only imagine how much easier it was for Dean to slip in past a side door, dead man's blood dripping from the end of his machete, ready to behead anything that comes within attacking distance.
Sam and Benny would no doubt risk being spotted from the windows if they tried bridging the gap between the trees and a side door. Which would pose a problem considering Sam has nothing to defend himself with. It's also possible that Dean's already slaughtered the majority of the sentinel vampirates, leaving no one to ring the alarm on Sam and Benny's approach.
There's just too many outliers, a large risk and little reward, and it makes Sam antsy. He shares a loaded glance with Benny, hoping he has some sort of unique input on the situation. They are his former crew after all, if anyone should know how to kill them all, it should be him.
Benny opens his mouth, looking to say something, but whatever it is gets drowned out by the loud, wet thud of a hard impact.
Sam's nerves alight with the instinct to run, but his rapidly searching eyes find the bloody remnants of a headless corpse on the front lawn of the house. It's mangled by the abrupt meeting with asphalt, a gory, crumpled mass of flesh.
Quickly following its trajectory, Sam just catches a glimpse of a blood darkened blade through the window of the third floor. It withdraws immediately, out of sight, but Sam knows it's Dean, and that ever present name tries to crawl up his throat to shout for him.
His tongue rams against the backs of his teeth, barely hissing out the stopped D before he reigns it in, aware of his location, aware of the danger.
Just as recklessly, Benny slips past Sam and breaks the treeline, running towards the side door with no care for cover or stealth. Seeing Dean essentially toss a body out the window is enough to spur him into action and Sam refuses to be left behind.
They both bust through the door, Benny helming the rush and sparing little thought to Sam scrambling rushing to keep up with his inhuman speed. It's nothing short of amazing just how fast vampires can be when they want to and Sam stumbles after him. There's a wreckage of furniture scattered about the entrance, overturned lamps and tables littering the ground among what Sam recognizes as several bodies.
He loses Benny in the time it takes him to dodge around what might be the head of a dead vamp and a shattered vase, speckled red with sprayed blood. It's not surprising, but Sam feels his sense of danger amp up in Benny's absence, nothing but a sitting duck defenseless human among bloodthirsty vampirates.
He hesitates once he reaches the mouth of the hallway where it opens up into a grand foyer. There's a large, spiral staircase winding up multiple stories, it wraps around a dangling chandelier draped in shiny diamonds. There's even a harpsichord in the corner.
It's oddly immaculate considering the carnage leading up to it.
Sam can only assume Dean has been much more subtle in his 'kill them all' approach, lurking around the darkness of this massive home and picking them off one by one. He can't afford to dumbly stand here much longer, casting speculative glances across the various routes that branch off this main entrance. Nothing is hiding in the corners, and Sam knows Dean is on a higher floor.
The quickest way back to his side is up those stairs.
He takes the steps two at time, trying to rush as fast as possible without making too much noise. His muscles are bunched and jumping in his limbs, antsy and paranoid as his heart rate rings his pulse in his ears.
Just as he steps onto the landing of the second floor, a vampirate runs out of an open door, hissing and frantic.
Sam doesn't think it was intending to attack him, almost blindly rushing, but it hits him anyway, clawing at him as they collide. Without a blade, Sam can only twist his body in defense, using his size and the vampirate's momentum to send it flying down the flight of stairs behind him. It'll catch itself before it hits the bottom and Sam sprints ahead to gain some desperately needed fighting distance.
A second vamp runs so hard out the open door it has to brace itself against the bannister to keep from flying over the edge of the landing, narrowly missing Sam. It leans against the thick wood, heaving breaths as if it was fighting for its life.
It stands between Sam and the stairs he's just climbed (plus the other vampirate) and Sam should run now, up and up and as far away from them as he can get. As close to Dean and his machete as he can.
He only gets two steps in the opposite direction before a hand at shirt is jerking him back. It's enough to unsettle his balance and send him falling heavily back against the vamp, and there's fangs at his throat, slicing into thin skin.
Wincing, Sam ducks down with all his strength and flips the vampirate head over heels. He has to sink to his knees to keep himself from being pulled along as it goes flopping into an ugly heap in front of him. He manages to kick hard at its head, sending its neck bending awkwardly, and then the other vampirate is on him.
The ensuing struggle is a blurry mess of fists and teeth and bodily slamming against walls, railing, and floor. Sam hasn't fought so hard against a creature without a weapon in hand in a long time, and he immediately tries to rectify that. Edging his fingers under a brass plated frame, Sam lets the vamp grapple onto his throat.
Once his grip is tight and secure, he forces the large portrait off the wall with one swift jerk of his arm. It's heavy as shit and he drops as much as he swings it down, corner first, on the vamp's skull with a nasty crunching sound.
It goes down with a grumbling, spitting noise but Sam doesn't have time to even inhale a stuttering breath. The second vampirate tackles him full body with a running start.
Sam is almost surprised when the sturdy wooden bannister cracks under the combined weight of their head on collision, wind knocking out of his chest as they're sent careening over the edge. It happens quick, but Sam can feel every second before they hit the floor below, trying to shove the vampirate off him, trying to twist so he won't hit the ground at a bad angle, trying to brace for the impact.
None of that happens. Sam slams hard into what might have been the harpsichord and it crumples like a fort of sticks underneath him, not nearly enough to break the fall. There's the hardwood flooring then and none of it gives when Sam's back smacks down into it.
Breath already forced out of his lungs, Sam's ribcage only collapses into them like deflated balloons, rattling every inch of his skeleton into a stunned, immobile shell. His head bounces off the floor with a loud thud, disorienting, but the worst feeling is the vampire coming down on top of him.
It hits his leg at a terrible angle and something cracks, Sam feels it bend in a way he's never felt it go. The pain is immediate and intense, shooting up Sam's entire body in sharp, stabbing waves that surge through his throat and out of his mouth in a harsh shout.
The vampire doesn't stop, climbing up onto its bloodied knees and hissing past jagged fangs. Sam throws his arms up just in time to catch the teeth in his wrist, the weight of the vampire plummeting his shaking arms down to his chest.
He tries to use an elbow to knock it off of him, but it just unclenches its jaw and goes for his throat with clawing hands. Nails drag welts into Sam's skin and he grunts through grinding teeth, trying to leverage his weight with his uninjured leg to upend the vamp with his hips.
He can't get much strength in it though, and the vampire's shifted to grab at the sides of his head, squeezing his temples between hard palms. It's going to try and snap his neck, Sam can already feel the force of it and he flails at its arms and chest, scrambling desperately to knock its grip loose.
All the while his leg screams up his femur and makes his entire body shake, adrenaline flooding his system to tamper the screaming points of pain scattered over. One of his frantically fighting hands catches in the vampirate in the mouth, gets lacerated by fangs, tearing the skin and spraying blood.
It sucks at the wounds, drinking it down hungrily and releasing Sam's head to grab at his arm. The momentary distraction gives Sam enough time to focus what's left of his strength into one last, hard and aching shove at the vampirate's torso. He practically rolls his whole body to the right, dislodging it from Sam's arm as it's thrown.
Sam's frantically struggling to get upright, every inch of his battered body screaming in protest, shockwaves rocking his frame and making him stumble. He just manages to pull himself onto his ass, aiming to scoot himself back. Just create distance between him and the thing that wants to eat him.
The vampirate is already crouching towards him and Sam can only throw his arms back up in defense, turning his face away to avoid taking a direct blow.
There's the sickening thwack of a bloody connection and Sam fears for a stuttering moment that the thing has stabbed into his flesh, his pain receptors lagging to keep up.
When he turns to see, the vampirate is wide-eyed, staring down at him with a gaping, slack jaw. Blood bubbles past its lips and drips down its chin, landing in red splotches on its chest. Sam follows the drops and finds the end of dark machete pierced straight through, protruding inches past the vampirate's flesh.
Stunned, it collapses to the side, convulsing with the trauma as pink froths up out of its mouth. Its eyes still gawk at Sam, uncomprehending.
Movement above has Sam startling, fearful adrenaline jerking his arms back up in case another vamp is about to jump from the landing down on him. His vision, fuzzy with each beat of his rapid heart, focuses on a familiar figure.
Crouching over the break in the bannister, arm outstretched and absolutely soaked bloody, is Dean.
He stares down at Sam with big green eyes that look even brighter in his red smeared face. Blood coats every inch of his skin like a war paint and his clothes are in tatters, sliced in several places and hanging off his frame. His chest and shoulders are covered in cuts and the imprints of fingers from the blood and bruises, and Sam follows one arm down to see a vampire's decapitated head dangling by the hair in one hand, face mangled and distorted.
The other hand, outstretched towards Sam as if in mid-action, is still open, fingers dripping thick viscous blood.
Sam is abruptly reminded of last night, viscerally, apprehensively. Dean isn't smirking this time, he isn't reveling in the carnage that hangs from his human body like the pelt of a fresh kill, he isn't wearing the haughty look of a predator that's won.
He's taking Sam in, parted red lips and shiny eyes completely at a loss.
They stare at each other for long, gasping moments and Sam has the insane thought that Dean looks beautiful and terrifying, haloed in the light of the chandelier, poised above everything on the landing of the stairs, an avenging angel soaked in red.
Sam's voice is choked, bones singing with pain, but he forces out a weak, desperate, "Dean?" and it's all Dean needs.
He leaps down from the higher floor as if pulled by an invisible string, tossing the vamp head off like it's nothing and rolling into a crouch with grace. He comes up and stops short just inches from Sam to dislodge the machete from the vampirate's back.
It keens, still twitching abnormally, and Dean grabs it by the hair, jerking it up and back for a clean cut. His eyes don't leave Sam's when he swings the machete and dislodges its head from its shoulders.
It's noisy and wet and blood sluices down the blade, decorates Sam's front, but Dean's tossing it all aside like so much trash. He falls to a crouch and clambers carefully into Sam's space like a tentative, cautious pet. Sam's frame is wracked with tremors, the piercing ache of his fucked up leg is sending him into some kind of shock he can't force back.
He doesn't even flinch when Dean's dripping red hand slides up his neck to cup his jaw. There's identical tremors in Dean's palm where it rests against Sam's face, and Sam wants to grab him by the shoulders. He wants to jerk him into a tight hug and never let him go until they're both six feet under. He might collapse if he tries to though.
So he breathes a cautious, admonishing, absolutely consumed whisper of the only thing he's always been able to say.
"Dean?"
The quiet murmur might as well have been an urgent shout as much as Dean jolts, the palm against Sam's cheek jumping. Dean's frowns hard, eyes still huge, and even his eyelashes are shining with the blood clumping them together.
It's absolutely absurd how much gore Dean's coated himself in. His lips are glossed the darkest red, smeared into a parody of a smirk with wiped blood. Sam stares at them and wonders if he'll be kissed again, sort of yearns for it.
"Sammy?" Those lips part to say what they always say, like the only prayer always answered, and Sam couldn't look away if he tried. Dean's gaze drops to Sam's mouth then, the way they did when Sam first got him back. When he could barely recognize Sam, let alone himself.
The attention burns all over Sam's body, stronger than the throbbing pain, and he wants to reassure Dean. He wants to bundle him up in his hold and take him back to the Impala, drive and drive and never stop. He wants to kiss him again.
But then there's the sound of a door shoving open.
Sam breaks away to see Benny appear in one of the branching entryways, hands bloody, and face dark. He can only assume Benny's done what he came to do. They meet eyes and Benny doesn't get a word out, before Dean is spinning around with the vicious reverberation of a warning growl. It tears up out of his throat, angry and snarling and a clear threat. He's practically shaking with it.
Sam's vision is blurring at the edges again, black creeping and spotting across his eyes as the shivering gets stronger and more of that harsh, overwhelming hurt pulses with each beat of his rapid heart.
His adrenaline is eking out of his pores, leaving nothing behind but the unbearable pain of everything his body's just gone through, screaming at him to just pass out to escape it. He should get to his feet, he should grab Dean by the shoulders and restrain him, he should prevent whatever confrontation is about to happen but he doesn't think he can move without collapsing.
Benny has his hands up and open, telegraphing no harm intended. It doesn't quite work in their bloody state. "Hey there brother, see ya made it out in one piece," he says, almost affable, almost familiar.
Dean growls again, grabbing the machete and angling it up at Benny. He's high strung, taut like a gun with the hammer knocked back, hairpin trigger weighted under a twitchy finger. He's breathing hard through his nostrils, panting and vicious and seconds from finally sending Benny right back to Purgatory.
Almost easy, almost planned.
"Dean," Sam forces out past his closed throat, outstretching a hand to grab at Dean's leg. He can't kill Benny now, not when they've done everything he asked, not when he'll finally tell them what he knows.
Dean doesn't acknowledge Sam's hold on his jeans, snarling and bracing to tackle. Benny doesn't look down at Sam either. He doesn't so much as move.
"Now, you know I ain't a threat," he says, drawling as if he isn't moments from losing his head. A feigned camaraderie. "I don't know anythin' at all about your time in Purgatory. You and I both know that."
Dean spits, raising the machete like he's done listening, like he wants nothing more than to slice completely through Benny's throat and end his rambling. Sam's vision is blackening with every rush of blood through his heart and he squints at Benny, tries hard to follow his words with his brain melting in his skull.
"I found you right before I made our escape, I got nothing to tell," he says, and this is almost completely for Sam's benefit. Sam can make out the vaguest sense that Benny and Dean have already had a conversation like this before.
Beneath the searing pain burning up Sam's skin into a fever, there's the faintest tinge of betrayal. Frustration and fury punching into his roiling gut as he stares with blurring eyes.
Benny huffs out an almost laugh and says the final words. "I used you both."
It's an admittance and then Dean's on him, tearing free of Sam's tether to shove the machete up under Benny's jaw in a fluid, practiced movement. As if Dean was only waiting for Benny to say these words, let him reveal what he didn't know for Sam's sake.
Sam wishes his leg wasn't fucked, wishes his brain wasn't melting out of his ears because he wants to stop Dean from killing Benny anyways. He wants the full story, some sort of fucking explanation for everything.
He only manages a rough, angry, "Dean, stop—"
But Dean's growling, ferocious and bloodthirsty, and he's smirking that dangerous, predatory thing that has Sam's stomach flipping. Jerking once, Dean shoves the machete into the flesh of Benny's throat, going for the kill.
Benny flies two hands up with inhuman speed to stop it, blood in his mouth. He angles his head in Sam's direction, smiling through the hacking cough the machete's forced out of him.
"A-ain't no point in killin' me now, huh?"
Dean bodily throws him back against the nearest wall, lip curling back to show his teeth, stained blood red too. Sam protests, vision screwing up and phasing out with each wet beat of his heart. He wants to get up and throw Dean off, but he might vomit if he tries to move.
Benny laughs, rough and hacking. "You already showed him what you didn't wanna show him," he crows, mirth plain through the strain in his weary face and Sam has no idea what's happening anymore but he can't let Dean murder Benny right here in front of him. Not when they've come this far, not when they've worked this hard and done all this shit. Benny has to have something.
Sam's trying to get onto his good knee at least, fighting past the way the world spins in vertigo as he does.
The sick sound of a blade sinking deeper into flesh is loud in the foyer, and Benny chokes out, "Look at you. Look at what you did."
Head foggy with incomprehension, Sam falters back onto his ass as his limbs go completely weak. The welcoming relief of unconsciousness slinks up under his eyelids and drags him down under like a gentle embrace, morphine rush of pain giving way.
"You ain't no different from me, little monster. No, actually, you’re worse. You like it."
Sam has just enough time to question the condemnation in Benny's voice before he fades, gone.
Notes:
it's still friday in (some parts of) the US [ahem] but anyways YIKES things went 0 to 100 real fast lol and when i tell y'all you're not READY for next friday's update i mean it!!!! pay close attention to the chapter title on the next one too hehe it'll be very relevant ;-) (i'm literally so excited to edit it and give it to y'all omgggg)
and can i just say again to everyone who commented last chapter HUGE THANK YOU AND HEART EMOJIS AND LOVE <333333 y'all rly come out and made me super grateful to be working on this fic ;__; ily sm
Chapter 22: Dean
Notes:
happy 200k words everyone!!! i never thought this fic would end up so long but DAMN here we are. and a beautiful, highly appreciative thank you to the kudo givers who pushed us past 400 T___T i'm big emo!!!! pls enjoy this wild ride of a chapter as a token of my gratitude
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pure.
He slaughters all the vampirates and it's easy, it's natural, it's pure. Soaking in the gore that sprays from every slash of the blade, every wrench of his closed fists, he can't help but be draped in it all, wearing the marks of their deaths like trophies. A badge of honor, a warning.
He's death. He's black and white. He's a monster and it's pure. Pure chaos, pure violence, pure relief. The screaming, biting, spitting brutality is familiar and welcome as he hacks away at anything with fangs. Squelching, disgusting wet noises he recalls with startling clarity and it's real and visceral in his ears.
Almost pleasant. He almost missed it.
There's a red smile pulling at his lips, a proud display of dominance. He's the top predator. He's the real beast. These fanged creatures are nothing but prey under his feet and he willfully kills them all and it feels good.
Because when he's blindly, mindlessly killing, there is no good or bad, no guilty or innocent, there's only the hunt. He craves that purity. He thrives in the living, breathing, drenched death around him and it's pure and it's power, pulsing under his skin like a second heartbeat.
But then there's Sammy.
Sammy with his wide puppy eyes that see. They see all of it, they see him coated in it, smeared with it, tainted by it and that second heartbeat inside his skin dies in a final stuttering staccato.
In the silence left behind, flooding through him like a desperate inhale, Sammy says, "Dean?" It fills the spaces in his cracking facade, pastes over the fissures like a sealant stopping a massive leak, like a bandage over a gaping wound.
Dean, Sammy calls him. He is Dean. In Sammy's voice, low and soft and warmly affectionate. Dean who belongs to Sammy. Sammy who belongs to Dean. These two facts make up Dean.
When he falls to Sammy's side, tumbles from the stairs and slides up near him, it's like his body knows nothing else, like Dean knows nothing else. But Sammy is staring at him and he doesn't know what Sammy thinks.
He stares into those eyes he loves so much and he wants to cry, wants to hide from them, wants to cling onto his Sammy and say sorry. Say sorry he's like this, sorry he loves it, sorry he just wants Sammy safe and his and bitten and torn up and marked by him because he's my Sammy.
His hand is sweaty and red with blood that can't dry. It's too cool against Sammy's cheek and he wishes it was warm, wishes it would lull Sammy into loving him still, despite what he's done, what he's doing—the monster he is.
Sammy only stares and whispers, quiet and anxious, and it sounds wrecked. It sounds distraught. It says, "Dean?"
He knows Sammy wants reassurance, he knows the gentle, nervous tones his Sammy uses when he wants Dean to fix it. When he wants Dean to make it okay. When he just wants Dean.
Dean needs to say something to comfort him. He needs to use his words. No matter how much he hates them now, he needs to. But all that comes out is a desperate, clawing, cry. "Sammy?"
Sammy's face is shifting, something else behind those dewy wide eyes. Before Dean can do anything about it there's a shift in the air behind him. Another prey is coming and all he can think is Sammy Sammy Sammy and mine and he's growling loud and angry and the monster isn't hidden.
When he whips around, that fucking vampirate, fucking Benny, is there and the fury doesn't abate.
Benny was the one who brought Sammy here, he ruined everything—he should die, everything that isn't Sammy should die, and Dean's on him immediately, teeth bared, snarling. He's so close, so close, and there's words he doesn't care about and he slides the machete in deep and feral and so fucking furious but there's movement, a thud—
Sammy's collapsing, hurt and weak and he has to protect protect protect. Dean's frantic, erratic, he has to help Sammy, he has to keep him safe, Sammy needs Dean—his Dean, not this blood-soaked, violent, killing machine.
Sammy needs his big brother. Not the monster.
Benny gets to live, simply because Dean's world is only as wide as the width of Sammy's shoulders.
When he crouches over Sammy, he drops the machete, he drops everything and forgets everything but Sammy there beneath him.
Dean pets his hair out of his face, feels his chest, pats his cheeks. Sammy's splayed out on the wood floor, and he isn't moving, and Dean's scared, he's fucking hysterical, murmuring a desperate, whimpering litany of, "SammySammySammy."
Under Dean's palm, Sammy's still breathing, shallow and sharp, and the steady thumping of his pulse hits up against Dean's fingertips. He imagines his own is speeding up to match it. When Dean moves him, grabbing under his arms and tugging upwards, Sammy's just deadweight against him. He's completely out and Dean's jaw goes tight and clenched.
Sammy must have fallen, before—before Dean could help him, protect him, watch out for Sammy. His leg is shaking too, a tiny trembling and it's awkwardly bent. Probably broken. If he fell from that height he could've hit his head too, brain bleeding, and he could've broken a few ribs, damaged his spine.
Anything could've happened, anything could've knocked him out.
Dean's gnawing his cheek and a rumbling noise is aching in his chest, tearing free and shredding up his throat. He pulls himself to his feet with Sammy in tow, heavy and huge and familiar as he hauls him against his back to carry him.
Sammy needs a hospital, Sammy's really hurt, Sammy needs Dean, it's a quick succession of thoughts firing in Dean's head. They're desperate and automatic and sure, as he drags the both of them out of the house and towards home—Baby.
He'll find the nearest hospital, Sammy has the phone, and then he'll take him there and they'll fix Sammy and Sammy will be okay. Dean's done it before, done it a million times. It's practically clockwork.
But not like this. Not like a predator, not like the monster. Dean bites so hard into his lip it bleeds and Sammy's shaking against him and Dean's breath is coming harshly; it's burning his lungs. It's burning up everything inside.
Human, human, be human. Dean knows how to do that, Dean's done that, that's what Dean is. He knows, he knows. It's what Sammy needs.
Dean, Sammy's big brother. Dean, who can fix all of Sammy's problems, long as I'm around nothing bad's gonna happen to you.
Dean's got Sammy gently situated in the backseat of the Impala, careful when his hands drag along Sammy's body, checking for any bleeding, any open wounds. But Sammy is sturdy, it's just the inside that needs help, just the inside that's torn and bent and broken.
The realization only makes the burning inside Dean worse, more chaotic, more destructive. He doesn't think there'll be much left of him after he fixes Sammy. Half out of his mind, Dean bends down through Baby's open door and presses a desperate kiss to Sammy's warm forehead. He smears blood in his wake.
"S'gonna be okay, Sammy," he murmurs against the sweat of Sammy's skin. It has to be true.
He's in the front seat, alone alone alone and he wishes he could hold Sammy's hand, wishes he could hold him in his teeth, wishes he never had to let go. But he has to get Sammy to the hospital, he needs to be Dean, protector Dean, big brother Dean.
He's throwing Baby into drive and tearing up grass with the howl of her engine. Dean should watch the road, always eyes on the road like Dad taught him, like Dad always told him, but he never listened. He never can when Sammy's here, when Sammy's close. All he can do is throw uneasy glances up at the rearview mirror every second, every beat of his heart, because Dean has to check on Sammy, always look out for Sammy.
The hospital is eighteen minutes away. Dean gets there in ten. He knows he looks fucking monstrous, covered in gore with torn up clothes and scrapes all over exposed skin. There's excuses, reasons, lies filling his mouth like flooding saliva because he's human Dean, he can use those words and help Sammy. The way Sammy needs.
They take Sammy away quickly, tug him free of Dean's clutching arms to help him and Dean has to root himself to the white tile with every ounce of humanity he has left.
The biting, tearing, snarling need to have Sammy close, to smell him all around, to burrow into that big comforting warmth, is swarming from the soles of his feet all the way to his aching teeth.
He feels torn in half, violently ripped. He's the ragged remainder of a surgical separation, the one thrown into the biohazard box. It's toxic, it fucking throbs right in his gums where the nerves are threaded, and he wishes he could sink his teeth into something. He wants Sammy's soft flesh in his mouth.
Practically hyperventilating, Dean's chest heaves with the effort not to chase after his brother, and there's another nurse asking him things with words he understands. They're words he can make sense of, words he knows. Words he's known almost since he came back. Since Sammy first said It's Sammy and recognition hit Dean as hard as the declaration of my Sammy that fell out of his mouth right after.
The nurse's lips are moving, saying things with words he knows and he understands, but they're muffled in the blood thundering in his ears. They're drowned out in his furious, racing heart beats.
He swallows the spit in his mouth and it goes down in a painful way. The reminder of what he has to do goes down similarly. He has to be Dean. He has to be because Sammy needs his big brother Dean, protector Dean, human Dean.
He listens and tries to comprehend the nurse, feels assessing hands digging into his skin, feels the wrongness of the touch—the immediate urge to recoil, to growl not Sammy. But he bites the urge down behind those aching teeth and brushes the nurse's hands away. Normal. Human.
"M'fine, he's my brother. Was a car accident," he says and it's forced out. It isn't hard but it's unfamiliar now, he hasn't spoken too much lately. But he knows how. He's been able to make words since that time Sammy let him return the motel keys.
Since he bit Sammy's lip, testing the waters, pushing. Always pushing. Back then, when he went inside that front office, he tossed out a casual, here's the keys man the way he used to do. Before it all happened to him, before he went to Purgatory.
He surprised himself. It was so natural then, so much like before. He was already becoming Dean, human Dean again, and he clamped it down and buried it deep.
Because Dean from before couldn't bite at Sammy's skin. Dean from before couldn't claim Sammy and own him and mark him.
But he talks now with the nurse, like he's done before. Like he's only done when he has to, because Sammy can't know. Dean can't let him know how much of Dean is back.
He says the words he has to say to mitigate the nurse's concern, to be human again, and hates how foreign they feel on his tongue anyway. How far he's pushed them down under it to pretend they don't exist.
Pretending, constantly pretending. Selfishly, greedily hoarding all of Sammy he could get his hands and teeth on. Pretending for so long—and for what? Now Sammy's hurt and Dean, the feral, biting Dean who only wanted Sammy for himself couldn't do anything to stop it.
That thing in his forearm, sure Dean hadn't known what it was, but he should've tried harder to stop Sammy from trying to figure it out. He knew it wouldn't lead to anything good, that it would lead to that fucking vampire who got the jump on him while he was distracted in Purgatory.
Fucking Benny used him, got Sammy into all this mess in the first place. Dean should've kept Sammy from bringing that asshole back, from cutting him out of Dean's arm just to get answers. Just so Benny could open his mouth and try and ruin everything.
He tried to divert Sammy, he tried to stop it all from spiraling out of control.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't do anything without telling Sammy the truth, without coming clean and he couldn't do that either because he was a coward. He was fucking useless. He couldn't keep Sammy from getting himself hurt and he couldn't kill everything before his angry, unknowing baby brother got there.
He only made everything worse. All of it careening out of his control like an oil spill, rich and dark and clinging to the one good thing Dean tried to keep clean. The only thing he tried to keep for himself.
He tasted Sammy on his tongue. He heard him cry when he came, and he marked and owned and loved, and he couldn't give it up. Like a selfish bastard, he couldn't let Sammy pull away and put that wall back up between them. The one that says they can't touch, that says they can't belong to each other.
He wanted and needed and now it's all screwed up and Sammy's hurt.
Sammy didn't need this clawing, hungry, desperate Dean. He never needed that constant touch, the clinging heat, Dean's possessive bite.
Sammy didn't even want this Dean, he just wanted his brother.
That thrumming, vibrating, searing realization fills his body like cement, pouring into every crevice, every dark and desperate corner, and molding him into something new. Or something old, something before.
Dean.
Dean who keeps his needy hands to himself, his mouth, his teeth. Dean, who loves Sammy so much, wants him so much, but quietly, privately, inside so Sammy doesn't know.
Dean who is good and safe and right.
For Sammy.
The nurse bothers him more about checking him over, making sure the blood on his hands isn't his, make sure he's okay. He recoils and he wants to get away, wants to yell that only Sammy needs it, stop fucking touching him. But he won't and he can't because he's being human. He's being the Dean that Sammy wants.
There's talk of insurance, of the police, of reports and Dean goes through the motions, stony and stiff as the cement hardening in his veins. He just wants to see Sammy, when will Sammy be okay, when can he see him?
It takes almost an hour. Actually forty six minutes.
They suggested Dean wash himself up, change clothes, look presentable and okay. He didn't want to. He wanted to vehemently refuse until Sammy was in front of him, breathing and warm and under his anxious hands.
But their eyes regarded him oddly. Like he was different, like he wasn't Sammy's big brother, human and normal. He can't have that. Sammy would want him to do as told, Sammy would want him to be good. Be Dean, not the bloody, monstrous, selfish creature he's become.
So he's clean of all the blood. He washed it away violently and angrily and accusingly like if he scrubbed hard enough he could slough off the monstrous parts of himself, pull it off like an armor of wendigo bones. It probably didn't work, but he's wearing fresh clothes now. He's cleaned up and he isn't growling and to everyone else he looks human.
He is.
He thinks he is, but the nurses still skirt around him like he might lash out. They lead him gently, without touching, to the room where Sammy is. Something like pity, but more apprehensive, comes off of them in waves, visible and obvious. It feels like a condemnation, like a mark of Dean's failure to blend in.
But he's doing his best. He's being good for Sammy, he's trying. His fingernails dig into his palms, blunt but hard enough to pull up that familiar, comforting ache of Sammy's bite in his skin. Sammy Sammy Sammy his Sammy.
They tell him Sammy's tibia is broken. They tell him they've casted it up, not too bad, just five weeks and it'll be good as new.
More concerning, they say, is his head. Took a few too many hard impacts. Probably concussed and he might be disoriented when he talks. Be gentle with him—stupid, always gentle with Sammy—and let them know if he has any memory issues, if he acts different.
Otherwise, he'll make a full recovery.
Dean takes it all in and files it away in the system he's had ever since Sammy got his first fever and Dean was tasked with keeping his fluids up, with cuddling him close and making sure he didn't puke on the carpet.
It's familiar, it's manageable. He doesn't even listen to the ramblings of follow up appointments, of prescriptions, of recommended physical therapy, because he doesn't need them. He can take care of his Sammy.
He's pacing faster than the nurse to get to where Sammy is.
Inside a sterile and bright hospital room, Sammy's awake. The nurse is trying to say something, Dean doesn't care because those puppy eyes are blinking up at him when he bursts through the doorway.
He flies past the nurse, who's still talking to him, and is as gentle and soft as he knows how to be when he forces Sammy into his arms.
There's a surprised exhale against his neck, and he's too busy burying his face into Sammy's shoulder to bother saying anything at all. Sammy smells like he always does despite the antiseptic hospital stench around them, woodsy and sweet and comforting. His hair is soft.
Sammy hugs him too, slides hands up Dean's back and squeezes close. He's huge and solid against Dean. The only thing Dean has. He wants to lick at Sammy's sweaty skin, kiss his lips, and bite at his fingers, to make sure Sammy is alive and breathing and okay and his.
But he's human Dean now. He's the Dean Sammy needs.
He holds his little brother tightly to his chest and it's platonic. Close and protective, like it always used to be. No biting, no desperate need to clamber inside and never leave, no my Sammy.
Dean forces himself to let go when he's supposed to.
It's like peeling fly paper, sticky and clinging and deadly. He has to suck in a deep, gulping breath to right himself when Sammy lets him.
Sammy lets him slide loose, but it's slowly, frowning, confused. His hands linger at Dean's sides, fingers gripping in Dean's shirt—in his skin.
Dean wishes they would leave angry red marks. He wishes they would hurt if only because it would make stepping back easier.
They don't and Dean tugs free from it all. He removes himself with a shaky inhale and clenched fists, even if he wants nothing more than to climb into Sammy's lap—catch and never release.
"Sammy," he starts, eyes trailing everywhere but Sammy's face, and he's stilted, uncomfortable. Talking with Sammy is so much harder than bites and kisses are, but he can do it, he has to. Be as he was before, when Sammy was safe and he was normal.
"How ya feelin'? Scared me back there."
He has to look Sammy in the eye when he says things, has to sell it completely. Even if it's so familiar and so foreign in his mouth. His lips are chapped and cracking with the strangeness of speaking so often again, and he'd rather be pressing them to Sammy's.
But he can't. He can't do any of it anymore and he steels himself into staying still. He won't shy away from Sammy's open stare, from Sammy's hands hanging in the air after Dean pulled free of them.
Those long, familiar fingers twitch, a stopped gesture, and Sammy's eyes dart past Dean. They're sharper when they land, assessing, and Dean knows he's watching the nurse. Sammy must have just remembered the nurse was there.
A moment passes and one of those short, unconvincing half smiles quirks up on Sammy's face. The kind of expression he saves for people who don't really matter.
People who aren't Dean.
Whatever Sammy sees on the nurse's face, he looks back at Dean—always back at Dean—and Dean's breath comes easier until Sammy's puppy eyes choke him back up.
"I'm okay," Sammy says, and his voice is rough and scratchy. Almost as bad as Dean's and he sounds not okay, and it makes Dean want to crawl into the bed with him, wrap his arms tight around his big chest, and press his nose into his hair. Murmur my Sammy like it's a reassurance for Sammy and Dean both, kiss into his overheated skin, bite into his palm and lick away the blood. Sammy Sammy Sammy.
Dean crosses his arms, tight enough his biceps sting, and he avoids Sammy's stare by looking over the new cast on his leg. It's dark blue and goes up to his mid thigh, a stark and accusing reminder of what Sammy's gone through. What Dean let happen to him because he was selfish and stupid.
Dean's grinding his teeth hard enough to make his gums throb and he steers his wayward, furious, guilty thoughts to something else. Sammy's down to one of those hospital gowns and his underwear now and they must've destroyed his jeans to get to his broken leg. Like they did to Dean when he fucked his up a year ago.
Dean channels that completely inane thought into his next words. He says things he would've said before—before.
"Guess it's your turn to lay up on the couch for five weeks, huh?" he says gruffly, good natured, and forces a grin that shows his aching teeth. But he can't raise his gaze to meet Sammy's, he keeps it on the crooked knee of that dark blue cast. But he can feel the sharp and penetrating stare on his face, always knows when Sammy's looking at him.
The response is slow, measured.
"Uh, yeah I guess so," Sammy finally manages and it sounds distracted. Like a stock reply. The kind Dean always drags out of Sammy when his mind is furiously working on something else.
Those disarming eyes are still drilling into the side of Dean's head, still working very well at piercing through the unsteady facade he's trying to keep up. It's a relief when Dean feels them slide off, back to the nurse, almost reluctant.
"We're good for now, thanks." Sammy's talking to the nurse now, not Dean, and maybe the nurse was lingering to the side like this for a reason. Maybe the nurse was worried about what kind of relationship they have, curious about the car accident story, about all the blood.
Dean can't begrudge the concern or the curiosity. He knows the two of them make a pretty strange picture, enjoys it even. Outsiders don't understand Sammy and him, can't quite pin them down. Most of the time, Dean can't either.
It shouldn't be as complicated as it is, but Dean works very hard to complicate it.
There's an empathetic jumble of words from the nurse and Dean doesn't try to filter or understand or acknowledge. But whatever is said is a parting because the nurse finally steps out, closing the door with a click that almost echoes in the sudden absence of anyone other than Sam and Dean.
Just Sam and Dean like it should always be. Like it would always be if Dean had his way.
With the nurse gone, Dean's aching urge to clamber on top of his brother and weigh him down is clawing topside again. Some other, inexplicable creature under his skin, the one born from Purgatory.
The cement that poured into every open wound, filled the cracks and covered them up is rock solid. Dean laid it all down when he stood in the waiting room and let them take Sammy away and told himself he could be good. It is concrete and sincere. Durable. It has to keep the monstrous, wanting thing locked and sealed inside.
The split knuckles of his right hand are burning with the fist he's got wrapped around his own arm. But Dean welcomes these small pains, welcomes anything to distract him from using those torn up fingers to hook into Sammy's soft, giving skin.
Sammy isn't saying anything. He's quiet except for those steady breaths and the swirl of the hospital's AC. But he's looking at Dean again with that overthinking gaze. The one that Dean knows wants to break into his exterior and read what's written inside.
Dean can feel it like always. He endures it as much as he soaks it up. Always attuned to Sammy's attention like a sunflower under the sun, in need of it.
He has to say what happened. He has to say everything, say something, he needs Sammy to know. He'll be the good Dean, he'll be the Dean Sammy needs, the one Sammy likes best, the one he misses.
The one who keeps him without digging sharp, pointed ends into his flesh.
His throat is threatening to close up like it just wants to stop the words from climbing out, stop what they'll mean. What they'll create. What they'll destroy.
A precarious balance Dean's been sitting on since he came back. Since he laid over Sammy, clung to every inch of him in the night, and decided not to tell. Chose that heated, syrupy, affectionate contact over being Sammy's brother—that excuse to taste and touch and mark.
He swallows and it's still too dry. The fist of his hand is curling too tight and now there's more pain, more than the broken skin of his knuckles because it's where the bite is. It burns, pleasantly warm, and it means so much to Dean, means Sammy's his and he's Sammy's, means mates.
But not to Sammy.
Never to Sammy, Sammy didn't know, Sammy was just appeasing Dean. Sammy's probably still mad about the mating bites thing.
Dean gets that same striking surge of apprehension remembering how Sammy first learned about it. When Benny just casually dropped it on them and Sammy froze up and Dean was absolutely livid because he was fucking terrified.
He wanted to kill Benny then. Kill Benny for telling Sammy about Dean, about what Dean did and how Dean is. How Dean couldn't help the habits he picked up in the bleached forests of Purgatory, how he saw that self-sacrificing devotion in the rougarous he slaughtered and thought of Sammy.
How his deteriorating sense of self recognized the matching bites, their significance, their claim, their with these hands, I'm yours and could only salivate at the prospect of Sammy's bare palm in his jaws.
Mates.
Something electric and painful stings in Dean's nerves and he clenches his fist so hard it numbs.
Not mates, not anymore.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he says, heavy in the air with as much sincerity as Dean can weigh it with. There's no teeth, no biting, no growling. Just words. "I didn't—this wasn't supposed to happen. I just wanted to keep you safe, s'all."
It's a terrible explanation. It's saying things with hardly any substance. It's their forte, the reason why Dean prefers the other ways, the ones they aren't supposed to do. So much easier to communicate feelings, the things Dean can never say out loud, when he could pour them into Sam's mouth with his tongue, his fingers, his teeth.
Now they have to go back to words and Dean doesn't know if he can do it anymore. If he ever really could.
Sammy doesn't immediately reply. Silence descends between them like a physical barrier, like the physical barrier. The one that's been between Sam and Dean ever since Dean started wanting to touch, to keep, to savor. For years and years it was impenetrable, it was unbreakable.
But Dean knows he can break it now. He's broken it every time he pushed into Sammy's space to touch, taste, and corner him. Every time he was too feral, too monstrous to know any better, even later when he did know better. The perfect excuse. The barrier is not impenetrable and Dean knows that and it's dangerous knowledge.
The silence is stretching too long and Dean drags his eyes up from Sammy's cast. They trace delicately up the hospital gown, along the curve of his elbow and the cut of his jaw, and it's a slow and fond reverence. Dean wishes it were his fingers instead.
When he meets Sammy's stare, there's a frown marring his face, a slight parting of downturned lips, pink as always. Dean can't get a read on the expression. He can't tell if Sammy is mad at him right now. An anxious and scared thing flutters up his throat because he doesn't want Sammy mad at him, can't handle it.
He's looking at Sammy's mouth, like he always does, willing it to tell him what to do. Tell him how to make it all better, to give him answers. To ask him for a kiss.
Dean blinks hard, once, and tries to school the sudden pathetic need out of his expression. He has to twist it into a mask of regret and concern, all traces of that gauzy longing rubbed away. Sammy tilts his head just slightly to the side, fluffy hair falling against his cheek and Dean immediately wants to brush it away, wants to run his fingers through it and yank at the ends, my Sammy.
"Dean?"
It feels like a rush down Dean's spine how it straightens out the vertebrae. As if they were misaligned before he heard his name ram up against the backs of Sammy's teeth. A Pavlovian response. At attention.
Sammy's left hand curls into a fist, a fidgeting gesture that draws Dean's eyes, lands them on his bite in Sammy's skin. It's red and torn. Dean can't stop the flood of saliva that rushes under his tongue at the sight of it, the way he clenches his jaw hard in a phantom bite, remembers first sinking into Sammy's flesh in the shower.
What he wanted to do then, what he's done since. Bite and claim and consume.
Sammy's fist unfurls as if Dean's gaze has splayed it open, then he too sits up a little straighter, both of them too stiff.
"Dean," he says again and Dean forces himself to look back at Sammy's face, back at that frowning mouth, those puppy eyes. "How are—are you... you again?"
It's the way Sammy says it.
Tender and timid and wanting, like Sammy would wish for nothing else in the world but to have Dean back. His big brother Dean, from before Purgatory, before the hunt. Before Dean bit holes in him and crawled inside and made a home in his chest. Dean needs to give Sammy what he wants, always always.
He cracks another grin, dopey and toothy but without the bite, and it feels like something is cracking open alongside it. But the lightness of the expression spreads across his face, permeates the pores of his skin, scores through his nervous system—and he can almost believe he's happy.
"Yeah, Sammy," he says, overconfident and loud and preparing to lie. "Somethin' must've knocked loose in all the fighting. I feel good as new." He falters like he should, cocks his head as if contemplating. "Or, good as old? Like before, you know. I'm me again, good ol' Dean Winchester."
It's half practiced.
He rehearsed variations constantly in the dark nights he spent curled into Sammy's body, preparing for the moment he would finally have to tell Sammy everything. How long he's been in control, when he stopped having to and started wanting to. A moment he would close his eyes against and wish would never come as he burrowed into Sammy's chest and tasted the salt of his sleepy skin.
But here, finally saying it, his tongue feels tired with all these stupid words, and he wants to be quiet again if only for a break. Or an excuse to bite at Sammy's mouth.
Dean's grin falters.
"What, seriously?" Sammy's saying, wide eyes watching Dean. "Dean, how is that—what does that mean? You're okay now? You're—better?"
He can't quite describe the change and Dean just nods encouragingly, because yes, yes he's the Dean Sammy wants, the one Sammy's always needed. Human, good Dean, who doesn't bite him or pretend just so he can lick into Sammy's mouth and taste home.
"Better than ever," he assures and imbues it with every ounce of conviction he can muster. His fingers itch to grab Sammy and he tampers it down, pulling normalcy on and wearing it the way he always used to. He has to make it true. He has to make Sammy understand that he's safe now, he has the right Dean now.
"But," Sammy stops, frowns. His eyes move all over Dean, taking him in, assessing like they always do after a hunt. "But are you okay? Did the doctors check you? You were all covered in blood before and now suddenly you're back to normal? What if—I mean, you fought like a twenty vamps, Dean, what if you have a brain injury or something?"
Sammy's voice raises with each question, increasingly alarmed, puppy eyes all wet and imploring and Dean's chest constricts. No, no, don't worry Sammy, don't be scared, it's okay.
An unbidden keening noise forces up into Dean's mouth, wanting to soothe, but he clears his throat to mask it. He reigns himself in with that cement in his veins.
"Chill, Sammy, I got all checked out." He's assertive and solid. More for himself than Sammy. A way to keep from whispering gentle words, from climbing over Sammy's thighs and kissing his cheeks. "I'm totally fine. You're the one with the head injury according to the doc."
He tries to make it all too light, too casual. The bravado forcing its familiar way up from his gut like bile.
Sammy shakes his head and his hands are lifting, gesturing at Dean just like when they were kids. When Sammy wanted Dean to pick him up and carry him around, how Dean would rush into his outstretched arms like a dog answering the call of its master. Conditioned, like all of Dean's behaviors when it comes to Sammy.
He lurches forward on instinct, skirting around that barrier he threw between them because he has to, because Sammy wants him to. It's okay if Sammy asks right?
"I know you didn't let them look at you," Sammy says, disapproving in a long sigh as Dean puts himself within reach. Too eager, too willing. Sammy's hands sink into the collar of Dean's shirt, pull him down and close enough to smell Sammy's hair, feel the heat of his body.
"Let me at least look at your head."
Sammy's demanding and Dean's going along, as always. He can't resist Sammy. He could never, even before Purgatory.
One of Sammy's hands releases Dean's shirt to run along his scalp, through his damp hair. It's not affectionate, not really, or Dean can't say it is because Sammy is just searching. He's just checking to make sure Dean is okay.
Dean's insides turn all goopy anyway. Warm sensations tingle up and down the muscles of his neck, following after the press of Sammy's fingers as they rove over the slope of his skull.
He wants to lean into Sammy's touch, preening under the physical attention like a puppy getting pets, like a dumb animal who doesn't know right from wrong. His limbs are getting increasingly heavier, too weighted to hold up and he should rest. He should lean into Sammy's huge chest, press his cheek into Sammy's collarbone and nuzzle in for the long haul.
Sammy's considering hum only lulls Dean more, soft and low, it turns him all syrupy. He all but collapses on the edge of the bed, situating himself as close to Sammy as he can probably get away with.
His hip bumps up against Sammy's thigh and he wonders if he could press his forehead into Sammy's jaw, if he could mouth at his neck all careful comfort. He knows he can't, knows he won't. Not now, not anymore. But he wants. He wants. He wants.
"I don't feel anything," Sammy says, cutting into Dean's hazy, meandering tangents with a voice that's clear and so painfully unaware. Dean's flushed when Sammy slides his hands free with one last card through his hair.
The absence of his warmth is immediate and Dean's instinct to grab him back and pull him close isn't allowed. It's stupid how he has to adjust his position so he's tilting back upright, away from Sammy's heat, the lure that Dean isn't used to resisting anymore.
His eyes are heavy and he's weary to his bones, aches and pains wheedling in between the joints and through the cartilage. It's like they're laced with metal and Sammy's got the magnet—under his skin, in his mouth.
"Like I said," Dean forces out, husky. "Fine."
The unbidden urge to angle into Sammy's space again, just so, just in case Sammy wants to touch more is almost impossible to suppress. He almost doesn't know how to do it. Even just casually, even just platonically.
In just a few short days, Dean's naturally gravitated to Sammy's skin without even trying to stop himself. He could bridge the extremely small gap between his hands and Sammy's fingers, his face, his tummy, his thighs. He could do it all without consequences before, before when he wasn't being himself. When he was pretending.
He drank long and deep and hard til he was drunk with Sammy's touch, like the headiest whisky burning him up inside and now it's so much harder to stop. He feels starved, he feels addicted. He's had and he's consumed and he's taken, taken, taken and everything is so much fucking harder to resist. He's tearing new holes in his skin with how furiously he has to work his fingers to keep from chasing after Sammy.
"But what if it's something internal? You can't just bump your head like a reset button and suddenly go back to normal. That's insane." Sammy's adamant, rigid and still with his hands folded back in his lap, not touching Dean, not reaching out for Dean.
Dean's whole body pounds with each wet beat of his heart.
"I mean, if you're—if you're all fine now, then what was the point? Why did we even—" Sammy falters, blinks a few times, and then pins Dean with an expression that immediately makes Dean feel guilty of something.
"What happened to Benny?" Sammy asks, urgent, stern like he's already scolding Dean for whatever he did or didn't do. Dean's hackles rise and he's tense up the meat of his back, shoulders pulling taut with a riled outrage. It curls into a growl in his mouth, barring up against his teeth.
He wants to bite something, bite Sammy, wants to grip and dig in and press in marks. He hates it, hates the way Sammy says that vampirate's name as if he matters, as if anyone matters but them, and he doesn't fucking care about Benny—he doesn't want Sammy to care.
"Wish I killed him," he spits out without preface, no attempt at normalcy, as he bares his teeth like they're ripping into Benny's fucking neck. Vitriol picks at the plastic veneer of humanity he coated himself in, scratches and pulls, and he wants to track that vampirate down for the sole reason that Sammy even remembers him, even says his name.
Something acidic clings to the wall of his teeth like venom before fangs sink in deep. He's predatory again, virulent.
Sammy ducks his head, catching Dean's hard stare, and he's got those wide, asking eyes. Dean doesn't know what he sees, he only knows Sammy shouldn't be seeing it anymore. But he can't reign in it and he's motionless when Sammy speaks.
"What? You let him go?"
As if Dean's entire body isn't strained, mind racing, determining how hard it would be to drag Sammy back with him (because Sammy isn't allowed to be without him, not ever again). He’ll have to take Sammy when he goes back to that vamp infested hellhole to track the vampirate. So he can sever its head from the stump of its neck and ensure it never fucking speaks again.
There's a warm weight on Dean's shoulder, Sammy grabbing onto him, and derailing Dean's vicious train of thought instantly. He blinks huge at Sammy and the snarl falls right off his face with Sammy's touch, Sammy's attention. Eager to please as always, just for Sammy.
Dean licks his lips, leaves them parted and cool with spit because he's too busy staring. Sammy's just shaking his head, a quick flick of a movement that's half bitchy and half expectant. Those long fingers squeeze into the thick of Dean's shoulder and he shivers at the press of it, wishes Sammy would pull him down.
"Dean, what happened after I blacked out?" Sammy's using his very serious, don't bullshit me voice. He shoves Dean slightly, jostling him but his grip is still solid and heavy and warm through the thin material of Dean's shirt.
He wants Sammy to squeeze hard enough to leave bruises. It’s the only way he can get any marks from Sammy now. Dean's breath comes in sharply through his nose, raising that shoulder under Sammy's big hand, and it's anchoring. It's attachment.
"Nothing happened, Sammy," Dean says and he's telling the whole truth for once. "I was too worried about you, I don't know where he went."
This should be obvious, Sammy should know this.
The answer seems to be enough, true enough, because Sammy slides his hand down, loosening his hold to slide along Dean's arm. It drops away completely and Dean's skin is cold without it.
When Sammy settles his hand back on the plaster of his cast, he sighs and it's relieved, but Dean just wants his touch back. He's watching Sammy's hand sit so close and open, the bite he made there. It looks sore, slightly shiny and fresh. Is that because Sammy was picking at it? Or because Dean made sure it bled when he left last night?
After Sammy clung to him, wrapped his big body all around Dean, naked and heated and fucking beautiful, Dean made plans. He didn't want to leave Sammy behind, he wasn't going to be gone long, but even the shortest separation feels raw and vulnerable. But that feeling isn't as bad as seeing Sammy hurt, seeing Sammy in danger because of Dean.
In the darkness, to the gentle sway of the ocean, Dean decided he could leave. As soon as Sammy was asleep, comfortable and safe from the nightmares, Dean would sneak away and slaughter everything that could hurt him. Then he would climb back into the soft, milky cage of Sammy's sleepy limbs before he even noticed. It was foolproof in his anxious, post orgasmic, Sammy-addled head.
Pulling himself away was fucking hard. Leaving Sammy alone like that, without Dean to keep him safe, keep him warm, keep him coddled. Dean just wanted to keep him.
So he sank his teeth into his mark, as scarring as he could without waking Sammy, let the blood bead to the surface and smeared across his lips. He still tasted it when he drenched himself in the vampirates‘ blood hours later.
Now, here, in the hospital bed, Dean wants to bite again. He wants to ensure those scars stay intact forever. His claim, his mate, his Sammy.
He can't really remember what they're talking about or why they're talking about it. His lips are dry already and he runs his tongue over them again as he watches that bite in Sammy's hand contort with the movements of his fingers. He wants to bite those too.
"So Benny's just running around out there," Sammy says but it sounds like he doesn't expect Dean to respond. "Guess we can call someone to get on his trail… wonder if he got his revenge."
Something wispy trails Sammy's sentence, a flitting cobweb that Dean senses and wants to grab onto and pull and pull until it unravels and disappears. It sounds like concern, like interest. Dean hates it. He hates when Sammy thinks about unnecessary things, busies himself with people and monsters that don't fucking matter.
Dean wants to shove himself up into Sammy's space and hoard all that attention for himself.
"Who cares," he says and narrowly resists grabbing Sammy's bitten hand to wind their fingers together, use it as leverage so Sammy will curl into him.
But he can't let himself cling so much anymore, so obviously, so blatant. Not when he's being what Sammy needs. He has to keep himself tampered down, lidded and secure.
Sammy is staring at him again, and when Dean checks, he can trace the tiny pinch in Sammy's brow and the part of his lips where his front teeth are just visible. Dean wants to lick them. He doesn't move.
Sammy's tongue darts out, runs along his bottom lip like he could read everything in the track of Dean's gaze and an icy sensation rains down on that porous cement Dean laid inside himself. He's suddenly terrified Sammy can read it in his face, can see that creature underneath, the one Dean's desperately drowning down for his sake.
But Sammy doesn't say anything to Dean, there's no admonishment, there's no begrudging acceptance. He only presses his palms against his eyes, fingers splaying up and out, so long and so satisfying to nibble at, Dean knows. He shouldn't know, but he does.
There's another big breath that makes Sammy's chest and shoulders lift, filling his whole torso, and he's pushing his hands up, running those fingers through his hair. Dean watches it all with an attentiveness that borders on envy, stilling the urge to put his own greedy hand in Sammy's soft hair, pet his face, draw him close—touch their mouths again.
He misses the taste. He misses a lot.
Sammy's talking, eyes on his lap and fists in the tails of his hair. "What about what Benny said he knew? Did he tell you everything?"
Everything.
A full body rush of something thunderous and thick tremors right along Dean's spine from the base, tracking out along each and every one of his ribs. It's rattling and Dean can't tell if he's pissed or scared.
Everything? That vampirate didn't know anything. Not really. It didn't even matter because Dean knows everything, Dean knows what happened, Dean remembers it all and Dean is himself, has always just been himself. He just didn't want that thing talking to Sammy, coming near Sammy, pretending to have information and using it against them.
Benny only knew Dean by reputation in Purgatory, the bloody human creature that slaughtered monsters better than the monsters did. The hunter that stalked the rougarous and the wendigos and the vampires and the wraiths through the unchanging landscape with no other intent than to destroy them.
Dean played with them, chased them for sport, even enjoyed it. Became something else. Sometimes they begged him not to, the more human-like creatures, sometimes they cried and they asked why and they tried to appeal to his humanity. He still reveled in slicing them apart.
At first, it was survival.
Then it wasn't.
Dean only told Benny, back in the Impala, back when Sammy left him behind, Dean only told Benny to keep his fucking mouth shut about him. He growled and he spit and he wore the face of the thing in Purgatory and he told Benny not to tell.
The thing is, Dean knows Sammy doesn't care about what he did in Purgatory, not as much as he cares about Dean. He knows Sammy will accept him for most things, learned it the hard way when they were fighting against Heaven and Hell, and everything pitted them against each other. When mistakes were made, lies told, fury barbing their tongues.
But he doesn't want Sammy to know about these parts of him, if he can help it. He wants to be Sammy's hero, his big brother who Sammy wants to be like, his only person. If Sammy hears about the vicious, angry, possessive, monstrous parts of Dean, the ones Dean threatened Benny not to mention, Sammy might look at him different. He might pull away. He might leave, he's come so close before.
Dean is clingy and needy and he wants Sammy and Sammy can't leave him. So, Sammy couldn't know about Purgatory.
But he knows now.
He saw Dean dig his greedy claws into that vampire's throat, fishing out gore until he could get to its spine and crack it with a grin on his bloody face. He saw Dean caked in viscera, saw him murder and brutalize and bask in it all, and Dean can't change that.
Just like he can't change the way he wants to press red lips to Sammy's and call him mine. He's just too scared, he's just too attached, he's just too violent.
He just needs Sammy and he can't survive separation.
Sammy is still fiddling with his own fingers in his lap, oddly forgiving of Dean's quiet, maybe giving him time to form a reply that makes sense. With Benny, Sammy wanted so badly to get an explanation for what Dean's become, to have some solution, a way to fix him. It scared Dean then, that what he's doing, what he's been pushing down and pretending at, might be all wrong for Sammy. Might be what Sammy doesn't want.
But selfish fucking monster that he is, he still tried to stop it all, still tried to fend Benny off, to prevent losing Sammy and losing everything Dean took from him. He was such a damn coward and now Sammy wants answers and Dean doesn't think he has the voice to give them.
"Dean."
It's been too long. Dean's been staring openly, anxiously for too long. Not saying a word, not answering the question. He keeps forgetting, he isn't used to talking anymore, to making words and upholding a conversation.
Why can't he just lick into Sammy's mouth and they can go back to touching nobody else but each other?
Dean knows why, he knows, he knows, he just can't get his messed up head to mold back to the right track. The track he's lived his whole life stuck to. The one where he ignores all these impulses, shoves them down like he hasn't been absolutely obsessed with Sammy since he was born.
His lips are pursed, hard and distraught, and he doesn't realize until Sammy's raising a fist. It clips him under the jaw, not an actual punch just a light tap of knuckles. A call for attention. If Dean is good at anything it's giving Sammy attention.
He inclines back and pastes on his big brother scowl, feigning offense as if he isn't hankering for every small brush of skin. Sammy is looking at him with that concerned puppy expression, both of his eyebrows pulling together over those eyes. The ones Dean can't look at for too long or he'll spill every secret he's ever had.
Sammy wants an answer, Sammy's demanding Dean's attention, demanding Dean give him an explanation with the touch of his hand. It only distracts Dean more and he struggles to figure out what exactly he should say without fucking it all up even worse.
His head sort of aches as he sifts through the last five hours for what Sammy knows, what he's seen, what that fucking swamp vampirate said in front of him.
The nest, Sammy there and hurt, Benny showing up and spouting nonsense Dean didn't try to decipher. He only wanted him dead—away from Sammy and dead. Like he wants most things. Dean doesn't know where to start, doesn't know what Sammy's been told, what he can get away with ignoring.
He just wants them back to before. Before Purgatory, before Dean did what he did. For Sammy's sake. Nothing else matters, why can't Sammy just drop it?
"Well, what do you remember?" Dean asks and he can't look Sammy in the eye when he does. He watches his mouth instead, sees the abrupt downturn of it.
"I remember falling off the balcony," Sammy says slowly, lips forming every word with deliberate movements. "You killing that vamp and then Benny saying something about you being a monster like he always did."
That phrase only rattles up Dean's skeleton for the second time and Dean's anxious again, scared again, angry again. Sammy knows what he became in Purgatory, or at least knows a little, he knows enough. And it worries at Dean, digs up under his skin like prickling, stabbing insects.
He thinks Sammy could see it in him, the monster of him, ever since they cleaned up those vampirate carcasses. When Sammy talked to him like he was something scary. Something different.
No explanation tries to come out, Dean's lips stay sealed tight over clenched teeth.
It doesn't matter because Sammy continues. Dean is still staring at his mouth. "Like that stuff he said before I passed out. About you liking it all, y'know, killing monsters."
Dean can barely register the words as they fall free. The way Sammy says them so casually as if they're not a big deal. As if he doesn't understand the weight of them. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe Sammy doesn't care about it at all.
He casts a hopeful, skipping, stuttering glance up from Sammy's safe mouth to his eyes, across his cheekbones, over his nose and along his brow. He doesn't pick up Sammy's telltale signs of distress.
There's no quick downturn of the corners of his mouth, the ones that flick up immediately like he doesn't want Dean to see it. There's no slight jump of that one muscle just above his lip. There's no blushing red tip of his nose. There's nothing Dean usually sees when Sammy's about to yell at him, about to condemn him, about to leave.
None of the signs are there and Dean swallows the words that want to ask if it's alright that he's like this, if Sammy is staying with him, if they're going to be okay. He can't ask because Sammy hasn't even heard the worst part. What Dean is burying deep into the cement and hoping to suffocate.
It's quiet again between them, but Sammy's mouth is working like he's chewing on the inside of his cheek, the way he does when he's chewing something over similarly in his head. One of his deep dimples creases along his left cheek and Dean's tongue is taking up too much space between his teeth.
"Is that what you've been weird about this whole time?" Sammy asks and it's light. There's not that accusing, furious edge to it like before, like on the boat when Sammy yelled and tried to leave. When he tried to pull away from Dean's clinging hands.
Dean's eyes are still stuck to Sammy's lone dimple. It cuts into his cheek and signals to Dean that there's nothing to fear, what it's always done ever since Sammy was a baby. No tears, no screaming. Sammy isn't mad at him, it says.
Dean's wanted to kiss Sammy's dimples for as long as he can remember. He's only gotten the privilege a few times in their lives, sneaky and nonchalant. He wants to do it right now. This time deliberate and indisputable. His Sammy's dimples. Only for Dean, always for Dean.
He's distracted again, he hasn't answered in time, and Sammy continues like an elaboration is needed and maybe it is.
"You know, back in Clayton? With all the talking you kept pulling out of your ass, and how insistent you were about Benny? How you kept trying to cut him out of your arm rather than let me talk to him? Rather than explaining literally anything? Remember when I said we'd talk about it later? Well here's later."
Sammy's dimple shrank as he spoke, mouth straightening into a flat line.
Dean remembers. He remembers the flare in his belly every time Sammy got frustrated with him. The way Dean kept trying to keep what he wanted covered, while still getting what he wanted. The way he gave just enough to keep Sammy out of danger without Sammy realizing the extent of what Dean knew, what he hadn't actually forgotten. The role Dean played in making them whatever they are right now.
The way he failed so spectacularly.
He can't quite pin down what Sammy wants to hear, what he's trying to get from Dean. He can hope it isn't about the thing he's mortared over inside, hope it's just because of that killing, violent thing.
Hope it's about Dean who murders and hunts and loves it. Not Dean who pins Sammy down to the mattress and licks into him, bites into his flesh, hollows out his place inside Sammy and won't ever come back out.
His whole body feels flushed, and Sammy can definitely see it. It always stands out so obvious in his pale skin—under his stupid freckles.
"Sammy," Dean says to buy time, natural as the most common interjections. He hurriedly tears his eyes off Sammy's face, can't quite handle the inevitable reaction to whatever half truth he's going to try and get away with.
The hospital room is floored with tile, white with dark flecks.
"I was just—" He pauses to wet his lip with the last of his spit. "Sorta getting better, things coming back, and I didn't know up from down, y'know?"
"When?" Sam cuts in, so urgently Dean startles. "When did it all start coming back? Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything?"
Because if he did, things would change. Dean knows that, but he absolutely can't say it. "It was just small stuff, really I couldn't even make sense of it. Even if I did say something I was worried y'know, with Purgatory and all the stuff I did there, I just—just didn't want you to think I was—"
The right word escapes him, floating somewhere outside his field of vision and he squints his eyes closed tight, forces something to come out that isn't my Sammy mine don't go. He settles for what's close and true. As real as he can afford to be without ruining them.
"I just didn't wanna let you down." I just didn't want you to leave.
Familiar and heavy and saying thousands of other things at the same time and yet nothing at all.
Dean's eyes burn a little when he finally pries them open, blinking angrily. His throat is tight, closing up, and he wants to tackle Sammy to the bed, weigh him down with his whole body, and sink into all his soft and hard angles, slotting in so perfectly. Safe and home.
Dean feels that crack from before fissure wider, deeper and he inhales too much air—it stings. He burns with it, can hardly breathe.
It takes a lot of himself to shove off the edge of Sammy's hospital bed, not too fast, not too frantically, but just enough to put much needed space between them. Out of orbit, out of reach, and back on his booted feet. Somewhere two steps away so he can breathe again, slowly and calmly. Normal.
He almost can't smell Sammy's warm puppy scent from this distance, all woodsy soil and sleepy fuzz.
"Dean, you didn't let me down. You're not," Sammy says once Dean steps away and it's cottony in Dean's ears. He can't keep staring at everything but his brother, eyes still glued to the tiled floor. He has to look up and be Dean, be normal, be good.
He flits wide, nervous eyes to Sammy. The earnest tilt of Sammy's head and that sappy gaze immediately tack Dean down, trapped in the sticky sweet of it.
He's putty on that ugly, tiled floor.
Everything he's holing up in anxious desperation, everything sending him into flurries of fearful, angry bouts of needing and waning, it all liquefies under Sammy's sincere stare. It feels like Dean can manage it all.
Sammy continues with that soft tone that's so assuring and so warm. "Listen, it doesn't even matter, alright? I'm just happy you're back and okay and yourself again."
It's a balm over every aching, clenching, tensing bit of Dean's body, even when he doesn't want it to be.
Dean wishes he could wrap himself up in it, wishes he could slide in beside Sammy and soak all of his concern and affection and heat right up.
He just wants Sammy in any way he can get him but he's greedy and needy and he's not being that Dean anymore, he's being good, safe, human. He's being okay.
"Okay," Dean forces past whatever's happened in his throat that messed up his vocal cords. It sounds really rough and strained and he wants to cringe. But Sammy smiles a half smile then, sitting back a little more lax against the bed frame. A relief.
Dean pretends it's all been worked out. Talked over like they solved something with this conversation, like they've reached some kind of agreement. Something big and momentous.
Like he isn't burying something else deeper and darker into that hardened cement of his insides. The hunger, the yearning, the kisses, and the sex, and my Sammy.
"Alright good," Sammy says and the muscles in his face jump like they can't decide what expression to settle on. Dean just watches, a little at a loss, a little desperate, and it's Sammy's turn now to avoid Dean's eyes.
He's skating over the length of his broken leg, fingers fidgeting with the bedsheet near his lap, and Dean almost doesn't like how he's no longer getting Sammy's attention. How he's no longer Sammy's focus.
If this were before, if this were Dean who's pretending, Dean who's acting like he has to when really he just wants to, then Dean would grab Sammy's hands. He would untangle Sammy's fingers from the sheet and hold tight enough to hurt. Hard enough for their matching bites to sting and drag across each other.
But he lets his arms hang uselessly at his sides, because if he opens that door, he won't be able to step back again. He's barely managing to do it now. Barely able to maintain his concrete resolve and be what Sammy needs him to be instead of what he wants to be for him.
"Sammy?" Dean says and he wants to know what's distracting Sammy, what's keeping his attention from Dean. He wants to stomp whatever it is out, but he's scared it's him.
Sammy brushes his hair out of his face with his left hand, a mindless gesture, but his gaze catches on his bite there and holds it. The remnants of Dean's possessive, craving, owning thing in his skin and Sammy just stares at it for a long, breathless moment where Dean's heart clogs up into his throat.
Then Sammy's dropping it back to his lap and refusing to look down again, eyes finding the opposite wall and sticking to it. As if looking down is dangerous. As if it's scary.
Something sick and petrified thunks heavy in Dean's gut like a punch in his flesh. His bite burns and throbs as if Sammy's teeth are tearing at it, but it hurts and hurts and he's bleeding out, frantic and afraid.
"And everything that happened?" Sammy suddenly asks. He doesn't look at Dean. "You remember everything, right? Purgatory and waking up in Maine? That shitty motel and Clayton and everything we—did? I mean, y'know, to get here?"
What's going unspoken is obvious and huge and terrifying.
Dean's already nodding furiously before Sammy even finishes, leaning his weight on the heels of his feet to keep from stepping close and touching. He slips his bite behind his back—the bite, the one he hopes never heals, the only thing he ever received from Sammy that he didn't encourage, didn't force with his entitled, angry, self-seeking touches.
Dean didn't forget any of it, never could, never will, no matter what Sammy says. But he can still assure him like he's supposed to, like a good big brother, like Dean who's Sammy's hero, who only ever has Sammy's best interests at heart.
Who wouldn't bite into his little brother and call him his.
"Yeah, yeah, I remember all of it," he says hurriedly, offhandedly like it isn't humongous and terrible. He shakes his head, dismissive, because neither of them are going to say it out loud. Neither of them can address the elephant in the room, the way Dean shifted their relationship, took his twisted, taboo, fucked up love for Sammy and spilled it all into Sammy's skin, wanted it to sink under like tattoo ink and never disappear.
He has to assure Sammy, he's not that Dean anymore, he won't be—he can't be.
"But forget about all that stuff, Sammy. We gotta focus on gettin' you better now, huh? Go to Rufus's cabin til your leg is good again. Lay low."
The words fall out in a ramble and Dean wishes he could scrub away the desperation that bleeds out from them. It drips down his chin, and twists his smile into something crooked and begging.
Please, he implores with wide eyes, please just let it go, Sammy.
Just forget everything, all the stuff Dean did to him, the gnarled, yearning, perverted thing he made of them. Biting, kissing, tearing, grasping. Dean did that to Sammy. Naked and bare and fucked up. It's all wrong and screwed and Dean did it, Dean wanted it, it's Dean's fault.
He stares at Sammy with eyes that feel wet.
Let's just be brothers again, he wants to say. I'll be good.
Something flickers in Sammy's face, something unreadable, but there. It's strange and indiscernible and gone just as quick as Dean sees it. Sammy's eyes jump all over Dean's face and the fist his left hand has curled into lays flat against the sheets.
He grins as if it's just finally really hit him, something good and overwhelming and good. Those dimples go so deep and beautiful, and his teeth are white and his eyes are shining. Dean's chest flips, fingers clenching into his bitten palm.
He wants nothing more in that moment, faced with his favorite glowing Sammy smile, to crawl up Sammy's front and lick into those dimples, precious and lovely and just for Dean.
"Okay, Dean, yeah," Sammy says with that tinge of relief again, comforted and happy for it. Dean doesn't budge, stones in his feet and blood in his mouth. He hurts, sharp and stabbing and violent inside, and he doesn't know why.
He does know, he can't give words to it though.
His eyes are burning again, he blinks hard in the face of Sammy's contentment.
"God," Sammy's exhaling, knocking his head back against the wall. "I can't believe you're okay now, Dean. You're back to yourself, you're you."
Sammy's eyes are closed, another heavy breath that expands and deflates his chest as if the weight of their world has rolled along with it.
That lovely, sated little smile doesn't leave his face, dimples still so deep, so pleased, so happy to have his brother back. So happy to be done with all of this mess. So happy to have fixed what they became. Fixed Dean.
It holds Dean hostage at Sammy's bedside, a tight fist around the smarting thing in his chest.
His eyes track all over Sammy, the slump of his shoulders, the torn skin of his palm, the stretch of his throat, the soft pale pink of his lips.
And Dean doesn't hold Sammy. He doesn't bite into his mark in Sammy's palm. He doesn't crawl up under Sammy's skin where he belongs. He doesn't.
But he wants to.
He wants to kiss, wants to bite, wants to own, he wants wants wants.
But he won't. He'll be good.
For Sammy.
Notes:
reactions?? thoughts?? gimme feedback i've been wanting to post this chapter since DAY ONE!!!! it is the only chapter totally in dean's pov. don't get used to it tho bc we're going back to sam asap. this was just the turning point i rly wanted to give y'all in our feral boi's head for maximum feelings
next update is friday and we get to see sam's reaction to wtf just happened here. if anybody loves clingy bratty sam, some caretaker big bro dean, and a metric ton of dumbasses pining WELL you've got a big storm coming in these last nine chapters hehehe :>
Chapter 23: Brake
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In all the times Sam has gotten his brother back after being separated, he's never had a readjustment period. Dean comes crashing back into his life in some manner and Sam engulfs him, clings or cries, and they fall back into their rhythm as natural as breathing.
It's so easy, because alone, separated, there's not a rhythm so much as the absence of it. No steady heartbeat, no measured breaths. Everything stutters and stumbles and fluctuates in a frenetic racket. It's deafening and numb. Wrong.
When Dean comes back to Sam, it's always a realignment. Welcome and restoring. Right.
This time feels different.
Sam doesn't know what to make of it.
When Dean first cracked that nervous grin, asked if he was okay, maintained that awkward distance between their bodies, and pulled out of Sam's arms like it was easy, everything felt off.
It didn't make sense. This is how they always did it, until very recently, but as Dean speaks, says what he says without teeth and touch, Sam desperately needs to readjust.
This is Dean, his big brother, human and alive. Not soaked in blood, burying a blade in flesh, smirking at the death of it, biting into Sam's skin, tasting his mouth, sucking on his tongue—none of that. He's just Dean.
Sam doesn't understand the strange kick in his chest.
He's happy, he's fucking elated, of course he is. Dean is himself again. Grinning and dorky, with all his vague pop culture references and quasi machismo, rambling about anything just to hear his own voice.
Sam wants to cry he's so happy. He wants to listen to Dean say things, to soak up his bravado like a pleased little sponge, pull him back into a hug and never let him go. He wants to kiss him he's so happy.
That's not right, though, because Dean is Dean now. It's apparent in the sudden space between their bodies. The customary inch of breathing room Sam hadn't realized he no longer needed, and in fact, actively dislikes.
Somewhere, vaguely, Sam thinks he should ask Dean about it. All of it.
How is he here, in front of Sam, wearing that cocky half grin, casual and in control? It's like a switch was flipped and everything Sam was missing suddenly appeared. Like waking up from a bad dream.
But the dream wasn't all bad.
Now that Sam finally has what he's been working towards since getting Dean back, other things have vanished just as quick. The touching, the kissing, the closeness.
Maybe it wasn't bad at all.
They checked out of the hospital as soon as possible, before any nosy police officers could poke holes in their flimsy story or their fake insurance cards or their blood soaked clothes.
Dean snuck Sam a pair of crutches rather than the wheelchair the nurses tried to shove him into and Sam at least appreciated the independence of it. Or he might've, if not for the oddly naked feeling of not having Dean glued to his side. No longer skin to skin, clinging close and not quite suffocating. It ruined any goodwill Sam might've mustered.
Settling into the backseat of the Impala was an issue and a half, Sam's stiff cast propped up on the leather and his back to the door so can still see Dean in profile. As if he was still beside him in the front seat, familiar and warm.
The sensation of missing something, of sitting so far out of Dean's reach, only further drove home how utterly deranged their relationship has become in the past week. The gap between Sam's body and Dean's grabby fingers is larger than it's been since Dean woke up feral in that motel room. But it's not a gap Sam's unfamiliar with.
It's their old normal. Yet Sam couldn't help staring at Dean's fingers from the backseat, at the way Dean only grinned back at him before following the signs toward Whitefish, Montana. Both hands on the wheel.
Time crawled by in bits and pieces, Sam either dozing off the dull ache in his skull or working furiously to word the questions he wants desperately to ask.
He's fidgety, almost unhinged, with his fingers wringing together and tugging hard enough to stretch the injured skin of his palm. A good amount of miles pass with Sam's eyes glued to the bite there, memorizing the shape of it, the cut of it, each tooth's imprint—Dean's permanent claim.
Or what he thought was permanent. He's starting to think everything that's happened is a lot more fleeting than he realized. After all, Dean's back to normal. At least that's what he says. There's no more biting, no more teeth, no more kisses. Forget about that stuff, Sammy.
The bite stings when Sam mindlessly digs his own thumbnail under a scab and scratches it up.
He doesn't want it to heal.
At the first stop for gas, somewhere between Shreveport and Dallas, Dean shuts off the engine and the Led Zeppelin tape cuts out. The silence is so startling Sam nearly jumps, glancing over and pretending he wasn't picking at his injured hand.
They'll have to go together, of course, like usual and Sam sits up straighter to get out. Dean spins around before Sam can do much of anything else, throwing an urgent hand out. It settles on the knee of Sam's cast and the bite Sam made is there on his pale skin. Sam stares at it wordlessly, fighting down the stupid urge to grab and hold on like Dean always did to him.
"Just wait here, Sammy, I got it," Dean says, patting the plaster once and retracting his hand just as quick. "Can't exactly lug your gimpy ass around, huh?" There's a chuckle under his breath, a toothy smile, and then Dean's sliding out the Impala, smooth and easy.
The door groans shut, leaving Sam behind. His lungs constrict, feeling abruptly as if the air has been sucked straight out of them, vacuous and empty. He doesn't move except to follow after Dean with his gaze, through the glass of the windows. The casual, familiar way Dean goes through the motions as if being physically away from Sam isn't unnatural.
It isn't. Sam knows it isn't.
This is just the adjustment period Sam's never needed before. An odd, desperately needed adjustment, after their relationship became so twisted up in their circumstances. More so than it usually is.
Dean isn't back in the usual sense. He wasn't really gone before, but Sam still feels as if he's just returning from somewhere far away. As if everything about them has returned. As if the last week never happened.
Dean is acting like his normal self now, grinning and cracking jokes and crooning to old cassettes.
Sam's happy about it. Sam was happy, staring at his brother's bright eyes in the rear view mirror, calm and relaxed and tapping out drum beats on the steering wheel. He missed Dean, his Dean, old Dean, in a way he hadn't quite given real thought to until he got him back. Until Dean was no longer digging his teeth into him.
It feels good to have his brother back. It always feels good to have Dean back.
But.
But Sam's hands are empty, his chest is hollow, and he misses something different now.
Dean's knuckles wrap on the window behind Sam's head. He tugs the front passenger door open to peek inside and seems not to notice the distress Sam is working hard to cover up.
"Heya Sammy, want anything? I was thinking maybe some pie, y'know for later," he says with a casual air, shiny in the afternoon sun. Sam blinks at him, drinking in his face and how he's close enough to touch, close enough to kiss even. As if summoned, Sam's gaze flicks down to Dean's lips and he remembers their taste with a rush of familiar warmth.
Urgently, or maybe to keep himself from leaning forward, Sam forces himself upright with jerky movements that almost bang his head into the roof. "Wait, lemme go with you," he mutters, already shoving the back door open and shuffling his good leg out.
Dean shuts the front passenger door and immediately skirts around so he's right in front of Sam, bodily blocking his exit.
"Whoa whoa whoa, Sammy, chill you don't gotta come in," he says and he's got a hand on the door, the bitten one. His other, unmarked, hand hovers in front of Sam like he wants to push him back inside, but isn't quite ready to touch him.
Sam glares at the hand just shy of his chest and doesn't know if he hates it because it won't touch him or because he hasn't bitten through it yet. Either option is terrible and he just huffily grabs his crutches to push them at Dean.
"I gotta pee," Sam says because he can and because it's the most effective way to keep Dean from leaving.
Not that Sam needs to stay close to his brother at all times. Not that Sam is still dealing with the aftereffects of being stuck to Dean's side for multiple days straight. Not that the thought of Dean casually leaving him behind makes him unbelievably annoyed.
Dean just stares at him, mouth open and Sam has to push into him a bit to get him to move. He tries not to relish in the warm, familiar give of Dean's stomach under his palm when he does so.
There's hiccuping noise and Dean scurries back, pliant but squirrely, as Sam maneuvers himself out. He's standing on one foot with his cast hovering over the concrete, toes exposed, and Dean is clutching his crutches to his chest like some kind of defensive barrier.
"Gimme my crutches," Sam finally says when Dean continues to stare at him.
His words must poke that instinctive take care of Sammy button in Dean's psyche because he hops to it, gently sliding each one under Sam's arms while complaining. "You're so demanding when you're hurt." He gives Sam multiple, thorough once overs with a studious frown. "You sure you wanna come in, Sammy?"
Sam scowls. "I said I had to pee, didn't I? You want me to pee in the backseat?" He sounds extremely bratty, but he doesn't get why Dean isn't jumping at the chance for Sam to come with him.
When he first came back, Dean wouldn't let Sam leave a single foot radius without growling and whining and coming after him. Sure, maybe Dean isn't like that anymore, but it bothers Sam anyway.
"Alright, calm down, Princess," Dean says, rolling his eyes and locking the Impala up. The convenience store itself is a very short distance from the fuel pumps and Sam's used crutches before, so he doesn't expect anything to be particularly eventful from point A to point B.
Only Sam would have the luck of deciding to be clingy at the only gas station in Texas to be built on an uneven, suspiciously easy to miss slope that's hell on anyone with only one good leg.
He's following dutifully after Dean when he lands the left crutch on a raised bit of concrete and practically topples sideways. It's more embarrassing than anything else when a woman rushes up to catch him and the wayward crutch.
"Are you okay?" she asks in a high, nervous voice. Her hand is steady on Sam's shoulder, or more like his upper arm since she can't really reach his shoulder. She's literally half Sam's size and he's surprised he didn't just crush her mid-fall.
With warm cheeks, Sam steadies himself upright and nods quickly. He's got one of those sheepish, awkward smiles tugging painfully at his cheeks and he wants nothing more than to thank her and run away.
When he opens his mouth to do just that, Dean cuts between them, grabbing the woman's wrist and tugging her back. It's such a fluid movement, natural and not at all as weird as it definitely could be and somehow that stops Sam from admonishing Dean. As if he's some badly behaved dog.
Dean's wearing that winning, toothy grin. Bright and endeared, and very targeted. The woman's eyes go wide, sufficiently endeared. At least enough not to start yelling when a man she doesn't know is accosting her, wrist still engulfed in Dean's hand.
"Thanks for the quick reflexes," Dean says sweetly, leaning away from her and almost into Sam's side. He can feel the solid line of Dean's shoulder blade, the shield of Dean's body between Sam and everything else.
"Oh sure, no worries!" The woman nods along with her own polite smile, eyes pasted to Dean as if Sam doesn't exist anymore.
Dean drops her hand. "Sorry about that, sweetheart."
Somehow the form of address doesn't annoy her and Sam can only blink owlishly as Dean grabs his crutch from her other hand. One of those flirty, obnoxious smirks has taken over his face as he waves her off, he might even wink, but soon as he turns fully to Sam, the expression drops.
"Sammy, be careful," he says as if Sam tripped on purpose, checking him over with a furrowed brow. He raises Sam's arm with his right hand and Sam tries not to be too obvious about how he keeps glancing at his teeth marks in the skin there.
Dean is too preoccupied with repositioning the crutch to notice probably.
"Texas needs to fix its parking lots or someone's gonna sue," Sam says once he's gotten a steadier grip on his crutches.
Dean can finally quit mother henning him, dropping the arms he's been hovering around Sam as if he'll collapse at any moment. Sam wonders if Dean would actually grab him if he did. And then wonders at his sanity for wanting to test it.
"That's the lawyer in you talking, Sammy, could make us rich." Dean grins up at Sam and it's not the same one he uses on people he wants something from. It's the light, pleased one that makes his cheeks flush and his crows feet deepen.
Sam's face feels warm again, but it's not embarrassment. He just scoffs, turning back towards the gas station.
"Yeah, yeah, let's get the pie," he says, keeping an eye on the ground in case it decides to try and trip him up again. Dean sticks closer to Sam's side than before, not close enough to touch but almost. If Sam leans slightly harder to the left than normal he can bump shoulders with him.
It almost feels like before.
Nothing dramatic or growly or particularly feral happens inside the convenience store, not like the last several times they've stopped at one this week. Sam no longer has to worry about Dean manhandling him around the building, or clinging to Sam and flashing paranoid glares at any human within viewing distance.
It's a relief in the sense that Sam isn't stressed about whether Dean will go for someone's throat. At the same time, he misses the anchoring sensation of Dean's fist wound up in his shirt. The heat of him close by and safe.
He manages to empty his bladder of almost nothing, since he pretty much lied about having to go just so he could follow after Dean like a five year old. The thought keeps a dissatisfied grimace on his face until he returns to Dean's side and finds him with an armful of snacks. None of it is pie, though.
"Texas doesn't got any pie, what the hell is this state tryna prove?" Dean says when Sam waddles up to him in the checkout line. There's only three other customers in front of them and Dean's not even sparing them a suspicious glance. No growl in his throat, no clenched up jaw.
It's good and it's weird now. Sam preoccupies himself with assessing the plethora of junk food in Dean's hands to keep from saying something stupid. Dean's got waters, beef jerky, three bags of chips and a sandwich. A six pack of beers is hanging off the fingers of one hand too.
All Sam has to do is raise his eyebrows and Dean's explaining with a huff.
"What? We need food for the road and I don't want you gettin' outta the car again if you don't have to," he says, avoiding Sam's eyes and cataloguing all the junk again. "And I need the beer if they aren't gonna provide pie."
Sam doesn't ask him when he plans to drink the beer. Whether they'll end up stopping on the way to Rufus's cabin to sleep in another motel, or even the Impala like they had on the way down here.
He has no doubt in his mind Dean can make the drive easy, but he might get too preoccupied with Sam's comfort, especially with the cast. It could be worth asking, but it doesn't really matter. There's a hundred other things Sam would rather ask.
On top of the pile in Dean's arms, a bag of sun chips is precariously perched and Sam points at it with his left hand. "Need any help carrying that?"
Dean stares at Sam's hand for a couple beats, frowning kind of hard, and then he shakes his head. Blowing a raspberry, he readjusts his arms so the chips fall into his chest, no longer threatening to escape.
"Nah, you wanna make me look like an asshole? Makin' my injured brother carry stuff."
Sam rolls his eyes and drops his hand back to his crutch.
Despite how disorienting it is to finally have his taciturn, glib brother back, Sam can admit there's something freeing about going back to how they were raised. Dean, protective and controlling as usual, taking everything into his hands. He's perfectly pleased to have Sam sit back and watch the world roll by as Dean takes care of him.
Maybe it can be overbearing and borderline infantilizing sometimes, but in this exact moment it's just so very Dean, Sam can only smile to himself. The last time they were in a gas station buying road snacks, he was awkwardly avoiding the cashier's prying eyes as Dean resisted growling at her with his teeth bared.
This beats that situation any day.
"Y'all find everything okay?" The cashier in front of them now is a scrawny guy roughly their age with acne scars and a ball cap over scruffy hair. Dean dumps his bounty on the counter, not a snarl in sight, and Sam can appreciate the ease of it all.
"Yep," Dean says, patting his pockets without sparing the cashier another glance. As the cashier rings everything up, Sam watches Dean fumble about in increasingly more urgent movements. He's practically spinning around, glancing over the expanse of the store behind them.
Those big eyes turn on Sam. "You got money on you? Think I dropped the card."
Sam balks. "Dude," he says uselessly, because of course he doesn't have his wallet on him. He barely managed to squeeze his giant cast through the single pair of sweatpants they had. No pockets.
"Okay, okay, hold on." Dean's making a face, patting the counter with his palm to get the cashier's attention, but the cashier was already staring at them. "I left my money in the car, gimme a sec."
Then he's practically running out the door.
"Good thing y'all are the last ones in line," the cashier says conversationally, bagging all their snacks up. Sam only nods along, staring at Dean's back as he treks to Impala with quick feet.
As they wait, Sam adjusts his position on his crutches, good leg finally getting a little sore under his weight. The cast just makes everything heavier and the healing bones don't feel good either. It's a small price to get Dean back though, Sam can admit.
He plants a hand down on the edge of the counter to resituate a crutch under his armpit. The cashier drops the bag down only a few inches from Sam's fingers. "So what happened to you? Get attacked by something?"
Sam frowns, tugging his gaze off Dean who's scrambling around the inside of the Impala to stare at the cashier curiously. It's not like he has a giant sign on him that says, mauled by vampirates and most people would figure he tripped down the stairs or something.
The cashier's not looking at him though, or rather his pointed gaze is resting on the red of the bite around the edge of Sam's hand. It's bright and obvious. Ugly under the fluorescents.
Sam has a long, silent second to lament how this always happens to him, before Dean busts back in. He's breathing a little hard like he's overturned the Impala in search of a credit card that'll actually work and he probably did.
Slapping it down on the counter, Dean flashes the cashier a satisfied grin.
"Here ya go." There's an almost childishly proud cadence to his tone as he scoots the card towards the cashier, and Sam would normally find it dumb, but something warm and secretive is bubbling in his gut.
Dean's seemingly oblivious to the fact that now he and Sam's hands are adjacent on the flat of the counter top. Their matching bites are obvious and unmistakable. Like some kind of ominous warning. Some claim.
The cashier takes a good long moment to stare down at them, to the point that it's very apparent what's given him pause. Sam could do something to lessen the abruptly strange atmosphere. He could retract his hand like he's done before, hide it behind his back with an awkward smile, and brush it off with some ridiculous excuse.
He's not feeling the mortification of the last time this happened though.
He just feels pleased. Grateful even that those marks are still there, still visible to everyone else, still scarred across their hands despite everything else shifting back.
A week ago Sam would have scrambled for some kind of explanation, some platonic and normal excuse as to what the poor cashier is looking at, but now he finds he doesn't care. He doesn't owe anyone anything.
Glancing over at Dean, Sam sees him tapping the card with a confused frown, impatience mounting. The sound must trigger something because the cashier sucks in a breath and takes the card to swipe it without a word. His movements are quick and jerky as if his brain just rebooted and remembered its customer service autopilot setting.
Without making any more small talk, the cashier goes through the motions, and Sam doesn't make a show of finally returning his hand to the crutch under his arm. Dean's palm stays on the counter, seemingly unaware of the stir it's caused, as he drums his fingers in an arrhythmic stutter.
His bite ripples with the tendons under thin skin and Sam wants to smack it off the counter as much as he wants to hold it.
"Have a good one," the cashier says, wearing the dead expression of someone who isn't prepared to deal with weird shit today. He pushes the card over with the receipt, very careful not to touch Dean's fingers when he pulls back.
Dean tosses it carelessly into the plastic bag and drags everything off the counter. He doesn't offer the cashier any parting words, tapping knuckles against Sam's shoulder and gesturing for him to follow. As if there was any possibility he wouldn't.
It's easy for Dean to outstep him, gap growing between them, but he's only going ahead to prop the door open for Sam. Following after and maneuvering outside, Sam tries not to think too hard about the part of him that wanted to grab onto Dean's shirt and keep him from getting too far away. Like a clingy baby brother.
It's sort of a good thing Sam's currently incapacitated, if only because he needs both his hands to use his crutches.
"That guy was weird," Dean says with a sniff, wrapping the plastic bag up and readjusting his grip on the beers. He walks with a jaunty gait, keeping pace with Sam's injured snail pace.
"Really? I didn't notice," Sam replies almost offhandedly. More because he knows exactly why Dean might've picked up an uncomfortable vibe from the guy and he isn't sure if Dean does. He isn't sure if this falls under the whole forget about all that, Sammy request.
A request that Sam is trying very hard to abide by. Even if thinking about it only makes him feel terrified and defiant in equal measure. Half of him wants to do as Dean says, pretend it was all an unfortunate accident and let it go. The other half of him sees the bite on his hand and wants to say everything out loud. Say, it's our fucking mating bites, dude and see what Dean will do. What Dean can even say in the face of it.
But he really, really shouldn't do that. If only because he's kind of scared.
Once they reach the Impala, Dean hums in the back of his throat like he was working over what to say next. He plops the six pack of beer on her roof so he can throw open the passenger door.
"Dude, he was practically eyeballing you," he says as if it's an explanation and Sam shoots him a skeptical stare as he limps past him. "Like a weirdo." Dean's mostly talking to himself as he stashes all the food and drinks in the front seat. Sam debates whether it warrants a response, leaning away so Dean can open the back door for him.
"I don't think it was just me," Sam says while Dean swings the back door open for him and takes his crutches. When he settles in the backseat, Dean just scoffs like what Sam's said is ridiculous and slides the crutches into the footwell.
"Nah," Dean says as he pulls back to lean against the door frame. Close enough to touch, but not touching. Sam focuses all of his energy on not looking at Dean's face this near, on not tracking the line of his lip, on not leaning into him. He sees more than hears, Dean's amused, "I'm normal, you're the gigantor always drawin' eyes."
Dean pulls away and swings the door shut. It's quick and efficient. Easy. Sam leans back against the hard line of the Impala's interior and sighs so hard it feels like he's melting. It's not a pleasant sensation.
Collapsing into the driver's seat with a satisfied ah of a noise, Dean turns immediately to prop his right arm up on the back of the seat. He grins again, dorky, and raises his eyebrows as if what he said before was some amazing insult. Like him calling Sam names is what's bothering Sam so much. Like it requires some sort of barbed reply on Sam's part, like some kind of entertaining, little brother reaction.
Sam cuts an abortive glance at the bite in Dean's hand, just within reach, inviting and bright. How rough and warm Sam knows Dean's grip would be, the uneven flesh of the torn wounds giving under his pressing jaw. Sam almost reaches out. He knows exactly what's really bothering him.
It has nothing to do with Dean cracking jokes at his expense, and everything to do with those four divots in Dean's hand. The ones that match the mold of Sam's upper teeth.
The words come out before he can stop it.
"Pretty sure the guy was staring at our hands."
As if some bolder, more confrontational demon has possessed him, Sam raises his left hand and wiggles his fingers. The bite pulls and stings as he does.
Dean's grin falls off his face like Sam's palm reached up and wiped it away and his huge eyes dart back and forth between Sam's hand and Sam's face. He's staring, lips parted and eyebrows pulled together, stricken.
The fingers of Dean's right hand twitch against the seat. A reflex. Dean licks his lips, eyelashes fluttering, and Sam can see the way his throat bobs—the anxious swallow. It doesn't take long for Dean's hand to clench up in a tight fist, and he tears his gaze away with a frantic flurry to face forward.
He makes a sound somewhere between an uncomfortable grunt and a sad attempt at clearing his throat. "Uh, yeah maybe," he says through what appears to be pursed lips. It's barely audible as the Impala's engine turns over.
Sam can just make out the faintest flush of Dean's ears, red at the tips, and he knows it's embarrassment, recognizes the reaction as particularly unbearable for Dean. Sam can't tell if it's ashamed though, if it's regretful. If Dean, as he is now, wishes none of it had ever happened.
In some misguided and slightly vindictive way, Sam wanted to know if Dean had some reason prepared. Some excuse or prepared script on what to say when Sam brings up the unmentionable aspects of before.
With how Dean's avoiding Sam's gaze through the rear view mirror right now, distracting himself with getting them back onto the highway, he apparently doesn't have anything at all to say. No explanation for his actions, no hedging, vague reason for doing everything he did in the last week. Nothing.
Rather than push the issue, Sam reclines back into the door, folding his hands over his stomach. His fingers tangle around each other, but it feels different than when Dean would do it. Different than when he'd cling onto Sam, press into his bite marks, stake his claim and hold tight.
It feels strange to miss it.
Sam watches Dean from the backseat and he can't even bring himself to hide it. Watching the way Dean's working his jaw, muscle jumping under his cheek, as he drives with his eyes steadfastly glued to the road. A familiar profile Sam's watched his whole life.
It's probably—no, it's definitely ungrateful to sit here, with Dean finally back to the way he was before, and miss something.
How can Sam miss anything at all when everything he's ever had is right here? Finally, completely. He's got Dean, talking and laid back and himself, and yet all that can swirl around in his head is the pathetic, begging wish that Dean's hand was in his. That they were mashed up against each other and unable to part.
It's weird. This feeling of doing something the same their entire lives, but somehow in this new, twisted context, it no longer feels familiar. Instead, the way they were seems foreign and strange. Wrong. Before, Sam and Dean didn't hold hands. They didn't cling to each other as if one might leave at any moment. They didn't kiss or sleep wrapped up in each other's arms.
But suddenly, after less than a week, Sam's grown accustomed to having Dean close, attached. His. Physically, Sam's pulled apart, torn velcro still smarting with the separation.
He's all tied up in uncomfortable knots, fidgety and upset with how easily Dean can walk away from him now. How he can keep his distance after everything that's happened. How it seems like only Sam is struggling with the space between them.
If his leg wasn't all shattered, he would be back in the front seat and leaning as close as he could get away with.
But unlike Sam, Dean doesn't even seem to hesitate. He pulls out of Sam's space fluidly with a wry smile quirked on his lips.
It feels off, and it feels off that it feels off.
How can Dean as he's always been feel off? How can their natural state, their usual relationship, the breath of space they always kept between them, feel new and tilted and bizarre?
Sam and Dean are just like normal and this should be a good thing. It's what Sam wanted.
In the face of it though, in how suddenly it was resolved, in how off everything is, Sam feels off. Almost suspicious.
Pretending everything is the same, unchanged and unaffected, is Dean's go-to defense mechanism when he doesn't want to talk about anything. Especially anything that might end in an argument. Or some mushy spilling of feelings and tears.
He's done it a thousand times before, brushing things under the rug in the hopes Sam will let it go for the sake of getting along. Dean's always chosen the way of least resistance, the easiest method of keeping the peace. Ever since Dad was around to exchange screaming matches with Sam, he's been that way.
Just forget about all that, Sammy. He says it because he doesn't want to bother working it out, explaining it, dealing with it.
Sam dreads what exactly it is. What Dean wants to forget, to push down and pretend never happened. His time in Purgatory? All that stuff Benny was talking about before Sam passed out, with the blood and the gore. The monstrosity of it all. Is that what Dean is afraid of?
Or is it the other thing?
The thing Sam couldn't even give name to in that hospital room. The ellipses of their relationship. Unmentioned, implied. His throat is tight. What if Dean is angry about it? Embarrassed by it? When did he finally remember everything, when did he realize what had become of them? What does he even think about it all?
About Sam's role in it?
The way he reacted to Sam's casually mentioning the bites tells some of the story. In the flushed, avoidant turn of Dean's head.
Sure, some of Sam's questions have been answered. Most obviously the ones about Purgatory, what happened there, and what a feral Dean was working so hard to shield Sam from. All that stuff Benny was trying to say, about Dean being a monster and liking the killing.
They touched on it enough in the hospital and Sam did his best to let all that confrontational energy fade away, the angry thing that wanted to yell at Dean for hiding stupid shit from him. All that monstrosity Dean was worried Sam would see, the thing he told Benny not to tell, the reason he didn't want them to bring Benny back.
Something pitifully hopeful blooms in Sam's chest, because maybe. Maybe Dean's just ashamed of all that killing in Purgatory stuff. Maybe that's really what he meant when he said to forget about it all. Maybe that's what's bothering him.
Not—the other stuff.
But the other stuff is what's needling at Sam the most. He couldn't care less about Dean's murderous tendencies. He knows the way both he and Dean get when they're separated, when they're alone. They keep each other human. Sam already knew that and Dean should too.
Then maybe he wants to forget about the other stuff. The mating bites, the kisses, the sex, the twist in their relationship.
Sam's watching Dean, raking assessing eyes along the line of his profile like he'll catch some sign in the corner of his eye, the slope of his mouth. He skates his gaze along the cut of Dean's jaw, the scruff there, and then jumps up to the length of Dean's eyelashes where they ghost over his cheekbones with every blink.
A strong sense of loss floods into Sam's chest, abrupt and a little cloying.
He wants to touch.
Dean must feel Sam's eyes on him, or maybe he's finally gotten tired of pretending he didn't immediately notice, because he angles his head to the side, popping the vertebrae in his neck.
"Only thirty more hours, Sammy," he tosses over his shoulder. Like maybe he was counting it down, a means of distraction. Sam can see the attempt at a smile bunching up his cheek, and he wonders if Dean's happy with the prospect of being cooped up together for so long.
Sam is. Or he would be if they were touching, if they were closer, instead of this gaping chasm of stale air between them. He groans unhappily, tapping the back of his head against the window, as if he's mad about being stuck with Dean for thirty hours straight. The way he's supposed to.
It garners him the expected reaction too, Dean's little chuff of entertainment at Sam's perceived expense.
By now the town roads have turned into a long stretch of uninterrupted highway, and just as they pass a mile marker, Dean goes for a cassette tape like clockwork. Routine.
"Hey Dean," Sam cuts in and Dean's finger pauses, hovering over the end of the cassette. Before Dean can drown out their problems in a few heavy guitar riffs, Sam has to ask. He needs to know why Dean's ears are flushed, why he's avoiding eye contact, why he's embarrassed.
If it's the shame of Purgatory, of his feral state, the biting and growling, the bloody mess.
Or if it's the way things between them have changed.
"What we talked about before, what Benny said…"
He lets it hang there for a moment and doesn't miss the way Dean drops his hand from the radio like it's a deadweight. His expression, or what Sam can see of it, is a mask as he watches the road.
"You know I don't care if you liked it, right?" he says and he's very careful as he does, picking each word so that they won't secretly be a land mine. He picks at his bite mark's scab just the same.
The words are carefully chosen and they can mean more than one thing. Maybe Sam says them like that on purpose. It's the slaughtering of vampires, it's the bites in Sam's hand. It's Dean in Purgatory and it's Dean in bed with him.
He wishes he could say it clearly but he can't give it voice no matter how much he wishes he could.
Dean's shoulders pull back, tense and strained. It's scary and it's negative and Sam quickly clarifies, picking the easier route, before Dean can say something that will hurt. "I mean killing all those vampirates. And whatever happened in Purgatory, what you did there, I don't care. You did what you had to. I probably would've done the same."
If Dean really is back to his old self, it doesn't even matter what happened in Purgatory, what made him come out of there all mangled and feral and violent. Sam doesn't know if he ever really cared about the why of it all in the first place. He just wanted Dean back. Now he has him.
He shouldn't be so concerned, so wrapped up in the other stuff.
Dean grunts after a moment, an exhale of a sound that's almost but not quite a growl. It still sends an inexplicable thrill down to Sam's fingertips.
"Okay, Sammy," he says almost soft, eyes stuck to the windshield and a hand tight around the wheel. Sam watches him blink once, twice—a hesitation. Then, "Thanks."
It feels earnest, grateful, but not quite fulfilled as if there's more to it than those three words. Sam stares at the side of Dean's face and wonders if he asked for more, if he said what he really wanted to—about kisses, about touching—would Dean tell him?
"Do you wanna talk about it?" Sam offers, although he already knows what Dean will say.
Of course, he doesn't want to talk about it. He never does. It's the whole reason Sam got so good at reading him in the first place, why Dean's lack of speech when he came back wasn't as much of a problem as it could've been.
Dean talks all the time, probably more than Sam, but when it counts he hates it. He hates using words to explain his feelings. He would rather stew in silence until it's exploding out of him in shouts or tears or both.
Sam knows, because he's not that different. It's why they take years to sort out any of their problems. But Sam still offers to listen because that's what they always do.
There's another soft breath of a sound, maybe a sigh. Sam can't tell if it's relieved or annoyed, but he can see Dean's fingers tap against the steering wheel, distracted. Sam wishes he could see Dean's other hand, the bitten one.
He wishes he could hold it so they wouldn't have to have the conversations Dean hates so much.
Dean finally just shakes his head, still resolutely eyeing the road as if even a glance to the rear view, to Sam, is dangerous.
"I'm fine," he says roughly. "There's nothin' to talk about. I'm me again, that's all that matters." Sam can catch the barest hints of a half smile, lazy and small.
There's some truth to Dean's words. The most important thing about Purgatory, and everything that happened, is that Dean's okay now. He's here. He's back. Safe, and with Sam.
Yet again, Sam misses being in the front seat, in the passenger side where he belongs. Uninjured so he could wrap their fingers together like before. Silent, reassuring, easy. The warm comfort of touch that they never would have done if not for before.
But Dean said to forget that stuff, forget before, forget the way his touch is grounding, forget how his mouth feels, forget the sheer comfort of it all.
Now their communication is back to words and glances alone and it doesn't feel like enough.
The sun outside the Impala is bright and hot and it beats down through the back windshield, casting shadows over Sam's legs that shift with the turns of the roads. Sam wants to crawl into Dean's arms and sleep, sated and warm. He wants to save all the talk for some other Sam and Dean, the ones who don't like to touch.
Instead, he tilts his head back against the window and keeps his gaze on his brother from behind. He presses into the bite of his left palm.
"Yeah, Dean," he says into the space between their bodies. "You're right."
Speaking and saying nothing at all.
Dean pushes the tape in and the resounding guitar riff drowns everything else out.
Notes:
this chapter is a little shorter than it originally was, but it came to such a clean stopping point that i decided to move a scene over again. it fit a lot better in chapter 24 because chapter 24 needs a gutting tbh. I KNOW y'all don't mind reading hella long updates but this is beneficial bc next chapter will be huge (think 14k maybe?)
my work schedule is changing too and i'll be working on fridays, which of course means i can't update on fridays anymore :( on top of that, there's two possible hurricanes coming my way next week which got me a little bit nervous. if i lose power or have to run away to somewhere more land-locked, i might not be able to edit or update promptly T_T
so i don't have a definite date for the next chonky chapter. but i will say it'll be on, or probably BEFORE, wednesday, september 2 just to be safe. hopefully it won't take that long, but if it does it will be nice and wordy and worth the wait. pls don't forget about us in the meantime ;__;
Chapter 24: Teeth, Part 3
Notes:
sincerest apologies for the few days' delay, i'm getting this out right after work. also i'm safe!! but i've been helping family that was affected by the hurricane which has kept me pretty busy (and still will for a few days). however, i rly wanted to get this chapter out asap for everyone despite all that which means i'll sadly have to sacrifice my comment replying this time T_T
so to you lovely readers who commented last chapter, i love hearing from y'all so much and appreciate that you take the time to tell me your thoughts and kind words AS ALWAYS. when i'm stressed by all this i go back and read them (maybe too often lol) so i'll get back to replying to comments next week, once i've got my time back, thank you thank you and enjoy this big update <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It's dark and Dean's been driving for fourteen hours straight.
Sam has only climbed out of the Impala for restroom breaks and stretching his good leg at the request of a potentially overly concerned Dean. Uneventful and quiet, beyond carefree brotherly exchanges. No more talk about feelings anyways, and definitely no biting—or cuddling. Or touching of any kind.
Not that Sam was thinking too hard about how much he missed all that.
In the backseat of the Impala, it's too dark to make out the bite in Sam's palm. He's slept on and off the entire time.
There's little else to do unless he wants to interrogate Dean about things he'd rather not talk about. It's so much easier to follow Dean's lead and let the past and its questions slip away like the road under the Impala's tires.
Easier still to pin the blame on Dean, as if the inclination to pretend everything is fine doesn't really stem from somewhere guilty and yearning in the pit of Sam's stomach. How now, when he stares at Dean, he can't help but remember how pretty he was, naked and whining. The red of his bitten lips. The face he made when he came all over Sam and himself.
Everything is fucked. It's utterly fucked and Dean's misplaced guilt is giving them the opportunity to act like it isn't. To shove it all down and brush it away and go back to before.
If Sam can just forget it all. And he will.
He's trying.
The last of the tape collection played out about twenty miles back, so it's fairly quiet inside the Impala save for the engine. Dean doesn't have to speak particularly loud to be heard when he says, "Sammy?"
Sam catches the glow of his eyes flashing towards him in the rearview, checking on him.
"I'm awake," Sam says, sitting up a little straighter against the door and yawning hard enough to make his jaw pop.
Dean yawns too, contagious, and wipes his right eye with his knuckle. "Kinda tired," he mumbles, rough and scratchy in his throat. He blinks a few hard times, clearing the sleep away like dust in his lashes.
When Sam was a kid, sitting in the passenger seat beside Dean with Dad passed out in the back, he would watch his brother.
In the deep, most empty times of night, driving down the highway like nothing else in the world existed, Sam would count the furious, sleepy blinks of Dean's eyes. As the hours crawled by, he could construct a pattern for just how close Dean was to drifting off behind the wheel.
Sam still remembers the let's just pull over 'n sleep number of blinks. 75 in a single minute, that's when Dean's so tired he'll probably drive them into oncoming traffic.
"Wanna find a motel?" Sam offers, watching Dean blink lazily with a budding sense of nostalgia. Dean glances up and meets Sam's eyes in the mirror, bright in the glow of the headlights.
There's the barest hints of a pout to Dean's lips, downturned and displeased.
"Not really," he says gruffly, eyes flashing back to the road.
Scratching his head, Sam tries not to look disappointed. He was kind of looking forward to the idea of a bed, stretching out on a ratty motel mattress and propping up his bad leg. It's appealing. Though, if Sam thinks too hard about it, his stomach twists up in irritated knots.
They would most definitely have separate beds again in a motel. Sam would be even further from Dean than he is now, than he feels now. Which is a stupid, bratty thing to get annoyed about.
It's like all those grating behaviors Dean had when Sam first got him back, the ones he tried to discourage because they were kind of extreme, have apparently become Sam's new normal. Now who's acting clingy and weird? Sam doesn't even have the legitimate excuse of Purgatory trauma to hide behind.
When Sam sighs, annoyed at his one track mind, Dean glances at him again. It's a fleeting, tentative thing.
"Well I don't want you to pass out and I can't drive," Sam finally says, propping an elbow up on the raised knee of his good leg. He makes a fist, flexes the skin of the bite hard enough it aches pleasantly.
It's pretty clear what both of them want to do.
"Just pull over when you see a wide shoulder. We can sleep here tonight."
Dean's reaction is bright and obvious in the yellow glow of the headlights, a pleased little smile like Sam's said exactly what he wanted to say but couldn't. Sam would smile too but he can't tell if Dean doesn't want to stop at a motel for the same reasons he hadn’t wanted to before.
On that night when Sam could barely see straight and Dean insisted on sleeping together in the car, it was because a motel meant other people. It meant that smallest bit of separation.
Sam resolutely doesn't think about what else happened between them that night.
Instead, he focuses on finding something to use as a pillow while Dean finds a safe spot to pull over. There's a shirt wedged half under the cooler and one of Sam's jackets somehow managed to escape the hellish adventure through Louisiana unused. He bundles both of them up, deciding which one is softer so he can give it to Dean.
The Impala bumps over rumble strips with a stuttering racket as Dean guides her gently to a stop on the far side of the shoulder.
Sam's grateful at least they made it through the mountains of Colorado before Dean got too sleepy, otherwise they definitely wouldn't have been able to just stop anywhere. The last time Sam checked the maps, they're just entering Wyoming. More than half way to Rufus's cabin.
When Dean pulls the keys from the ignition, throwing them into silence, Sam quickly shoves his balled up jacket at Dean's shoulder.
"Here's your pillow," he says and Dean grabs it, peering over the seat with searching eyes. Sam shakes the t-shirt in his other fist. "I got one too, don't worry."
Pursing his lips, the unhappy dimples appearing, Dean continues to scan over Sam's entire body in the backseat. No doubt checking to make sure Sam can sleep comfortably back there. Not that there's really any other alternative.
"You gonna be okay? Your leg isn't gonna bother you is it? I can move," he says in a rush, words fumbling out in a hurry.
Sam laughs on an exhale, bemused. "Move where?"
He kind of enjoys the way Dean actually looks around the Impala like there's anywhere else for him to go. His eyes land back on Sam's expression and he huffs, frowning as he clutches Sam's jacket to his chest.
"Don't mess with me. I've slept on the side of the road before, I'll do it again."
Like Sam doesn't already know that. Like Sam wasn't right there next to him when they wanted to get away from Dad's crazy snoring and spread out on a ratty blanket in the grass a good ways from the road. Sam was around nine at the time. It might have been the first time they watched the stars alone together.
"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "I'll make it work." He doesn't tack on what he thinks, which is I don't want you any farther away either. Dean probably wouldn't appreciate Sam being clingy just because they were before. Dean wants to forget that stuff, he said.
Sam breathes a heavy breath, more annoyed with his train of thought than anything Dean has done, and shimmies his way down the bench so he can get a nicer incline.
The shirt is a good enough pillow, a little limp and lumpy but better than nothing. He might not have a sore neck in the morning. His stiff, casted leg has to almost completely hang off the bench so he can spread out and the stretch of it pulls at his groin muscle uncomfortably.
Otherwise, Sam's great.
"See? Cozy," he says through a grimace, ignoring Dean's owlish eyes watching him over the seat.
Dean doesn't move to lay down, in fact he does the opposite. Dropping the jacket, he hangs both his arms over the seat so he can tuck his folded hands under his chin, elbows coming close enough for Sam to touch.
Surprisingly, he manages to look comfortable in that position, looking down at Sam through lazy eyes.
Sam watches Dean watch him, awaiting some explanation for the lack of sleeping on Dean's part, considering how tired he said he was.
None seems to be forthcoming, so Sam smacks at Dean's closest forearm. "Dude, go to sleep."
Dean's shoulders jump a little at Sam's light tap and he readjusts his position to rest his cheek on the backs of his hands. He looks a bit like a kid preparing to sneak some sleep in a boring class.
"I am," Dean says, voice hoarse like it gets when he's exhausted.
He's still watching Sam like this is completely normal and Sam shoots him a skeptical glare, but he can't really decide how to protest whatever this is. In the face of Sam's confusion, Dean just blinks a few more sleepy times.
After a beat, he sneaks a hand out from under his head to pat Sam's stomach. It's warm and heavy and Sam assumes an attempt at placating him the way one might soothe a grumpy baby. Dean probably did it to Sam all the time when they were really small.
"Just go to sleep, Sammy," Dean demands through lips that are a little pouty from his squished cheek. His hand, at first just patting, fails to lift on the final pat and rests there on Sam's belly. So lazy and unobtrusive, Sam could almost say it's accidental.
The gentleness of the touch, the soothing intimacy of Dean's splayed fingers resting over his abs, works wonders to soothe any protests Sam would've immediately tried to drum up at being treated like a kid again. He likes it. He doesn't want Dean to pull away, but he hates Dean sitting up and waiting for Sam to fall asleep more than he likes it.
"Dean, you gotta turn the headlights off, and seriously, lay down," Sam finally manages, picking Dean's hand up off his stomach with the excuse of removing it.
He pretends not to notice how both their bite marks rough up against each other with the gesture, or how it makes that happy, pleasant warmth buzz up his wrist and into his chest. Sam might twist their hands a little tighter together, entirely unintentional.
The fingers in Sam's tighten and Dean makes a noise, something a little strangled, a little protesting. It shoots through Sam's body like it's something else though, electric.
But Dean jerks his hand free, prying himself off the seat like he's been lit on fire. It's an urgent flurry of movement that has Sam faltering, his hand hanging uselessly in the air, while Dean rushes to click off the headlights.
There's the shuffling of rough flopping around and Sam can only assume in the sudden darkness that Dean's doing as requested and laying out in the front seat.
Once the noises of shuffling movement fades out, Sam drops his hand onto his belly where Dean's had vacated. He rubs at the fading warmth there, trying to get it back. It's not quite enough, but it does help with the faint longing that traces along in Sam's bones, slithering in between the marrow.
He should tell Dean good night, probably. They usually do. It's the quickest way to express I'm passing out so don't expect an answer if you talk to me without actually having to say all that. There might be some familial affection laced in there somewhere too, from the days when Dean would kiss his forehead and murmur it against his skin, a gentle lead into sleep.
Dean did that just a few days ago, curled around Sam like an octopus, mussed and sleepy and soft. The plush of his lips against Sam's forehead, the damp heat of his breath as he whispered g'night Sammy even when he could barely say a full sentence.
A sudden rush burns through Sam's skin, more of that inexplicable longing. It makes the hand on his stomach clench up into a tight agitated fist.
He's frustrated. And wanting and lonely and twisting up in a tangled mess that makes him want to kick at the back of Dean's seat like a kid and demand attention. It's ridiculous and petulant. It's embarrassing, so Sam settles instead for pressing his thumb hard into the bites Dean left in his skin.
The pain replaces the other monster of mishmashed emotions in a proper distraction. The way it used to be when Sam couldn't tell what was real. It's no longer the grounding in reality he so desperately needed, but a throbbing reminder of who he belongs to. Owned.
Sam doesn't really know at what point the idea of Dean staking a claim on him became a much needed comfort instead of an irritation. He decides not to prod too hard at what that says about his relationship with Dean, about whatever happened to them amidst everything they did.
The whole denial thing worked really well when Sam had other matters taking priority, like the soul in Dean's arm or the vampire with secrets. Now though, in the dark quiet of the Impala, alone but for Dean in the front seat and no one else for miles, Sam thinks too hard.
Unbidden memories of the last time he and Dean were like this crop up like unwanted weeds, tall and ugly. Demanding scrutiny.
He thinks about how Dean wouldn't let him climb into the backseat, the tight grip of a fist wound up in his shirt. How much he misses it now that it's gone. How fucking tired he was after drinking the dregs of the beer Dean left for him, his head lolling heavy and lazy to one side. The rough heat of Dean's hands on his cheeks.
It was the first time they kissed. Dean, unprompted, pressing his soft lips to Sam's in a way Sam still doesn't understand. Even now, in the backseat of the Impala with his hands on his belly.
Dean felt almost urgent, almost desperate, pushing into Sam's space, licking into his mouth and tasting every bit he could reach. The bite of his teeth in Sam's bottom lip, the wet slick of it sucked in between Dean's. It was all so fervent but earned. Equal parts careful and entitled, as if that was just what Sam and Dean were always heading towards their whole lives.
Sam's staring blindly up at the roof of the Impala and his whole body feels tightly drawn, unyielding. He's warm up under his skin like something hot is boiling in the pit of his stomach, steam fuming up to the surface and scalding him.
The ghost of Dean's mouth on him only makes it hotter, sweat beading up across his brow, and he remembers how much further everything went, how completely over the line Dean threw them.
Sam didn't even try to stop it. Even welcomed it with greedy hands, grabbing onto Dean and refusing to let him free. The rutting up against his brother's thigh, blessed friction and the press of Dean's sharp teeth in his shoulder like a boon, coming in his underwear like a teenager.
He's warm in his sweatpants now like some brat with a hard on for his brother. In the bleary blanket of late night that allows for wayward contemplations, Sam can't tell if he isn't just that. If he hasn't always been that. Hasn't just been getting off to various iterations of Dean's pink mouth and shiny eyes and gentle hands his whole life. If that means something, something very big and very bad.
The palm of his right hand eases down his stomach. It doesn't sink underneath his waistband, but presses into the semi hardness against his thigh. His muscles in his lower half flex and release, jumping at the attention, and Sam feels completely out of his mind.
He doesn't even know if Dean's asleep in the front seat yet, and that only makes his hips raise up, quiet and slow, to press harder into his hand. His blood is rushing south like just the idea of Dean is enough to get him off.
Even that idea makes him stupidly reckless, pushing down onto the swell of his jeans for some of that slight friction. Maybe he does get off on the idea of Dean being there with him, the only one in the world, just an arm's length away.
Maybe he has to press his left hand to his mouth to keep his breaths as shallow as possible, the press of Dean's mark in his skin rough on his lips. He mouths at it, wishes it was Dean's mouth instead, wishes it was Dean's hand instead, wishes Dean was all over him, surrounding him like he always does, a welcome cage.
Sam comes like a preteen into his sweatpants with Dean's name on his lips, a muted murmur in the hush of the Impala, and delirious wish that Dean would lean over the back of the seat and admonish him for it. Admonish him for doing it alone.
Only silence meets the muffled breaths against his bitten hand. Dean hasn't even shifted in the front seat, not a sound.
Something like guilt crawls in through the afterglow, a clarity that slices up the warm milky fog and makes Sam's heart thud harder in his ribcage. Like it wants to break out of his skin, burst free and spill out everything bloody and cogent and all too obvious for everyone to see. For Dean. Like everything in Sam's life has been ever since he got back in the Impala at Palo Alto.
His eyes burn and his vision might be blurring but it's too dark to tell.
It feels like too much all of a sudden. Too much for Sam to understand or attempt to make sense of. Dangerous and scary and nonsensical.
He's laying there in the backseat of the Impala, jerking off the thought of his brother asleep just a foot away and it definitely means something. Something not good. Maybe Dean was the one to instigate before when he had less control, when he wanted to own and keep and consume Sam, maybe Dean started it—but Sam let him.
Sam let him.
The thought strikes him then, lancing through his gut with a violence that almost scares him. The question sits in his mouth like a hot coal on his tongue, fiery and damning. Vehement. No louder than a softest stifle of a whisper, Sam breathes a quiet, "why'd you kiss me, Dean?"
He hates how his breath trembles, how he doesn't know if he wants Dean to hear or not, how he doesn't really want the answer. He doesn't know what it would mean. Deeper and more anxious, Sam wishes Dean could answer the bigger question, the larger one, the worse one, the way Dean used to have all the answers.
It's not why'd you kiss me? but why'd I let you?
Inside the Impala is so quiet, Sam can only just make out the faint rhythm of unsteady breaths, but he thinks they're his own. They must be. Dean has to be asleep. There's no way he wouldn't have done something, said something, thrown out some stupid non sequitur.
No questions will get answered tonight. It's safer that way, though. Easier.
Sam closes his eyes and tries to sleep despite his pounding pulse.
Sam wakes up when Dean dodges a pothole and almost sends him flying off the seat as the Impala jerks to the right. Flailing his arms out, Sam barely manages to catch himself, eyes flying open and immediately shutting.
The sun is burning and high enough it must be coming up on noon. Sam grunts in a sort of reprimand as well as general distress as he flops back into a less precarious position. When he finally adjusts to the light, he shoots Dean a very displeased scowl.
Dean's eyes are big and shiny in the rearview mirror, almost as bright as the huge grin on his face as he laughs.
"Mornin' Sammy!" Completely undeterred by Sam's accusing glare, Dean winks. "Your hair looks great."
Sam groans, still reeling from the rude awakening, and pets his wild fluffy hair down into something a bit tamer. His chest is throbbing with residual adrenaline and he pats his cheeks roughly, settling into some semblance of wakefulness.
"What time's it?" he grumbles, wrecked and scratchy with sleep.
"Almost ten." Dean's all casual, apparently very relaxed as he tosses an arm over the back of the seat. Sam gets a clear view of his teeth imprints and can't help but wonder if Dean does it on purpose.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" he asks with the barest hints of accusation, staring at Dean's offending limbs as his fingers tap against the leather. All innocent and unaware of how much Sam wants to grab them and press into the healed scabs until they're tearing again. Maybe even sink his teeth back down. His mouth fills with spit.
"Only one of us needs their beauty sleep and it ain't me," Dean says pleasantly, still wearing that big grin. "Besides, you looked all cozy when I got up."
Sam eyes his from the backseat, taking in the relief of his right profile against the backdrop of the roadside scenery. He wonders how well Dean slept, given the smear of a dark circle he can see just beneath the corner of Dean's eye and the deeper crease around the grin on his face. However much he slept, it couldn't have been very well.
Sam can relate though and he doesn't even want to remember what terrible choices occurred last night either.
He changes the subject.
"I'm starving, what's there to eat?"
It's not really the truth, his stomach is all knotted up and the idea of trying to make it digest something only makes it angrier. But Sam knows the easiest way to distract Dean is food and he leans forward over Dean's arm to see the bag of snacks from the gas station.
"You were there when I got it." Dean snorts, moving his arm off the seat so he can dig into the bag. "Chips or the sandwich? I already ate the beef jerky, sorry sleeping beauty."
Sam can already imagine a room temperature sandwich won't exactly be a treat for his upset stomach. "Chips," he says pretty uselessly, because Dean's already pulled a bag of doritos out.
Rather than handing it over, Dean uses his teeth and right hand to tear the bag open so he won't have to release the steering wheel. As if Sam broke his hands and not his leg.
"I could've done that," he says as Dean drops the bag in his own lap and digs out a handful of doritos.
Sam has a half a mindless moment to worry that Dean's going to personally feed him, but Dean just tosses them in his own mouth, munching dutifully. Like an asshole. "Dude!" Sam's kind of offended, reaching over the seat to get his own damn food.
Dean knocks his hand before it can get anything, shoving the doritos bag into Sam's splayed fingers. His eyes are still on the road when he says, "No, these."
He even shakes the doritos for emphasis and Sam squints at the side of his head with no small amount of suspicion. Wordlessly, Sam takes the chips if only so Dean will put both his hands back on the wheel, but he's starting to find the odd behavior somewhat familiar.
Dean hums his approval when Sam tosses a cheesy chip in his mouth, orange powder on his fingers. Only then does it occur to Sam to say something.
"Is this the rougarou thing?" he asks abruptly, nearly inhaling a dorito in his haste to question the suspiciously familiar behavior. Dean full body twitches like he's been startled, and his hands slide down the sides of the steering wheel, almost nervous.
"Uh." Dean clears his throat, licks his lips. "What?"
"Benny told me, after you ran off," Sam starts, implicating lilt to his words, and takes a sort of enjoyment out of the way Dean twitches. "He said the food sharing thing was a rougarou habit, that you picked it up in Purgatory. Means you're taking care of me."
A faint flush works its way down from the tops of Dean's ears to his freckled cheeks and the back of his neck. Slightly red and very incriminating. Dean told Sam to forget about all that stuff, and maybe "that stuff" also included the monstrous habits Dean picked up in Purgatory, but Sam can't leave well enough alone. Not when Dean makes it this easy. Not when Dean seems to still be doing it.
Besides, Sam can frame his interest as annoyance at the fact that Dean keeps stealing his food like some kind of vulture.
Dean buys himself time to answer, licking his lips again and then agitatedly biting into the bottom one, oral fixation apparent. Sam waits him out, chewing noisily on the remnants of his doritos until finally Dean coughs or clears his throat. Some kind of awkward, forced attention grabber with his eyes still glued to the road.
"I wouldn't—uh, say it like that," he says in a vague way that can either mean it's completely wrong, or it's right but Sam's blowing it out of proportion. The stiff little half smile Sam can see from his profile suggests the latter. Sam would roll his eyes, but Dean won't get the effect with how seriously he's staring out the windshield.
Peering into the dorito bag, Sam can see just a handful is left, and he smirks to himself, jostling them around. "Hm, okay," he says agreeably and doesn't miss the way Dean's shoulders drop at the easy acquiescence. Holding out the bag over the seat, Sam continues, "Then, you want the last of my doritos?"
It's sort of expected when Dean grabs the bag out of his hand with zero hesitance, shooting Sam a side-eyed glance that's a tiny bit dewy. He shakes the last of the chips out into his mouth and crumples the bag into a fist. As he chews, a satisfied quirk sliding up at the corner of his lips, and Sam just stares at him expectantly because this behavior is nearly identical to before. When Dean was… Purgatory Dean.
The realization can literally be mapped out on Dean's face as he swallows. A slow crease of a frown and the immediate downturn of his lips, dimples making their appearance. Sam almost laughs.
"Alright fine, whatever," Dean forces out past an unhappy pout, tossing the trash so he can grab the wheel again with both hands. His grip is tight and fidgety, clearly embarrassed and Sam would feel bad about it, but he can't really bring himself to. Especially not when he finds he sort of misses the feral habits of before, the biting, food stealing, cuddling bits of it.
His left palm flares up where it's pressed into the scratchy surface of Sam's cast. Sam's gaze trails along the lines of Dean's grumpy face, pausing at his lips. He wishes he could see the teeth behind them.
"Stop lookin' at me," Dean says without bite.
Sam snorts through an exhale and puts up his hand in a mock surrender. Obviously, Dean isn't comfortable with any talk about how he used to be, but Sam can't quite pinpoint why exactly. Because he regrets it? Because he's ashamed of it? Because he's worried what Sam thinks?
Sam can at least quell any anxiety about the last one.
"I already told you I didn't care," he says lightly, calling back to yesterday and hoping Dean really understands just how unbothered all the oddness from Purgatory really has him. It's literally the bottom of the barrel when it comes to everything this last week has done to them.
Dean can slaughter monsters without remorse and practice weird rougarou courting rituals on Sam all he wants. It doesn't matter.
Sam's more concerned with the other thing, but there's no way he's going to bring that up unprompted. Not with the way Dean gets all twitchy with the slightest mention of anything related to skin on skin contact. Sam can't—and shouldn't—do anything about that, but at the very least Dean shouldn't feel responsible for what he went through or what that made him do.
"The Purgatory stuff, none of it bothered me," Sam reiterates at Dean's silence, smoothing his left palm along the roughened surface of his cast and thinking too hard about how much he enjoys the sting.
His assurances do seem to have some positive effect, Dean's overly tense frame easing into something a bit more lax, fingers going pink with returned blood flow. Even so, Dean's face is still drawn taut, a sort of forced stoicism. Like he's mad.
Whether that's because Sam called him out on rougarou antics or because Benny was the one who told Sam about it all in the first place, it's hard to say. Though it's true that Sam wouldn't have had the faintest idea if Dean hadn't snuck away and left Sam alone. If he hadn't abandoned him with an informative vampirate.
The tick in Dean's jaw is always somewhat guilty looking and it's no different now when it jumps under Sam's stare. He's probably internally beating himself up right now, something he does pretty often. Too often, in Sam's opinion, but he can't do much more than assure his brother that nothing Dean did in the last week hurt Sam at all. In fact, the opposite in certain cases involving teeth.
Sam almost wishes he was brave enough to say as much, to stick his hand over the back of the seat like he just had and press his bitten palm against Dean's soft lips, ask him to tear.
Just the thought has spit pooling up under his tongue, inappropriate and strange and an unfortunate side effect of all they've been through. A neural misfire. Or at least that's what Sam's trying to tell himself.
He's picking at the smallest scar on the far edge of the bite, near the knuckle of his little finger, when Dean clears his throat. It's loud and dry. An obvious call for attention and Sam's gaze shoots up the rearview mirror.
Dean's wide eyes meet his, caught, and quickly dart back to the road. He blinks a few furious times with a frown on his face and Sam prepares for whatever Dean is going to say.
"What, um," he starts, scratchy and hesitant. Clears his throat again. "What else did he tell you?"
Somehow, Sam didn't expect that and he forces down the immediate, confrontational why? that bumps up against the backs of his teeth. It won't help to be suspicious of Dean's intentions, the way he was before, questioning all the things it felt like Dean was hiding from him. Things like Purgatory and mating bites and the words to speak.
Sam's already decided to let it all go, insignificant in the face of Dean's recovery, in the reasoning Dean and Benny already provided. In the bigger, harder, louder consequences drowning out all of that.
Sam's nail catches angrily on a scab in his palm, tearing it free. Jaw clenched, Sam doesn't stop the words inside his mouth from pouring free like saliva.
"Told me about mating bites," he says through his teeth. He wishes he could say it with them instead. It would be easier. "What they mean. The whole idea of saying these hands won't hurt you." Sam recalls the wording perfectly, still feels the echoes of them pulsing in the wound of his hand. "With your teeth in me, I'm yours."
My Sammy.
Sam hasn't heard the proclamation since Dean recovered and he almost expects it when he looks up from the bite. Dean isn't looking at him, stare fixed ahead and scowl firmly set. Sam's searching before he realizes, eyes falling to Dean's hands on the wheel, but the marked one has dropped out of sight. It's somewhere in his lap, somewhere Sam can't see.
Eventually, Sam's bite in Dean's hand will heal and fade away completely. Sam's mark in his brother's skin, his match, erased by clotted blood cells and time.
A sinking, gaping, ugly thing opens inside him, stems from the throbbing palm of his left hand as if tearing that scab away tore a hole inside everything that holds Sam together. It swirls and engulfs, in an unhappy, possessive thing.
Like Dean's mouth on Sam's that night, a violent sense of entitlement surges up in the face of Dean's apparent disdain.
That mark, the one Dean is hiding from Sam's view—it's Sam's.
He made it, with his own teeth he tore into Dean's callused flesh and claimed it as his own. Dean has no right to let it heal, to hide it away like it never happened. Sam curls his left hand into a tight fist, the sting of his own bite real and owning and right.
My Dean rests furiously in his throat, clawing at the walls and cutting his vocal cords to ribbons.
He almost says something they can't ignore, almost upsets the precarious little peace they've created by saying nothing at all. But Dean's opening his mouth, speaking in a way that his teeth flash and Sam's riveted despite himself.
"Don't worry, Sammy."
Sam leans forward off his seat with blood on his palm, eager and hopeful for an assurance, for the pressure of a bite, the it's okay if it's us.
Dean's teeth are white in the sunlight.
"It'll heal, okay? Like it never happened."
A solid finality weighs in each word like Dean's weaponized them, thrown them at Sam's teeth and forced them down his throat, blocking his airways—his my Dean from crawling out. It's the tone that sinks them down further into Sam's stomach, a blockage for all the bile that bubbles uneasily. It's the gentle promise in it, the sheltering big brother voice Dean's been using Sam's whole life, a confident bravado that reassures Sam when his world is tilting.
This time, though, it only makes him feel sick. Like he's sick.
He has to say something, to reply in some way that's some semblance of the Sam before— before Dean kissed him, before he sunk his teeth into his skin and claimed him, before they came in each other's hands and called each other mine.
Those green eyes, big and concerned and beautiful, flash in the rearview mirror. An asking glance, awaiting response. Sam folds his palms together, presses his clasped hands between his thighs, out of sight and—desperately, please please—out of mind.
He nods, forcing a quirk of a smile like those words were words he wanted to hear, like Dean's said something relieving and secure.
"Yeah," he barely croaks out and immediately grunts at the weakness of it. The rest is a mumbled string of nonsense. "Yeah, Dean, of course. I mean why wouldn't it? As long as we leave it alone, right? Yours too. Like it never happened."
He can't pull his gaze off the tops of his folded hands, the seam of his thumbs pressing together in his lap. His pulse points blink up at him from his wrists like signals, in case he forgot he's alive, heart beating. It's not at all a proper substitute for Dean's mark—for Dean.
Sam feels ridiculous, absolutely stupid with how much he wants to lean over the front seat and grab Dean's arm and force him to show his right hand, force him to let Sam bite into it again. Force Dean to do the same. It's all so fucking inane, some weird byproduct of a shitty adjustment period. Sam will be back to normal soon, back to the way Sam and Dean were before everything. In time.
It'll heal. Like it never happened.
He wants to crawl into the passenger seat where he belongs, slide into his customary place at Dean's side, comfortable and easy. The only familiar, unmoving constant in their lives, a mold he can fit himself into, a bandaid solution slapped over the leaking holes in his resolve.
But his broken leg wouldn't let him. His warping, stuttering interpretation of he and Dean's relationship wouldn't let him. He can't.
"When we, uh, get to the cabin, I'll wrap your hand up for ya Sammy, get it good as new," Dean suddenly says, voice a little high. Lighter as if he's discussing the lack of clouds in the sky.
Sam blinks away the immediate scowl, smoothing out his expression in case Dean spares him another assessing glance. He counts the flickers in his pulse, trying to ground himself without Dean's touch, his teeth.
It's acid in his mouth when he says, just as light, "Sure, Dean, sounds great."
Privately, he reigns himself in, rails against every bleak and angry bit of him that wants the exact opposite, wants to grab Dean by his rough jaw and press their mouths back together.
No, Sam berates himself viciously, clenching his hands together so hard it makes his knuckles grind. He'll pretend. Until it's real, he'll pretend he's the same as before. For Dean, for both of them, so they can go back to how they were. The way it should be.
Sam glances up at Dean, his profile cut against the grassy backdrop of the Northwest. Beautiful and solid and real.
He swallows.
Whitefish, Montana is cold and icy in the oncoming winter. Freshly laid snow piles up on the sides of the road and tops the pine trees like a Christmas card, so drastically different from the humid warmth of Clayton, Louisiana. Fortunately for Sam and Dean, the cabin sits on the edge of the national park nearby, occupying a road that's plowed every morning.
The last time Sam was here, he was alone and it was just coming off a summer heat, green and noisy with wildlife and tourists. Now, it's almost desolate as Dean maneuvers the Impala along a slick road just a mile away from Rufus's trusty cabin.
Sam peers out the window, staring up at the cloudy gray sky, and wonders if he and Dean will end up snowed in while they wait for his busted leg to heal. It's not exactly a pleasant prospect. Or maybe it is and it's unpleasant that it is.
"Guess it's good we grabbed the pizza before coming out here," Dean says, as if he was following Sam's thinking.
They stopped in town for two boxes of pizza as a dinner and breakfast substitute in lieu of having to get any groceries. Sam's leg wouldn't enjoy that kind of outing and Dean either wasn't willing to leave Sam alone for that long (unlikely now) or was feeling just as lazy in the cold.
The Impala is warm and smells like garlic and pepperoni.
"Yeah, doubt we'd get any delivery out here," Sam agrees, stomach rumbling. It probably should have occurred to either of them how close to winter they've gotten, mid November bringing with it potential snow storms up in the north.
Sam guesses it was easy to forget when they'd spent the last few days down south in the moist, sweating and overheated. Up here in the mountains of Montana the chill is creeping up the windows, and likely freezing the cabin solid.
"We're gonna need firestarter," he muses out loud, trying to remember if he saw any last time he was here. There was a wall of chopped wood but it's definitely soaked and rotting by now. Dean just grunts an unhappy agreement, no doubt displeased with the way the night is shaping up. The sun is already descending as the time ticks down to six o'clock.
Rufus's cabin comes into view as the Impala slides precariously in the soaked earth, overrun with the dead spindly branches of naked trees and piled high with melting snow.
"Baby needs some chains," Dean mutters, deftly working her out of a pile of ice and into the makeshift driveway of the old cabin. Not for the first time, Sam misses Bobby and his dependable presence. He could've gotten the place all warm for them before they arrived.
Rufus's place looks cold, empty and abandoned. Not much different from the last time Sam was there, alone without Dean. No matter how cold and drafty the place is now, it beats how it was before.
Killing the engine, Dean squints through the windshield. "Crutches and snow, how good you think that'll turn out?" he grumbles, scowling at the patches of melting snow along the yard.
Sam pats the heavy cast of his leg and finds himself again wanting to throw it off and be free of the whole burden thing. It's probably not an immediate death sentence trying to get from the backseat of the Impala to the couch inside the cabin. Maybe a journey of about twenty steps. He's never used had to use crutches in icy conditions though.
"Guess we'll find out," he says on an exhale, already reaching down to grab them.
Dean huffs through his nose, frowning impressively, and pats the back of the seat for Sam's attention. "No, no, no, just wait here. Lemme get the bags and pizza, then I'll come help you, okay?"
He's looking at Sam with the pouty face, all furrowed brow and beseeching eyes. Sam immediately wants to protest, to childishly proclaim he doesn't need the help and he can do it on his own. But that's not exactly true right now and he would probably end up braining himself on a rock.
Plus, Dean's obviously in his element. Always Sam's fatefully appointed caretaker.
Sam just shrugs a shoulder and leans back, letting the crutch fall into the footwell again, mumbling, "Fine."
While Dean hustles to get everything inside as fast as he possibly can without slipping and breaking a hip, Sam digs out his phone and tries to see if there's enough signal to check the weather. If they're potentially going to get more snow in the near future, Sam wants to be prepared. After all, they don't have any supplies aside from pizza right now.
The forecast boasts cloudy but snow-free skies for the next week and Sam hopes it stays that way if only so Dean can get back out and stockpile them food like squirrels preparing to hibernate.
His gaze is drawn from his phone when Dean comes skidding around the Impala with flailing arms clutching at her roof. His eyes are giant, alarmed, like his life just flashed in front of them. Sam snorts and shoves his phone back into the pocket of his bundled up jacket when Dean throws the door open.
"Yeah, you're definitely not doin' this without my help," Dean's saying as an immediate gust of prickling cold air raising the goosebumps on Sam's forearms. He tries not to shiver too obviously, rubbing his hands together.
Dean notices, of course, and shifts closer to the Impala's side, bodily blocking the doorway. He bows his head inside, all close and warm, and grumbles, "Put your jacket on, Sammy, what the hell."
Autopilot sets in, instincts worked into Sam's psyche from childhood at the disapproving tone in Dean's words, and he unravels the jacket, sliding it on with a little finagling. Dean pats his shoulder as soon as it's covered, sliding down his bicep and squeezing once. It's an affirming and supportive touch and Sam imagines he can feel the heat of Dean's skin through the layers.
"Alright, let's get you out in one piece, huh," Dean says with a half grin that Sam returns without meaning to.
Rather than use the crutches at all, Dean slips Sam's arm around his shoulders and they teamwork to get him out and upright on his good foot. Dean's a sturdy warmth against Sam's body and he grunts out an almost laugh when Sam puts almost all of his weight on him. "S'was way easier when you were ten."
Sam hooks his arm tighter around Dean, savoring the proximity, the way he can feel every soft line of Dean's body where it's mashed against his and smell his familiar Dean smell, leather and oil. The crunching of Dean's boots in the icy dirt draws Sam into making some sort of offhand reply before Dean notices how distracted he is.
"You mean it was easier when I was shorter than you?" he asks through a smile, patting Dean's shoulder in a consoling way. "Don't worry, you ever need me to carry you around, I'm here."
He feels Dean grumble and then there's the admonishing headbutt of his head thudding into the side of Sam's jaw. "Shuddup," he complains, before reaching around Sam to shove the Impala's door shut. After that's done, he wraps his right hand, the bitten one, tight around Sam's wrist to keep him secure around Dean, and his other arm winds around Sam's back to grab him at the waist.
"Hold on tight, Sammy, or we're both dead," he says very seriously as he takes a few careful steps, dragging Sam along.
Luckily, Dean's the perfect height for supporting Sam. It's one of Sam's favorite aspects of outgrowing Dean back when he was sixteen. That fact might be the only thing that kept Dean from bitching too much about it at the time, if Sam really thinks about it. He doesn't mention it, though he sort of wants to. Sort of wants to thank Dean for always being the perfect support, perfect for Sam.
He stays quiet and leans heavily against Dean instead, enjoying the warmth and familiarity, and how if he wanted he could rest his cheek on the top of Dean's head. It's the closest they've been since Sam woke up in the hospital and gathered Dean up in his arms, tight and clinging.
Having Dean's grip back on him, against his skin, blunt fingers digging in and refusing to let up, it's like finding ground again. Like getting back to the shallow end of the pool, his head back above water.
He hates how much he missed Dean sticking close, constricting and attached. He hates even more how much he wants to fill the void Dean's made by grabbing on in kind, refusing to let him ever pull away. He almost want to take on the role Dean's left vacant now in his recovery.
The stumbling and careful trek to the cabin is wordless, both of them more interested in not slipping to their demise, or at least Dean probably is with his serious frown of concentration. Sam is content to let Dean do the work, allowing himself to be carted along as Dean kicks the front door open and lugs them inside.
Rufus's cabin is just as cold as outside, dark and vacant. Sam has half a mind to worry their pizzas are soggy and sad by now, leaning harder against Dean and soaking up his body heat in preparation for the inevitable separation.
"Couch?" Dean asks, fingers flexing at Sam's waist and digging in under his jacket. Sam's actually slightly out of breath, the weight of his leg is heavy enough without the added bulk of a cast, and he just nods, bracing against Dean. It's a concerted effort to shuffle around the rickety coffee table and onto the beaten and dusty couch but they manage it.
"There ya go, easy easy," Dean murmurs, all gentle as he eases Sam down with his arms still tight around him. Sam collapses into the flat cushions, his own hold still around Dean's neck, and for a delirious moment he doesn't want to let go.
Like all those times when Sam was just a kid, half awake, being carried to the motel bed after a long drive. How he'd whine and clutch at his big brother, tugging him close so he wouldn't try to sleep somewhere else.
Dean never went to sleep somewhere else those nights.
A heavy hand lays on Sam's chest, Dean pushing him back and away. It feels like a rejection so Sam lets his arms drop uselessly to the side.
"Lay up, c'mon," Dean says plainly like he's not telling Sam to quit clinging to him. Sam's throat feels all tight and he shoves down the immediate protest that bubbles up, letting Dean force him back until he's reclining against the armrest. He crosses his arms, hands to himself, with a skeptical grimace as Dean completely leaves his personal space..
"Don't look at me like that, your leg's gotta elevate," Dean says with a roll of his eyes, grabbing Sam's cast and raising it carefully up along the couch. Sam allows himself to be manhandled like a rag doll, floppily going limp as Dean settles his heel on a pillow.
There's a beat where Sam and Dean meet eyes, Sam's maybe overly stern and Dean's hooded under furrowed brows. Then Dean's flicking one of Sam's toes that peek out of his cast and Sam's distracted with curling them away, skin smarting. He almost forgot he even had toes with how cold it is.
"Gotta get you a sock or you're gonna lose a few of those," Dean mutters, glancing around and coming up with a folded blanket from behind the couch.
Sam watches him, still a little needy, a little childish, resolutely not doing anything about either of those things. He keeps his arms crossed and unimpressed as Dean drapes the blanket over Sam's numb toes. Yet again, Sam can't help but feel Dean's enjoying himself, taking care of Sam like he does best, and he can't tell if it bothers him or not. If he's annoyed he feels like a helpless kid again.
"You good? Ready to eat?" Dean asks, wearing a grin that makes his crows feet prominent as he sidles up to the open pizza box on the kitchen table. Sam offers a noncommittal grunt of agreement because he does want some food but maybe not as much as he wants Dean back within reach.
Dean pokes at the food, testing the temperature, and shoots Sam a thumbs up before grabbing a box off the table and heading Sam's way.
"How many you want to start? Think we need plates?" Dean muses though he's already plopping down on the rug in front of the couch, boxes on the coffee table beside him. His right shoulder presses into the cushion just a small space away from Sam's hip.
Sam could touch him right now if he wanted to, but he keeps still.
"You don't have to sit over here," Sam says because he feels like he should, not because he wants Dean to listen to him. Dean only makes a dismissive noise, propping the pizza box back open and fishing around for the best slice.
Apparently, they're both just going to stay here, close enough to feel each other's body heat, and eat greasy pizza with nothing but their hands. Sam can already predict the ensuing mess.
"No napkins?" he says just as Dean picks a greasy slice up in his fingers, stringy cheese pulling along with it. He pretends not to notice the way Dean is staring at the side of his head with a look that definitely says you wait 'til I'm already sitting here to bitch, huh? Sam just shrugs and refuses to make eye contact until Dean drops the slice back in the box and wipes his hands on his jeans.
Sam just catches a miffed little uptick of his mouth and he prepares to get chewed out for being annoying. But Dean only shuffles to get back up, hand slamming onto Sam's good thigh to leverage himself.
He startles under the heavy heat of Dean's grip, leg shaking when Dean pries free and hits him once in the hip. It's the only admonishment Sam actually gets before Dean shoves off with a huff.
Sam probably should tell him he doesn't actually need napkins, that he can make due without, but he doesn't say anything. He just traces the slight bow of Dean's legs as he walks back to find Sam some paper towels.
If he really thinks about it, Sam knows he doesn't want to say it's okay, I don't need you to do that for me. Because somewhere in the twitchy, grabby part of Sam's psyche he probably enjoys it too much. The way Dean goes along with whatever Sam complains about, if he does it enough. How he feigns annoyance, but does it anyway. It's familiar and it's nice.
"Where the hell did Bobby keep this shit?" Dean grumbles, kicking the cabinets open like each one is personally to blame for the fact that he isn't inhaling pizza right now and not Sam. It only takes him a few more minutes of slamming around to find something. Rufus's cabin isn't stocked by anyone anymore, but some supplies survive a lot longer when nobody's around to use them.
Dean makes a little sound from where he's crouched by the cupboard under the sink, holding up a roll triumphantly. He spins around and practically bounds back to Sam's side, self-satisfied grin on his face as if he wasn't just stomping around. His crow's feet are back in full force, teeth showing, and Sam doesn't even want to stop the quiet, "thanks," he breathes out under the full force of Dean's tiny accomplishment.
Dean just resettles against the couch, using Sam's leg again to lower himself back down like it's the only solid surface in the vicinity. Sam's hamstrings clench up under Dean's fingers, under the weight of his palm, the healing injury of his bite. He doesn't want Dean to remove his hand but he does as soon as he's sitting comfortably, tearing a paper towel free and throwing it at Sam.
It takes a surprisingly strong amount of willpower not to grab at his retreating hand. Sam keeps his arms crossed with the same amount of attention Dean relegates to Sam's health.
"Happy now, princess?" Dean's still grinning through his teeth when he speaks as he sets the roll of paper towels on the table by the pizza.
Sam doesn't think he expects any kind of reply beyond the usual bitch face, already picking up the pizza slice he'd chosen earlier. It's probably for the best anyways, Sam isn't really able to make a witty retort, too busy tapping his fingers against his bicep like an addict who's desperate to hold hands. (Which Sam sort of is.)
Seemingly unaware, Dean shoves the slightly folded slice out to Sam, keeping all the grease pooled in the crease with a hand hovering beneath it in case it drips. He all but sticks it directly into Sam's mouth and Sam recoils a little, grabbing for the paper towel.
The goopy meat lovers' slice leaves Dean's hands and Sam's happy to note it's still slightly warm, his stomach rumbling again as the smell wafts over him. He's preparing to take a huge, hungry bite when the familiar sensation of two bright eyes stop him, attentive to the point of distraction.
There's fingers drumming furiously against the couch cushion just beside Sam's hip and Sam's mind blanks for a long moment, glancing between his pizza slice and Dean. It's not that different from all the times when Dad would make Sam get a burger because it was easier to order three of the same thing and Dean would eye Sam and his unwanted burger, practically drooling.
Right now, it feels like that but that doesn't really make any sense considering there's an entire box of pizza next to Dean. Still Sam dumbly asks, "Do you want this one?" Each word stumbles out of his mouth with a puzzled hesitation.
Dean shifts his weight and seems to notice his own fidgety hand because he quickly and very conspicuously pulls it back. Sam frowns harder as Dean tucks both of his hands together in his lap like he needs to restrain himself.
"No, Sammy, uh, go ahead," he mutters with a shake of his head, almost as an afterthought.
It takes a few long moments of them watching each other, before the dumb explanation of it drapes over Sam like the blanket on his feet, cottony and obvious. The rougarou thing. It's definitely the food-sharing rougarou thing.
Sam internally berates himself, lowering the pizza. He supposes if he were abiding by the unspoken rules of forgetting the past, he would just force Dean to sit there uncomfortably while he ate away. But Sam doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want Dean suffering in silence because he's embarrassedly trying to wean himself off of his weird habits.
And maybe it's because Sam wants everything from before. He wants those excuses to come flooding back in, an excuse to share food, an excuse to bite, to kiss.
Sam grinds his teeth.
Dean might feel like he should quit cold turkey on most things—certainly the touching Sam things—and Sam isn't in a position to tell him not to. This though? The rougarou habits, the easy things, he can work with those. For Dean's benefit.
Squinting at his pizza slice, Sam hunts for the greasiest puddle in the pepperonis and settles on one in the middle. Dean's still watching him with wide eyes as Sam plucks it off, careful not to let it drip.
"Here, eat this for me," he says, faux casual, as he holds it up just shy of Dean's lips, the ones he's been silently gnawing at. Dean's mouth parts slow and obedient, maybe subconscious, but he stops short of actually doing what Sam's told him to, looking at Sam like he needs more permission.
"C'mon, better your arteries than mine," Sam says through a chuckle, teeth exposed in a crooked grin, maintaining indifference. Because this doesn't mean anything.
The grin is all the permission Dean needs, leaning forward and taking the pepperoni in between his own teeth without using his hands. Sam watches it disappear with a strange sense of satisfaction, though he wonders if this is somehow bad for Dean. If he's encouraging some kind of regression or something equally detrimental.
At the same time, he finds he doesn't really mind the idea. And if he can't have his palm in between those teeth he can at least put food there.
Sam's going crazy, probably, worse than the last time because he's dragging Dean into it. But he leans forward and grabs a little bit of sausage off a pizza slice in the box and pops it into his mouth, aware of Dean's attentive gaze the whole time. Ritual complete.
There's the soft sound of an exhale and then Dean's moving again. Sam knows it isn't a coincidence when Dean reaches into the box and grabs the same slice Sam picked off of, finally tending to himself and happily munching away. The sight satisfies the unsettled little creature in Sam's chest, pleased like Sam's the one with the rougarou tendencies.
They eat without talking as if it requires extreme concentration to do so. It's really because neither one of them wants to talk about what just happened, what's happened in general. Avoidance is kind of their modus operandi. Likely at the sacrifice of their stability but Sam can't bring himself to try and have more conversation.
Not after the terrible ones they've had so far. Terrible for Sam anyways, mostly because he's an idiot who can't move on properly.
Dean swallows the last of his first slice and adjusts his position, staring at the rest of the pizza like it's really interesting. His movements have his elbow raising to rest on the couch, maybe unintentionally pressing into the bit of skin between the top of Sam's sweats and his shirtail.
It has the casual energy of vague unawareness, a simple shift in position, but Sam's zeroing in on the point of contact, glancing from where they're touching to Dean's face and back like he'll gain some clue.
But Dean just eats messily, enjoying his next slice of pizza without a care in the world, eyes closing to properly savor it with happy little moans. He goes through two more slices in the time it takes Sam to finish his first one, maybe because Sam actually takes time to breathe in between bites. More likely because Sam's remaining very still so he can keep feeling that warm, assuring pressure of Dean's skin on his.
He's swallowing the last bit of garlic speckled crust and it's almost noticeably silent between them. Somewhere in the realm of being too quiet, but Sam's only grateful Dean isn't trying to fill the void with meaningless small talk. It's hard to tell if that's because Dean's not used to doing that anymore or if he's as anxious about what they might end up saying as Sam is.
Last time they had a sharing is caring conversation, Sam got all worked up and twisted around like a little kid with zero self control. He desperately needs to get himself together if he's going to survive the next five weeks with Dean hovering over him. Sam can't really afford to give in to the impulses that beg him to do something regretful, something stupid.
He'll have to pretend. He'll have to maintain separation if he's going to give off the air of normalcy Dean says he wants.
In a way, Sam dreads it. He dreads slipping up like some kind of weirdo.
"Hand me another one," he asks to interrupt his thoughts, gesturing with a grabby hand at the box. Dean holds the end of his slice in between teeth and dutifully procures Sam's seconds without complaint. Quick to provide as always.
Sam dabs at it with the paper towel to try and get rid of a bit of the congealing grease, and mulls over that concept, the entirety of the last two days he's spent in Dean's eager care. It's nothing new, Dean's always been overprotective and overly helpful, especially when Sam needs him to be. Always the first to sacrifice everything he has just to make sure Sam's comfortable and taken care of.
It's who Dean is.
This time though Sam feels like something is just a little bit off. He feels strange in the wake of everything they've done. Almost guilty, almost desperate. It's Dean's natural state, his easiest fall back when things are off. Be Sam's big brother.
Sam can't help but worry it's just an excuse, a way to cope with all the weirdness that exists between them. In the unspoken actions of the last week, in the way neither of them are willing to outright say it. Fear of some kind of denial, some kind of rejection, some kind of like it never happened.
Pizza forgotten for the moment, Sam stares openly at Dean, watching the way he has to maneuver his food to keep it from dripping on his clothes. Dean's making displeased noises in the back of his throat as he angles his hand and orange grease slides down a knuckle, along the side of his palm, across the bite Sam left there.
The skin hasn't completely healed, somehow isn't even totally scabbed closed, and Dean flinches. The grease definitely stings in the wounds as he hurriedly moves the pizza to free his hand.
He's going to wipe it away when Sam darts out and grabs Dean's hand. It's mindless but all Sam wanted was to stop him from pressing it into his jeans, from hiding the bite mark from Sam's view again. And Dean doesn't flinch but his eyes go huge, alarmed when Sam's hand wraps around his wrist and holds tight.
The weight of it, the feel of the bones under thin skin, it's just like the first time Sam grabbed Dean and sunk his teeth in. It feels like years ago now and Sam misses the satisfaction of breaking skin, the clenching of his jaw when Dean whimpered against him, when Dean encouraged him.
Not like now. Now Dean says he'll fix it, he says he'll heal it as if it never happened. It echoes in Sam's head like a threat, like a promise.
Sam hates it. He viscerally wants to rail against the idea but he doesn't even understand why. He should be grateful, he should just do what Dean wants. And it is what Dean wants, he wouldn't have said so otherwise. Dean wants to forget it all. Pretend nothing happened between them, pretend he didn't mark Sam, pretend Sam didn't let him.
A wave of something guilty and angry swishes around with the pizza in Sam's gut, and he shouldn't feel entitled. He has no right to lay claim to the bite in Dean's hand, to imbue it with meaning that Dean didn't agree to, just as Dean didn't with him.
Sam's hand aches with the wrongness of that assertion.
"Sammy?" Dean's rough voice cuts in and Sam's hold on Dean's wrist jerks a little. His fingers slide against Dean's skin when he does it and the teeth marks ghost underneath his thumb.
As if hurt, Dean twitches in Sam's grip, fingers curling into a semblance of a fist, hesitating just before they brush against Sam's. When Sam peals his eyes away every bit of their meeting skin, he finds Dean still staring at him.
There's something familiar in the tightness of his expression, in the downturn of his lips, the shine. Sam's seen it before. That time, when Benny first said mating bites by the grave. It was shaking and desperate.
It was fear.
The guilt surges up from Sam's stomach into his throat, burning and acidic, and Sam releases his brother immediately. He practically throws his hand away.
"Sorry," Sam's already fumbling out, hoping the guilt won't spill right along with it, and Dean's blinking at him, like he doesn't get it but Sam can't meet eyes. Sam can't do anything but swallow hard and wrap his hands up together, secure and entangled too hard to reach for Dean again.
He should say more, make sure Dean understands. He has to take that fear away.
"I'm sorry for biting you back."
The clarification is awkward and misshapen in his mouth. He works the next words around with his tongue, feeling his teeth and wishing he never fucking sunk them into Dean's hand in the first place. Then he wouldn't be sitting here wanting to tear into his brother like some kind of animal.
Like Dean was.
"I don't know why I did it," he says abruptly and it's a half truth. He wanted to match Dean. He wanted to have the claim on him that he had on Sam. To reciprocate. But that doesn't make any sense so he can't say that. "I didn't—I didn't have the same excuse as you, y'know I think I was just…."
He doesn't know what to say that'll fix it. He doesn't even really know what's the full truth. Did he just want to be the same? Was he just trying to communicate?
Or did he just want to say something very specific?
My Dean.
Sam grinds his teeth and inhales so deep, lungs inflating almost painfully, and makes something up, something Dean will accept, something normal.
"I just thought it might cheer you up, you know, because we fought about it and it was stupid. Really stupid, seriously, Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."
There's a sound then, something soft and familiar, almost a whine exhaling out past Dean's lips and Sam's shooting his head up, worried, frantic. He's scared Dean's still scared and Dean's eyebrows are drawn together, eyes still shiny, and it's all crooked and broken and sad.
Sam can't understand it. He can't interpret anything well anymore without teeth and growling.
A muscle jumps at Dean's jaw, and he looks so close to saying something—something Sam doesn't want to hear, mouth twisting.
"Sammy, no," he manages, gravelly like it has to fight through something in his mouth. His gaze darts to Sam's hands, to the bite. Sam watches him, watches the way he blinks his eyes closed once, hard, and when he opens them again the lines of his face smooth out.
Resolve.
Sam braces himself for whatever Dean's going to say, braces for something just as painful as before. He's tense and tired and he hasn't showered in almost three days. He's way too preoccupied with nerves and anxiety and that painful clenching in his chest that he doesn't have an explanation for.
He doesn't notice Dean's touching him until fingertips graze the bite in his palm.
Sam almost jumps, almost retracts in some kind of misguided, desperate need to save Dean the mortification of realizing just how important those teeth marks of his have become. But Sam lets Dean hold onto his hand. He couldn't escape even if he wanted to and he doesn't want to.
Dean's staring at the bite, angling Sam's hand so it's wide open and on display, not unlike that day when Sam cut himself, when his world felt unreal. That scar is almost invisible now beside the red monstrosity of the bite wound. Sam's fingers shift, restless, and he wants to grab onto Dean and tug him onto the couch, on top of him, in his arms.
"S'okay, Sammy," Dean says carefully, eyeing his mark in Sam's skin with an almost assessing attention. "Told you, I'll wrap it up and it'll be good as new." His reassurance is almost lost in the soft exhale of a sigh.
Sam is frozen, a mounting dread roiling in his chest, a tsunami of just how much he doesn't want Dean to wrap it up, to hide it away, to heal. He's watching Dean's fingers on his skin, and then Dean's running one along that faint scar from a year ago now. The scar that grounded Sam in reality—adjacent and nearly meaningless now in the face of the bigger, deeper, open wound.
It tickles and Sam almost clenches his fist closed on reflex.
"Y'know I'll always take care of you, Sammy," Dean says, absent and ragged in his throat, and it's always been a promise but right now it feels like an excuse.
In a rushing flood, Sam's skin suddenly feels hot underneath, nearly furious, and Sam pulls away from Dean.
He knows he doesn't want to lose his mark, he doesn't want it to heal over like it never happened, but he doesn't know what he actually wants. Sam shifts forward, presses his hands to the couch to try and escape this burning, suffocating, presence Dean's become.
He can't look him in the face, he needs to get away, to breathe, to think, to understand why the hell all of this feels so important.
"I—I feel gross, I think I'll take a shower, just, uh, it's been a while and I'm all sweaty so," Sam's rambling because a shower sounds great, it sounds solitary. Cleaning and most importantly, alone. He just hopes his knee knocking into Dean's shoulder is enough of a sign for him to move, to get back, to let Sam escape.
"Hey, hey, Sammy, wait, you got a busted leg, man," Dean's saying and he's got his hands on Sam, searing into Sam's skin where he's got Sam by the forearms. It's not tight, just warm. He's looming over Sam with a frown, worry and confusion apparent.
Sam abruptly feels like an idiot and wants to come up with an excuse, another one, one that makes sense and will get Dean to stop hovering so close, so warm, so easy to cling to.
He just stares, open mouthed, and Dean chuckles through a quirking half smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I know you're Mr. Independence but you're not gettin' clean without my help, sorry," he says like it's not the worst thing he's ever said and Sam wants to immediately protest.
Not because he thinks he can do it on his own with this giant cast up to his thigh. But because he can't functionally survive being ass naked with Dean all over him when he can hardly form coherent thoughts that aren't just nonsensical iterations of Dean's name and various, possessive parts of speech .
Dean rolls his eyes again apparently unwilling to deal with Sam gaping at him like a suffocating fish any longer. He bends at the waist to slide Sam's arm around his shoulder like before, always his eager support.
"C'mon, Sasquatch, you helped me when I needed it, now's my time to help you, huh?"
Sam's all but dragged off the couch.
The fluttering anxious thing in his belly is not the pizza grease. He doesn't want to say what it is.
Notes:
lmao did we think sam and dean were done with sharing showers, because they're not ;) rip to sam yet again [playing the tiniest violin]
update day is on thursdays now to accommodate my work schedule, so look out for me then!! also, we're so close to the end, y'all!!! (of this fic and also spn now i think? haha)
Chapter 25: Smother
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It occurs to Sam, as Dean lowers him carefully on the edge of the bathtub, that he would be significantly less of a burden if he had his crutches.
Rufus's cabin has a small bathroom made up of a pedestal sink and a bathtub shower combination that's probably seen better days. It at least had hot water last time they were here. Sam grabs the edges of the tub with both hands to steady himself and decides to voice his concerns as Dean turns around to grab the necessities.
"Maybe you can bring in my crutches after," he says to Dean's retreating back, trying to keep his heart from clambering up out of his throat. His voice already feels a little shaky, chest thudding.
Dean returns with the duffel in hand, fishing around inside, and Sam continues. "So you don't have to help me everywhere."
There's zero acknowledgement positive or negative, as Dean plops the bodywash and shampoo on the tile beside Sam's foot, glancing with a furrowed brow at the showerhead and then the faucet.
"You're gonna have to do a bath, Sammy. I'm not letting you break the other leg," he says with a serious pout like Sam's life is at stake.
It's really just Sam's dignity though and Sam sighs and glares at the cast that's responsible for this situation.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," he mutters reluctantly and tries his best not to look as displeased as he feels.
Dean procures a black trash bag and some duct tape from his arsenal of supplies in a familiar way. Back when he was the one with the busted leg, they wrapped up his cast to keep it from getting wet and also forced him (though Dean wasn't too reluctant) to take baths over the risk of slipping and dying in a shower. It's all just the same, even down to the broken one's defensive insistence that he can take care of himself.
"Gotta get the water running, it's fucking cold," Dean says almost to himself, leaning past Sam to turn the faucet with a loud rush of angry pipes. It's icy when it sprays up onto the back of Sam's wrist where his hands are clutching at the tub.
He dreads having to get undressed. For a variety of reasons, but right now it's because it's winter and the cabin is freezing. They'll definitely need to head back out for firestarter and wood later. Those two wimpy baseboard heaters can only do so much.
"Alright let's get your leg wrapped while that fills." Dean pulls back as steam finally starts pluming up from the bottom of the tub, the water reaching a bearable temperature.
He crouches in front of Sam while tearing a hole at the bottom of the trash bag, and he's really close actually. A bit too much involvement on his part for Sam's taste, too much potential for touching, too much everything.
"I can do all this," Sam says loudly over the sound of rushing water and hopes the alone he almost tacked on is implicit in his tone. Dean just levels his thighs with a scowl.
"Getting those sweatpants off's gonna be a bitch," he says through pursed lips and Sam doesn't disagree. They were hard enough to force past the bulk of his cast back at the hospital and the material is all bunched up and stretched out now.
Which is besides the point. Dean is very obviously ignoring what Sam's saying in favor of wearing his big brother blinders to deliberate the best way to take care of Sam. Sam would hotly protest the treatment, if only to get some much needed alone time for an hour so he can force that angry, needy, frustrated hollow in his chest to fill.
Sam would, but Dean's attention is stupidly heady. It feels warm and heated in the cold of the cabin, and maybe Sam's mortified but he's also drinking it all up anyway. He's conflicted and confused, which means it's way easier to just let Dean do what he wants and pout miserably the whole time.
"You probably wanna make this quick, huh? S'cold," Dean says, glancing over the edge of the tub. Sam just nods, working his teeth. How the hell is he even going to manage getting himself dressed afterwards without help? Independence has been in short supply lately.
"Let's get you naked and in the tub asap, okay?"
Something tingly and hot unfurls under Sam's skin and he wordlessly goes for the buttons of his shirt, trying to get them undone as quickly as possible. He remembers when he first got Dean back, when his feral brother ripped the other shirt wide open and popped the threads. It feels like years ago now, like a completely different lifetime.
Every last ounce of Sam's concentration is apparently necessary to shove the buttons through with numb fingers. He's barely managed the last one when he feels Dean's fingers at the waistband of his sweats and almost leaps off the edge of the bathtub.
"Dean!" he's squeaking out, pretty pathetically, as points of rough, cold pressure dig into Sam's hip bones. His body clenches up like he's being stabbed and he makes a pained noise, flinching back as far as he can without falling into the water behind him.
"Sorry they're cold," Dean says gruffly, like that's the only issue Sam has with this, and those cool hands slip under Sam's sweats, brushing against his ass through the material of his boxers. Sam is viscerally, terrifyingly reminded of that night on the ship, after they fought, Dean palming his ass and—and Sam yelps.
He's completely undignified when his hands fly up to Dean's shoulders and try to shove him back and away. Gain some kind of control here. Dean just huffs an annoyed breath and refuses to be deterred. He hauls Sam up and over by his ass, a quick jerk of movement that he uses to slide Sam's sweatpants free of his hips.
Sam fumbles back onto the edge of the tub, boxers exposed, with a scandalized flush of warmth rushing from his navel. His hands are still clinging to Dean's shoulders and he shoves free of him, rough enough to make Dean recoil a little.
"What the hell, dude?" he says through short breaths, debating if it would be too mean to try and completely throw Dean onto the tile. "Gimme some warning next time."
While Sam complains, Dean's focused on shimmying the sweatpants down Sam's legs, fingers curling in the material and at least no longer directly touching skin. He's concentrated and very serious looking as he tugs it over the width of Sam's cast.
"Sorry, Sammy." It's practically an afterthought and he definitely doesn't mean it. Sam shivers a little, sitting there with his shirt undone and his pants half off, but it's more likely nerves than the cold. He's already dreading having to get his boxers off and actually maybe he should clarify that's his responsibility.
"I'm taking my own underwear off," he declares with no room for argument. Hopefully anyways.
Dean scoffs as Sam steps his good foot free of the sweatpants so Dean can toss them free. He's got an almost wry turn to the edges of his mouth when he leans over to shut the water off.
"What, you embarrassed all of a sudden?" he says, settling back in front of Sam. That wry turn has twisted into a full fledged, shit-eating grin. Dean's apparently pretty entertained at the prospect and Sam has a retort ready immediately but there's a callused palm resting flat over his bare thigh.
It could be completely innocuous, just casual intimacy, but Dean's fingers are brushing the end of Sam's boxers, middle finger slightly underneath the hem. Sam's pale thigh is turning red.
"Not like we haven't been naked around each other," Dean says so frankly Sam really can't tell if he's referencing what Sam's mind can't seem to stop referencing.
His thigh flexes under Dean's hand, drawing Dean's eyes, and Sam immediately pushes it off before Dean can do or say anything else alarming. "Can you back up a little?" he complains, massaging into cool space Dean's palm left behind and trying very very hard not to think about how close his brother's face is to his dick.
Surprisingly, Dean does as Sam asks without any snarky comments, scooting out of the way so Sam can get out of the rest of his clothes. He tugs free of his shirt first, sliding it off his shoulders and hoping he's not flushed red all the way up. If he is, he'll blame it on the steam of the bath water curling at his back.
This wouldn't be half as unbearable if Dean would have the decency to actually look away, but he's glancing all over Sam's naked chest and belly. Sam's at least ninety percent sure he's only checking over old injuries, cataloguing what's there and what he might need to take care of later.
Sam doesn't have to worry about the freezing cold anyway, his own embarrassment is doing quite well to keep his skin overheated. He drops the shirt to the side alongside the pile of his sweats and wedges his thumbs under the edge of his boxers with a mounting anxiety. All he can hope is that his dick behaves.
He desperately does not think about what he did last night in the quiet of the Impala. What he imagined while doing it. What he remembered. Or what the fuck it all even meant.
Dean's eyes are searing and Sam resolutely doesn't meet them as he pushes the boxers down past his hips, his thighs, the cast. He can barely reach the ends of his feet from this position, stiff plaster unyielding, and Dean lets out a breathy exhale that could almost be irritation. Sam sees his toes come into view and then Dean's pulling the underwear over Sam's heel for him, tossing it aside.
His voice is rough and scratchy, reminiscent of all the growls from before, when he murmurs, "There. Can I get your leg wrapped now?"
Sam can't even bring himself to give permission, too preoccupied with how utterly naked he is, especially compared to Dean who's fully clothed. He only lets his hands rest between his legs for some modicum of privacy, elbows tucking into his sides.
Dean's gaze is half-lidded and unconcerned, seemingly unaffected, and it almost lulls Sam into a false sense of security. Which only makes it even more alarming when Dean knocks Sam's thighs apart so he can wheedle in between them with a trash bag in his hand.
He's close and warm and Sam is pretending he’s not thinking about the last time Dean crouched down in front of him like this, in the Louisiana heat, wet and overheated and moaning. His dick twitches behind his hands and he wants to plunge himself into the bathwater, pretend he doesn't exist anymore, maybe drown.
The trash bag is cold when Dean pressed it around the circumference of Sam's thigh, just an inch or so above the cast. Warmer knuckles ghost over skin when Dean starts taping it down and Sam's thigh twitches with every accidental brush of touch. Sam resolutely stares into the middle distance, sitting completely still to keep himself from tearing free.
He's going for an unaffected slouch, casual and definitely not aching at his brother's touch, but he doesn't think it's going over too well. Especially when Dean flicks a tongue out to wet his bottom lip and Sam's eyes fly up to stare at the spit shiny of it like he's starving.
The only thing that reminds him he's not an animal is the loud tapping of Dean's hand against Sam's cast over the crinkly plastic trash bag. It's noisy and sort of a hollow, enough to kick Sam back into some idea of normalcy as Dean meets his glance with a satisfied little nod.
"Looks good, Sammy," he says, dimples appearing over his mouth as he looks Sam up and down. "Let's get you lowered in."
He steps in close, back to his full height and looming over Sam where he's still between Sam's spread legs. Sam should insist he can do it himself, but the words adhere to the roof of his mouth, wet and sticky, when Dean presses in. He hooks his arms under Sam's and pulls him against his chest, engulfing Sam in that gun oil scent that always calms him down, the familiar solid heat of him.
The urge to wrap Dean up in his hold and drag him into the tub diffuses through Sam's body like the cloying steam filling the bathroom. Sam has to dig his palms into the edge of the tub not to act on it.
"Careful," Dean says and Sam feels it rumble in his chest where his head is pressed as he lifts his uninjured leg with Dean as leverage. Their combined efforts gently lay him back into the hot water, hot enough that the last bits of skin that Sam's flush had yet to conquer go red like a lobster.
The abrupt temperature change has Sam feeling a little foggy as his entire lower body is submerged, save for his cast propped up on the side of the tub. Only the very top of it meets the bath water and the seal Dean made seems to hold up well enough.
Sam is tempted to dunk under the water to get his hair wet and scrub the grime of multiple days off his face, but he doubts the tub is long enough to successfully do it. His good knee is already bent above the water, flat bottom of his foot pressed into the tub wall.
The next best solution is the easiest, and Sam pools water in his cupped palms, splashing it onto his cheeks and running wet fingers through his hair. A glance to the side reveals Dean has slipped out the open door and back into the cabin. The sound of him puttering around is the only thing that keeps Sam from shouting after him like a toddler.
Not that he wants Dean in here, it's just odd that he left without saying where he was going.
Mere seconds pass, Sam feeling a bit like a marinating piece of chicken as the steam clogs his airways, and Dean reappears with a chair in hand. He plops it down with a clatter against the side of the tub and Sam frowns up at him because it's pretty obvious what the chair is for.
They certainly didn't perch outside each other's baths before and it's not like Sam is so incapable with his cast he can't wash his own hair. Even if Dean somehow feels indebted to Sam for cleaning him up once or twice in his post Purgatory state, Sam's hardly in the same boat. Dean didn't get that treatment when he broke his leg anyways.
Not to mention there's a limit to how much Dean's allowed to baby Sam in any given day and today has definitely far exceeded that limit. Especially when Sam's butt naked and wants nothing more than to cling to his brother like a touchy feely octopus.
"What're you doing?" Sam asks through the accusing downturn of his mouth.
"Helping you, what's it look like, genius?" Dean says plainly, sitting down hard on the wooden chair with his knees spread so he can lean close. Sam shakes his head, sitting his good knee up a little higher for the sake of propriety now that Dean's apparently settled in for the long haul.
"I can wash my own hair, dude," Sam says, somewhat indignant at Dean's apparent disdain for Sam's ability to function without him. Even if the last three months might have pointed to the contrary. Dean just pouts his lips and produces a large bowl he must've grabbed from the kitchen.
"Shut up and lemme take care of you," is the only reply and then Dean's dunking hot water over Sam's head. Immediately, Sam's sputtering and wiping at his face, even though the heat is soothing, running warmly down his ears and neck and back. He flips his hair back out of his eyes, pinning Dean with a glare he already knows doesn't have enough anger in it.
Dean just flashes an amused little smirk and dunks another round of water over him.
No doubt he's enjoying the way it washes Sam's hair back in his face, covering his eyes so he can't see again. Sam pushes the wet strands of his hair back to scrub at his scalp and get everything properly soaked for shampoo. At the same time, Sam can't give up his weak protests. "Dean, seriously, my hands aren't broken."
"You got an open wound on one of them, technically," Dean rebukes, grabbing Sam's left hand in a loose grip. A surge of pleasant ache shoots up Sam's wrist when Dean's fingers brush the cuts from his teeth. "Doubt shampoo's gonna feel real good on this."
With that excuse, Dean drops Sam's hand into the bath water and goes for the bottle of sample size shampoo.
So they're both going to pretend like the times Sam's easily washed his hair, and sometimes Dean's, with the same bite didn't happen then? Or the fact that he only has this bite because Dean chomped down on him in this exact situation.
Sam sort of wants to be deliberately annoying and mention it, but it's obvious Dean's just throwing out the easiest excuse, that he clearly wants to help Sam with this. Even if Sam's desperate to sink under the bath water and disappear for a couple hours.
"Lean over here, Sammy," Dean orders, armed with a blob of shampoo in one hand. The other hand reaches out and hooks around the base of Sam's neck, right where it meets his shoulder. As he tugs Sam sideways, Sam pretends he can't feel the way goosebumps are erupting up under Dean's touch.
He should shove Dean off him again, but he's frozen up, letting himself be pulled over to the edge of the tub like a lure. But his hips aren't that flexible and he leans too close, his cast slipping off the edge and nearly dunking in the bath water.
There's a flurry of splashing as Sam frantically rights himself, wiggling out of Dean's hold to slam his palms against the walls of the tub.
"This is dangerous," he says, readjusting the precarious way his cast is perched and shooting Dean a look that hopefully says lemme wash my own hair, jerk.
The shampoo goop is starting to slide into the creases of Dean's fingers and he screws up his mouth, cocking his head. He's very obviously trying to work out a solution that doesn't involve letting Sam do anything for himself.
"Fine," he finally says, pushing off the chair and scooting it out of the way with his foot. At the same time he bends forward to essentially pet Sam like a puppy, scrubbing the shampoo into his hair with a flat palm. Sam's head bobbles back and forth as this happens and he doesn't let up on his dissatisfied glare until Dean finally stops.
It appears he's going to leave, and that's a good thing because Sam can finally stew in his own misery. He can work out his thoughts into some semblance of an order that ends with him being a good brother for once. Sam's already happily running his fingers through his hair to get the shampoo scrubbed in, except when he looks up Dean is not walking out of the bathroom.
He is unbuttoning his jeans.
"Dean, what are you—" Sam stops up short, gaping at Dean as he shoves his jeans down his legs and kicks them free. Sam can at least be grateful the boxers stay on as he forces his gaze off to the other side of the bathroom so he isn't openly staring at his pantsless brother.
Dean tosses his jeans into the rapidly accumulating pile of dirty clothes and grabs his shirt by the collar to tug it up over his head, essentially rendering himself half naked. Sam might have been comforted that they're almost the same level of undressed now, but he's immediately presented with a vast expanse of pale freckled skin and he wants to bite his tongue.
"I can reach better for you if I sit on the side of the tub, Sammy. I just don't want my clothes getting wet," Dean explains simply as if they're doing math homework and it's the Pythagorean Theorem. Basic and easy and calculatively bland.
Sam blinks furiously, because he really doesn't know why the hell Dean is so deadset on coddling him as if this is something they regularly do as adult men. Like Sam didn't already go through his rebellious teenage phase where he demanded Dean let him do things for himself, a demand that Dean only sort of met.
Sam hands drop from his hair with a warm splash, defenseless and immobile, when Dean pushes him by the shoulders so he can slide in behind him. "Make room, big man," he says, hands flat across Sam's back and Sam hurriedly slides forward just to get away from how much he enjoys the feeling.
Both of Dean's feet are submerged, bracketing Sam's bare hips in. His knees press up against Sam's upper arms as he settles on the back edge of the tub. In this position, there's several points of contact, warm wet skin on skin. Each spot tingles like limbs finally flooding with blood finally after a long deprivation.
Sam clenches his jaw. He'll have to lean into Dean's hold if he wants to keep his casted leg up out of the water. He'll have to envelop himself in Dean's limbs, caged in. He really wants to and he really doesn't.
In true indecisive fashion, Sam just stays where he is, angled slightly forward and away.
"C'mere," Dean murmurs, a quiet but clear command. His hands grip Sam's shoulders to recline him back in between Dean's legs, close enough Sam can feel that warmth coming off him.
If Sam wanted to, he could recline his head back and press it into Dean's stomach, look up at him from below, lean into the U of his thighs. Sam remembers the last time Dean was bracketing him in with his thighs, perched on Sam's hips in nothing but his underwear, just like now, a hand on his leaking cock.
Inhaling sharply, Sam desperately spins the wheel in his head for something sane to say before his own dick gets any ideas.
"Your boxers are gonna get wet," he manages as a token protest that comes out kind of strangely once it escapes, floating up with the steam to hover ominously in the air above them. It's almost a threat, some double entendre Sam did not intend.
Dean just snorts through his nose, sliding his hands up the back of Sam's neck to bury in his hair. Those familiar blunt nails scrape up along Sam's scalp, doing more to relax him into a puddle than properly scrub any shampoo in.
It feels good, of course it does, it feels amazing and Sam inclines his head so Dean can reach behind his ears easily and massage into the roots of his hair. He wants to offer words of encouragement as he sinks further back into his brother's body like his spine is nothing but goo. He wants to take back every complaint he made before, say how wrong he was, how great Dean is. But he doesn't.
He's too worried even weirder things will come spilling out after it.
Lips sealed, Sam just closes his eyes and lets himself go all floppy limbed under Dean's hands, reveling in the pleasant sensations thrumming under his skin. He barely suppresses the sudden, strong need to take a nap.
Dean keeps his mouth shut too, piling Sam's hair up on top of his head and liberally sopping globs of frothy shampoo around. A happy little sigh breathes through Sam's nose at the spa treatment and the ridiculous notion fumbles around in his lagging soup of a brain. He wonders if Dean would be averse to giving him a massage in the future, working the tension out of his taut back and shoulders.
But then Sam doesn't think he can physically endure the intimacy of that without sporting some embarrassing, inexplicable reactions and so he strangles that train of thought soundly.
"Y'good Sammy?" Dean asks in a hushed tone, almost husky in his throat. It's soothing and Sam shifts slightly, presses harder into Dean's right thigh for support. He's warm and sated and putty in Dean's hands.
"S'nice," he says blearily and Dean hums like it's obvious, like Sam can't feel anything but nice when Dean's tending to him. Which is probably true, if Sam's satisfied, puddle of a body is moments from happily shutting down. He could pass out right here, right now in the hot water under familiar hands. Dean definitely wouldn't let him drown.
A tiny, lazy smile slips across Sam's face.
"Up ya go," Dean says placidly, sliding his hands free of Sam's hair after successfully lathering it.
A reluctant sound roughs in the hollow of Sam's chest and he wants to grab Dean's hands back, but it doesn't matter because Dean's grabbing his shoulders again. Sam lets himself be pushed forward gently, offering zero resistance and kind of enjoying being manhandled around.
Behind him, Dean shifts and one leg presses hot and solid into Sam's side as he leans over the edge of the tub to grab the bowl from before. "Eyes closed, Sammy," Dean directs like Sam's four again as he pours water over Sam's bowing head. One hand runs back through Sam's hair, helping the dirty shampoo wash free, and Sam just basks in being essentially bathed as if he's Dean's giant, pliant puppy.
As Dean works to get his hair clean, Sam can't help but wonder if this is what Dean felt like when Sam had to take charge. After Purgatory, when Dean clung to him and let himself be directed and taken care of. Now, Sam's the puppy.
Dean must miss the treatment, because Sam's starting to think he could get used to all this attention. The thought of asking Dean outright flits behind Sam's closed eyelids, but he doesn't know if that's one of the things Dean wants to forget, wants to have never happened.
Water streams down Sam's face and he keeps his eyes closed tightly, lips pursed.
He won't ask. He won't ask about any of it unless Dean says something first. That's what a good brother would do, and he should at least try to repair the strange, awkward thing that their relationship's become, not twist it up worse. Even if all he wants to do is spin around and press their mouths together.
"Finally got all your freakin' hair clean."
Dean's softly affectionate voice undercuts the careening trajectory of Sam's thinking and he stiffens, sitting up a little straighter. He can't keep falling down the rabbit hole like this, he can't be regarding Dean in that way when he's being his big brother, taking care of Sammy. Platonic, familial.
His hands on Sam, right now, at this moment, aren't burning with inexplicable intent, they aren't gripping him hard and possessive. Sam tugs his bottom lip in between his teeth and wills himself not to react, forcing away the memories of Dean's mouth on his, the weight of his cock in his hand, his fingers inside him.
"So you're gonna get outta here then?" Sam suddenly says, high and a little frantic, eyes flying open to try and imprint literally any other image in mind. The bathroom tiles are crooked where they run up against the wood paneling of the wall and Sam stares at them like they're the most interesting thing he's seen in awhile.
Unaware, Dean clicks his tongue as he sets the bowl back on the ground. "Tryna get rid of me, Sammy?" he asks with a lilt that very obviously implies a joke, non-offense.
But Sam can hear that undercurrent to Dean's tone, a slight roughness that has the words curling in an almost grumble out of his throat. Like Dean wants very much for Sam to disavow the idea anyways.
In instances like this, when Sam and Dean pretend the things they're saying are jokes, pretend like they don't need some sort of reassurance, Sam plays along. Keeps it light.
"No, I love having my brother around when I'm ass naked in a bathtub. Really gives an authentic feel to the whole family bonding thing," he says with a feigned annoyance he doesn't quite feel. Or he does feel, but for very different reasons than Dean would know.
It's much better to pretend he's tired of Dean's overbearing mother hen act, which is something he's perfected over the course of his life. Much better than the other thing.
"Hey, I'm bending over backwards taking care of you and you're treating me like this?" Dean's got the faux offense lilt again, slapping an admonishing hand against the plane of Sam's shoulder blade.
It's a louder sound of skin hitting skin because they're all wet and Sam flinches forward, grabbing at the edge of the tub so his broken leg won't slip into the water. Dean's hand doesn't move from where it's now plastered to Sam's back.
Each rough callus is a smart against Sam's skin, but the worst part is the way Sam can feel the ragged scars of his own teeth there too. The bite pressing into him, weighing him down.
"Yeah great," Sam says, too quickly. "And thanks for that, but I can do the rest alone." He's already glancing over the edge of the tub in search of a wash cloth so he can end his suffering.
Dean's flattened hand raises just enough so his fingernails can scratch lightly at the skin and send tickling little shocks straight through Sam's antsy nerves. It's disgustingly pleasant and clearly a targeted attack to get Sam to continue giving in like the obedient brother he should be.
"Oh, c'mon Sammy, your leg's all busted up," Dean says, syrupy and slow as he moves his nails over Sam's back, skating across sensitive skin and making tiny shivering waves roll in their wake. "Least I can do is this."
Somewhere, vaguely, Sam wants to ask what Dean means exactly by this.
This as in help Sam wash up? This as in stick so close to Sam he can feel Dean's body heat along his spine? This as in running hands all over Sam's skin until he's tense and throbbing and wanting and trying very hard not to grab Dean and never let go?
Sam wishes he knew the extent Dean is willing to go for him. He wishes he knew the extent he was willing to go for Dean.
The phantom taste of Dean's come in his mouth tells him a little.
Or a lot.
Sam clasps his hands tight in his lap like he's been wont to do lately, half to feel the bites roughened up against his palm and half now to keep his cock shielded away in case his bulleting thoughts get too wayward.
He can't bring himself to give Dean permission to do anything. He can't bring himself to ask of Dean what he wants and what he shouldn't want. Things Sam can't quite give voice to.
As expected, Dean takes Sam's silence as acquiesence. The hand running goosebumps over Sam's skin finally lets up, a welcome relief from the heated whirling of Sam's belly, and Dean leans over the edge of the tub again.
His thigh pushes into Sam's side once more, strong and warm and pale. Sam eyeballs the flat expanse of flesh and feels the sudden feral urge to bite into it deep. The fat and muscle of it would give pretty nicely under his teeth, give him something to really sink his frustrations into. The pent up swirling lava in his bones would flood directly through that outlet.
Dean wouldn't like it. But Sam can't help imagining Dean's reaction if he did. How he'd probably hiss out an urgent breath through a clenched jaw, curl over Sam's back to get him to let up, drape his naked chest and arms against Sam so he can try and wriggle out of the trap of Sam's teeth.
Maybe an angry, wrecked little growl from deep in his throat when Sam finally tasted blood and he'd soothe the wound over with his tongue and that'd get him one of those soft little whines he loves so much. Dean would be swelling up in his boxers by then, thigh red and shaking in Sam's mouth and Sam would slide his tongue up higher, follow the thick muscle until he's at the hem of Dean's underwear and he'd—
"Hope you like the Irish Spring, Sammy."
Dean's moving, derailing Sam's insane thoughts as the potential target lowers out of biting range, unmarred and slightly freckled. Sam's definitely got blood rushing south, pooling warmly between his legs, and he works his jaw with deep, lungfuls of breath.
When Dean's heavy hands are back on his skin, it's like being pressed into the wood burning stove, burning and murderous. Sam twitches and goes overly tense.
There's the rough material of a washcloth soaked in body wash and Dean obliviously goes to work. He scrubs Sam's skin raw and pink like he can whisk away all the evidence of everything that's happened the past week if he works hard enough. Sam tries to ignore it all, tries to ignore the distracting weight of Dean's presence bowing down on him from behind, the smell of him, the feel of him.
It doesn't really work.
He can't adjust to Dean the right way anymore. He's starting to wonder how he ever did it at all. How they showered together that first night, the night Dean almost didn't recognize him. How Dean clung and growled and bit and insisted they share the small space as hot water pelted down on their bare, tired bodies.
How Dean moaned when Sam touched him and how Sam's dick didn't seem to care at all that it was Dean. Or maybe cared a lot, Sam's starting to worry.
Maybe he's always known, obscurely, plainly, in the way one knows simple facts in life. If you drop something, it will fall. If it's Dean, Sam wants.
Wants to bite into his soft parts, lick into his mouth, rut against his thigh, call him mine.
Sam won't read too much into what that says about him. About them.
He only accepts that it must be true. It must have always been true.
Before everything, Sam was always hazily, ambiguously attracted to Dean—beautiful, bright eyed, dorky Dean with his pink mouth and fluttering eyelashes. Sam always vaguely procured similar aesthetics, late at night with his hand on himself, imagining the feel of scruff scratching his thighs and a voice that croons when it calls him Sammy.
Maybe that's happened. (It definitely has.)
Fucking Dean was never a new concept to Sam, not really. It just never quite manifested itself into something tangible, never a coherent desire that Sam could make actual concrete sense of. Sam's always wanted Dean, just in a broad conceptual way that he couldn't see until he had Dean naked and sweaty and moaning against him.
He only needed the real thing to give shape to what was always there.
Now, after everything they've done and what they've awkwardly non-agreed to ignore of it, Sam's feeling heated and bothered and desperate under his brother's physical attention and it all makes perfect fucking sense.
Oddly, Sam thinks as Dean's rough hand shoves his right arm so he can scrub at his ribcage, it's a relief to know himself. To finally understand how he could've let Dean do all those things to him, how he could've done all those things to Dean.
It's not a contorted sense of entitlement or some misguided feelings of obligation, not a debt being repaid for all the years they've essentially belonged to each other in every way but physically. Not something bigger, deeper, or more.
It's physical attraction.
Attraction, Sam can work with. Attraction, Sam can shove down deep enough that it's nothing more than an uncomfortable memory. He can lock it away, beat it bloody until it's back to being that blurry, unplaceable hunger, the one he's always had but never identified. It can go back to being nothing. Meaningless. Normal. Sam will make it so.
"This hurt, Sammy?" Dean suddenly asks, still not speaking too loudly as he runs a gentle prodding hand along Sam's lower back and ribs.
There must be bruises, blotted and purpling, ugly from all the hits he took back with the vampirates. Sam can honestly say he hasn't noticed them. He's been too completely in his head with trying to make things normal with Dean. No time at all to spare a thought to his injuries. Hell, half the time he forgets his own leg is broken.
"Nah, I'm fine," Sam says and his voice comes out weaker than he intends, so he clears his throat and tries again. "It doesn't hurt, don't worry about it."
Sam always says that, don't worry about it. He always forgets it's the least effective thing he could ever say to Dean.
A simple hum of acknowledgement is all Dean offers in return, alongside the soft, distracting brush of fingers on Sam's skin likely along the various injuries. Sam shivers and Dean is immediately back to scrubbing down all the parts of Sam he can reach without adjusting their positions.
He's definitely going to keep worrying about it.
Maybe it's better that Dean's concerns are all wrapped up with Sam's wellbeing. It keeps him from thinking too hard about everything else.
Sam can do that for them. He can work through the physical attraction, the need to own and claim, the rougarou stuff. Sam can fix it all. He can get them back to the way they were before Purgatory blew their relationship wide open, reforming the pieces into something crooked and strange in the aftermath.
He's gonna put it back the right way, the way Dean wants. Like he doesn't want to eat his brother raw, like he doesn't want Dean to tear into his skin and call him his, like it never happened.
All healed.
As long as Sam can keep himself and his wants under control.
He thinks he can.
"Lean back, Sammy," Dean's saying and Sam's heart struggles against his ribcage at just how close Dean is. His breath is damp and warm where it ghosts over Sam's ear and neck, Dean hunching forward to pull Sam closer.
Sam almost falls into Dean, settling against his stomach, as Dean's arms loop around his neck with the washrag still dutifully in hand. The position is reminiscent of that time at Marley's, when Dean insisted on sharing that small bed and climbed into Sam's arms like a pleased puppy.
Now though, it's Sam who's being encased by his brother's protective limbs, his head resting against Dean's chest where Dean's bowing over him to scrub at Sam's collarbones. Sam only has to tilt back to stare up at Dean from below, the line of his jaw and jut of his chin.
An angry sound almost like before rouses in Dean's throat, ragged and feral. It doesn't startle Sam, rolling over him like an audible memory of the times Dean only spoke in teeth and growls. There's stroking hands along the curve of Sam's chest, up to the crease of his armpit, and Dean's huffing a frustrated breath.
"Vamps really got you," he says and the words are scraping on the way out. Sam remembers the scratching and clawing of the creatures and he knows he has the wounds to prove it in the long stretches of torn skin across his front. But it's the usual trophies of a hunt for them and he squints up at the underside of Dean's jaw, seeing the bob of his adam's apple.
"Not too bad, though," he offers, because it could have gone worse. He recalls the vamp that tried to sink its fangs into Sam's jugular. "I fought 'em all off pretty good." He smiles as he says it, sort of proud. It's not quite the massacre Dean can lay claim to but Sam fended for himself decently, all things considered. Getting out of a vampire nest with a broken leg and some scratches is its own feat.
Sam's about to brag a little more, but the washcloth drops into the water with a loud splash and Dean immediately bundles Sam up in clinging arms. His whole body is pulled up and back into Dean's chest, as Dean winds around Sam's back and shoulders to squeeze him tight.
Dean's cheek presses into the side of Sam's head, hugging close from behind like he can keep Sam safe if he clings hard enough. He probably would wrap his legs around Sam's stomach too if they weren't the only thing keeping him from sliding down into the bathwater.
It's warm and wet and overall would be gross and uncomfortable but Sam's practically being swaddled, clung to and bundled up in Dean's clutches, and it reminds Sam of something. That last shower they shared, after one of the vampirates tried to kill Sam, when Dean wouldn't let him go, nervous and flighty and balancing on a sharp edge.
When Dean had tears in his eyes and Sam never quite understood what had shaken him so much.
Here as Dean does the same, wrapping Sam up in his protective hold, the barrier between Sam and everything else, Sam thinks he might get it.
Dean's just scared of losing him.
Sam can relate. He pats at Dean's arm where it rests under his chin and leaves his scarred palm there, against the solid reality of his brother. He can hear Dean's breath stutter against his ear, a slight falter in the tempo of it.
"Dean?" Sam says carefully and hopes he can telegraph that he's okay, that Dean doesn't have to worry. He kept his Sammy safe.
It's not an unfamiliar ritual between the two of them. Dean always checks over each and every one of Sam's wounds and treats them if he decides they need it. Ever since he was a kid, Sam knows it's the only way Dean can make himself be okay with Sam hunting alongside him.
If Dean gets to lick his wounds and take care of his little brother, then it's bearable. It's worth it to have Sam by his side.
Sam knows because Sam is the same.
There's the stinging pull of wet skin on skin, Dean inhaling a deep solidifying breath that raises his chest into Sam's back. It's warm and real. Sam wants to assure him out loud. He wants to ask if he's okay and make sure Dean's taken care of too, but if he does Dean might let him go.
And Sam isn't quite ready to be let go. Here, wrapped up in Dean is comforting. Encasing. He's Sam's own private castle walls. Pulled tight against Dean's chest is the only place Sam's been that's never felt uncertain.
But even in Sam's forgiving silence, Dean still lets go.
There's one last hard, clinging squeeze and then he peels away like strong adhesive, leaving that cool emptiness in his wake. Sam barely resists following after him, sitting there with his face frontward, and waiting Dean out.
Waiting for him to brush it off and return to business as usual.
It only takes two short seconds for Dean to sniff loudly, a purposefully casual inhale. He says, "Water's gettin' cold, Sammy."
A perfect diversion, easy to brush off any emotions when you've got a rapidly cooling tub of water at your feet. Sam supposes he agrees. They couldn't have really counted on the bath maintaining any semblance of heat when the outside temps are dipping into freezing.
At this point, Sam's pruning up in almost lukewarm dirty bath water and he sighs because this is as clean as he'll probably be getting tonight. "Yeah, I think bath time's about done," he says to Dean, flicking at the soapy water and not looking forward to braving the cold cabin when he's wet and naked.
"Okay, let's get you up and into clothes quick. Don't want you getting pneumonia," Dean says pulling back on his customary Sammy Caretaker tone and slipping out from behind Sam to climb out first. Sam watches him fish around for the towel among the scattering of supplies on the bathroom tile and does not admire the swell of his ass in his thin boxers when he bows to grab it up. Not at all.
When Dean spins around with a threadbare towel in his fingers, Sam has the decency to glance away with personal shame. "Gimme your hand," Dean requests, offering his own and wearing an expression that seems to communicate, I am completely unaware of my little brother's horniness and it should stay that way.
It takes a lot of finagling and core strength to get Sam on his good foot and then on his ass against the edge of the tub. Water gets everywhere, each drop running down Sam's skin another icy pinprick in the crisp winter air of the cabin.
He's already shivering as Dean quickly drapes the towel over his shoulders, rubbing the material into his skin for much needed friction. Sam takes the ends for himself, doing his best to get as dry as quickly as possible, because the sooner he's dry, the sooner he's clothed.
Dean leaves him to it, reaching back to produce a second towel like he's got some hidden stash behind the kitchen chair. It flops onto Sam's head, covering his vision like a hood, and then Dean's ruffling his hair dry with tender, careful movements like he always used to do.
These days though Sam's hair is considerably longer and he already expects the offhand little comment that ekes past Dean's lips. It's heavy with a fondness that makes Sam's stomach tickle. "If you didn't have this mop on your head you wouldn't be shivering like this."
Sam can't see Dean because of the towel over his eyes so he assumes Dean doesn't get the full effect of his unimpressed scowl as he's scrubbed dry. It's only more annoying, because Dean's not totally wrong and Sam is perched ass naked in the freezing cold, frantically trying to mop up water and not expose his dick. All the while, his entire frame vibrates hard enough to make his teeth clack when he opens his mouth to reply in his defense.
But he doesn't get to actually say anything because Dean slips the towel back far enough that they can see each other again. The crows feet are distracting enough to stop Sam's words, those lines deepening in a soft grin.
Sam raises his head, straightening his spine so he's not slumped over anymore, and the towel falls backwards, down onto Sam's shoulders. Dean's hands still wrapped in the ends.
A breath, and Sam absurdly thinks that Dean's mouth is close enough he could angle up for a kiss. Like they would do. But then Dean's wiggling the towel, giving it a good hard yank that makes Sam jerk forward and flail his hands out to keep from falling into him.
He lands gripping, frantic fingers on Dean's hips, pulling at the thin cotton of his boxers and Dean just huffs a noisy breath that's almost a laugh.
"Better watch out," he says, tugging on a strand of Sam's hair. "Imma cut it off in your sleep." He's light and entertained like Sam's not level with his dick, eyeballing his navel and the short blonde tuft of hair that disappears just at his waistband.
Dean brushes Sam's hair out of his face and Sam sits back upright with an urgency that almost makes him nauseous. Left over from all the steam maybe. He immediately preoccupies his own hands with the towel resting over his thighs, feeling cold and murky and wanting.
He hates that he tilts his head into Dean's touch and wants nothing more than to use his brother's warmth to fight off the chill. He can't even muster the mock annoyance to shove him off like he should.
But it's always sort of been like that, he's just hyper aware of it lately.
Dean's fingers slide free and there's a palm patting at Sam's jaw, once, twice. It feels grounding, like Dean's trying to press his body heat into Sam, trying to stop his shivering with the bite of his hand. It rests there, against Sam's scruffy cheek, and Sam blinks up at Dean. He wishes he could tilt his mouth and dig into the flesh there.
Dean drops his hand.
"I got your change of clothes over there, just lemme get the trash bag off you," he says roughly, falling to a crouch at Sam's feet. His touch makes the trembling muscles in Sam's thigh jump again, alert and eager as he wriggles fingers under the edge of the duct tape.
It peels up with a stinging burn, leaving red and unhappy skin in its wake. Dean smooths his hand over Sam's bare thigh, palming the flesh in what is probably an apologetic way, but it only makes Sam's shivers kick right up into overdrive. His entire leg trembles like Dean's trailed ice over his skin.
Of course the movement makes Dean glance up at him with that concerned furrow in his brow, pouty and askance, and Sam just shrugs as his teeth clatter. He's careful to keep the towel pressed close over his hips, hitching it up as a protective barrier between his traitorous dick and his brother's mouth.
"Cold," Sam manages in a low grunt of a syllable, and Dean nods rapidly, completely tugging the trash bag off with his free hand. As he tosses it to the side, he leans over to dig through the duffel behind the kitchen chair, and for some reason, all this movement does not require him to lift his right hand from Sam's thigh.
Sam can only stare at the offending fingers pressing red marks into his goosebump riddled flesh.
"I dunno who's these are," Dean says like it matters, pulling a wadded up pair of black boxers up. When Dean drapes them over Sam's lap, he actually thinks miraculously that they might be Dean's. Which would mean Dean found them among his bag of clothes between the wall and the cot where Sam had stuffed them all back before—when he was alone.
He doesn't tell Dean they're not his. He wonders if Dean now would insist on trying to find some of Sam's own to wear on principle, and instead prods at Dean's hand still clawed into his thigh.
"Move, I gotta get these on," he mutters, wedging a finger up under Dean's palm and entirely coincidentally grazing the imprint of his teeth there. Sam might imagine the way Dean spasms like he's been stung, hand flying up off of Sam with a quickness that startles him.
Dean turns to completely focus his entire physical attention on getting more clothes for Sam to wear, blocking his face from Sam's view, but Sam can see the top of his left ear and it's flushed. Probably because it's cold.
Sam just redirects his own focus on parkouring his way into the underwear without falling over or tearing them. Or dropping his decency towel.
More clothing appears in front of his face once he's managed to get the waistband up over his ass, Dean having scooted back over to squat on level with Sam's knees (and his dick but he's not paying attention to that).
There's a pair of dark colored sweats that Sam doesn't recognize as being his or Dean's, which really means it's probably both of theirs, and a gray t-shirt that's as nondescript as it sounds.
"Here, Sammy," Dean says, thrusting the shirt into Sam's waiting hands and getting to work shimmying the sweatpants up his cast.
The whole ordeal takes an embarrassing amount of wiggling and when the sweats are up to Sam's pelvis, he has to slap Dean's hands back so he can do it himself. For the sake of his dignity if nothing else.
Maybe also to keep Dean's callus rough palms as far from Sam's ass as humanly possible.
Completely dressed, Sam still feels cold. He still feels that simmering need to grab onto his toasty warm brother and refuse to let go like he did when they were kids. When Dean still found it really cute and not annoying at all.
Sam can't believe Dean's still only in his threadbare boxers where he's casting frowns between Sam and the double bed out in the cabin.
"Are you gonna shower?" Sam asks, keeping his eyes glued to Dean's profile so he won't keep staring at the way the freckles go all the way down.
Dean scratches as the scruff on his jaw, still wearing that concerned frown, and just grunts an affirmative noise. Was there even a point to Sam's bath considering Dean's been half naked and all over him for the last half hour with his sweat and grease?
"C'mon, I'll get ya over to the bed, huh? With all the blankets," Dean says and Sam doesn't miss the way his green eyes rove over Sam's frame, no doubt counting each little unwilling shiver the cold sends through it.
Sam is probably sleepy enough to bundle himself up in the ragged, dusty quilts and drift off for the night. It should be brushing up on seven or eight now and the freezing temps do wonders for Sam's hibernation abilities. He could at least quit tying himself up in matted knots trying to figure out the best way to deal with Dean now that he's himself again.
Instead of answering, though Dean probably wasn't expecting one, Sam raises his arm like a little kid asking to be carried to bed. Dean responds to the gesture like he always has, soft quirk at the corner of his mouth, eyes all liquid warm and sliding into Sam's side where he belongs.
He takes Sam's weight easily, like it's never changed, wrapping a steadying hand around Sam's waist.
They move in tandem, Sam soaking in what's left of Dean's body heat and hoping he's giving some of his own in return. With the way Dean slots in against him, practically wiggling his shoulders so he can get in as humanly close as possible, Sam thinks he might be.
It's comfort and familiarity and home, and Sam almost wishes his crutches will mysteriously vanish so Dean can keep lugging him around. So Dean will stay close and tight and his. So they have an excuse to.
Rufus's cabin came with a single cot, sagging in the middle and stretching to its end days. Back when the leviathans were their biggest problem and Bobby co-opted the place as a home base, he dragged in more surfaces for occasional shut-eye. Things like a creaky wooden bed frame on its last rotting legs, and a mattress so lumpy and worn, its rusted springs might bust through and take a kidney with them.
As much of a health hazard as it probably was and still is, they usually played rock paper scissors for it because it was the biggest amount of space and Sam and Dean aren't exactly small. Obviously, this meant Sam spent more time on this mattress than anyone else in the last year and his back still remembers each sinking dip and prodding hill in its musty, outstretched surface.
"Careful, Sammy," Dean says, his new favorite two word phrase now that my Sammy has fallen out of favor.
Sam wants to make a snide comment about how he's always careful and also how if he had his crutches then maybe this wouldn't be such a precarious, two man effort. But he doesn't because he enjoys the attention, the warmth, the touch too much to complain about it. Even when he knows he should, if only because he would have before.
Sam settles on the edge of the bare mattress with a groaning squeak of old wood and recognizes several mysterious stains from the last time he laid there. One folded over pillow lays crumpled at the head, up against the logs of the cabin wall, and a heavy quilt is bundled in a heap, left in a hurry the last time Sam was here.
Dean disentangles himself from Sam's limbs, seemingly a concerted effort, and then he's waving a hand at the pillow and going for the quilt.
"Lay back and get comfy. I'm not getting up in the middle of the night because you got a cramp in your butt or something," Dean says but it isn't even remotely true and Sam just scoots himself up the mattress to flop down on his back.
It's a clammy sort of cold, the bed underneath him, the pillow wadded up under his head, and he abruptly misses Dean's heavy blanket of heat like a phantom limb. He tries to hide it and pretend he isn't cold. Because he isn't, not really. He just wants his brother.
The quilt is dusty and heavy when Dean tugs it off the bed with a flourish, sending everything into the air and shaking it out. Sam politely keeps his hands to himself, tapping out an almost anxious rhythm against the jut of one of his ribs as he watches Dean fold the quilt up into fourths. It's a good height to keep Sam's broken leg properly elevated and Dean gently slides it under, pressing the cast into the plush of the blanket to ensure it'll stay even when Sam sleeps.
"That okay?" Dean asks, resting a hand on the knee of Sam's cast and blinking big attentive eyes up at him. Sam nods, not quite trusting himself to say anything, in case the things he wants that are burrowing angrily in his chest manage to escape. Things like Dean's hand in his, his body draping over Sam's secure and heady, his teeth digging deeper cuts in Sam's skin.
There's heaps of bedding on the cot adjacent to Sam's mattress, about the distance between hotel beds, and pressed into the cabin's corner. Dean makes quick work of shaking out two thick comforters, layering them over Sam with careful attention. They're heavy and warm and almost, but not quite, as good as Dean, so Sam offers him a grateful half smile.
"I'm good," he says, burrowing his shoulders under the blankets and hoping his shivers are finally going to die out. Dean checks every hem and corner, alert for any bit of Sam that might not be properly covered. When he's seemingly satisfied, he offers Sam a wry grin and pats vaguely at Sam's chest through the multiple layers of blankets.
"Alright, need anything else before I ditch you for ten minutes?" Dean asks, glancing around the single room cabin as if something Sam needs will jump out and make itself known. Sam shrugs and tries not to preen under the weight of Dean's palm over his heart.
"Nah," he says, casual, and slithers a hand out from under the blankets to grab at Dean's wrist.
It's always so thin in Sam's oversized grip and the muscles along his knuckles ache to squeeze tight, dig in until he's got a good enough hold to pull Dean down on top of him. Underneath his fingers, the bones of Dean's wrist shift and Dean's staring down at him with eyes blown wide, eyelashes feathering out in slow blinks.
"Go shower, you're gross," Sam orders, prying Dean's hand off him and waving him in the direction of the bathroom.
For a beat Dean doesn't move, fingers of his right hand twitching into a fist and then he's clearing his throat and moving as directed.
"Yell if you need me," Dean throws over his shoulder in a voice that's ragged like tires on gravel. Sam doesn't say what he thinks, which is of course he will, he always does.
He just watches the shift of Dean's shoulder blades under his pale skin as he skirts the bed, and heads into the bathroom. Like usual, Dean leaves the door wide open behind him and Sam can somewhat make out the shape of him as he appears and disappears from view, getting ready.
A noisy gurgle tells Sam that Dean's draining the tub and then there's the angry roar of a showerhead spraying.
Sam reclines harder into the familiar bumps and valleys of the beaten mattress, not quite able to peel his eyes away even though the angle only offers him the shortest glimpses of movements. He can't quite see Dean, but he drinks up the shift of an elbow, and the fluff of his wet hair that he manages to catch, downing them all like being this far apart is sapping the moisture from his skin.
Like he needs Dean in his peripheral or he'll dry up and choke, parched.
It's pathetic. Clingy and petulant and dark and possessive and needy and wrong. He doesn't try to dig deep into the why of it. He doesn't try to think too hard about too many things. Like why he can't seem to get himself back on track. Why it's so difficult to be the way they were. Why Sam wants Dean—near him, on him, in him, with him.
There's too much swirling around in the mixer of his addled brain and Sam thinks maybe that head injury from before is to blame, but he's suddenly feeling hazy and heavy lidded.
In an effort to suppress the conflicting, roiling, monstrous thing inside his chest, he lets the foggy promise of an empty sleep crawl over his body and his brain and his eyelids. It's cloying like the steam of the shower, pouring into Sam's cracks and crevices and promising a momentary relief from the pressing, wanting, yearning of it all.
He drifts to the comforting lull of the running shower, coupled with the clambering of Dean's quick and efficient scrubbing, and finds himself in a conscious limbo between being completely blackout gone and semi cognizant.
When the shower finally shuts off, to be replaced by the thud of feet on wood, Sam's almost completely under. Eyes closed and breaths deep.
A vague awareness still clings to his eyelashes like webbing and he knows somewhere absently, uncritically, that Dean is close by. His body wants to move under the thick blanket of unconsciousness, but his heavy weighted limbs refuse to budge, and he's completely still when Dean hovers over him, dripping water from the ends of his hair.
"Sammy?" Dean says, whisper quiet, and Sam's eyes are too sticky to open again, but he wants to reply. He wants to answer his brother's gentle plea the way he's always done, Dean?
But his mouth won't move and his lungs remain steady, inhaling and exhaling in the calm metronome of sleep.
There's the barest hints of fingers in his hair, Sam barely registers the way Dean's brushing strands back. He's almost entirely dozed off when the soft press of familiar lips meets his forehead. A goodnight kiss.
Dean's goodnight kiss.
Tender and ever so careful, Dean murmurs a soothing, "G'night, Sammy," into Sam's skin.
Despite the ache, despite the wanting, despite Dean, Sam falls asleep.
Notes:
if you're feeling blue-balled, you're basically sam. and also maybe dean. but don't worry, we only have five chapters so like 50k words left, which means the good stuff can only be so far away ;) this foolishness can't last forever haha
and did i say thursday updates? i meant "late thursday" like basically "early friday" if you're not in the americas. that's just my brand now!!
Chapter 26: Us
Notes:
me texting my beta today: is this chapter ugly and boring? don't lie to me to make me feel better even if i will be devastated and cannot actually fix it in time
the beta in question: no, it is quiet but not boringi have now decided to make that the title of my memoir ┐( ´ д ` )┌
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sam expected a nightmare. Even now, with Dean back in every way he can be, Sam expected a nightmare.
He had always had them. Despite his brother sleeping solid and real in the opposite bed, Sam would dream of terrifying, eerie things that sprang him upright with Dean's name on his lips.
It's expected. Practically guaranteed.
But before, when Dean was all bite and growls and desperate clawing hands, Sam didn't have the dreams, the nightmares, the cold sweats, and the gasping, crying fights to consciousness. He could be naive and pretend it was a coincidence, something finally righting itself in his rattled, messed up psyche. He could, but he knows better than that.
It was Dean. It's always been Dean, but those times before, it was Dean. The heavy weight of him wrapping around Sam as they slept, clinging with all his limbs, his teeth. Overheated and promising safety, in the unwavering thud of his heart against their meeting chests, in the familiar smell of his skin and hair pressing up under Sam's chin. He was comfort and shelter. Home.
Sharing beds, sharing breaths, sharing bodies, Sam slept hard and well and happy because of Dean.
It's strange to gently break into consciousness alone.
Sam's twisted half onto his side in his sleep, broken leg barely resting on the edge of the folded quilt, and his pillow is a scrunched up ball of its former self, shoved up under his cheek. It wasn't a nightmare, not fear or loneliness or desperation that brought Sam gently into waking.
It's longing. A cool, vacant sense of loss.
His skin feels bare, like someone's ripped the blanket off his back and left him exposed to the dry stillness in the air. Unprotected and vulnerable. Sam squints into the dawn of the open cabin, sunlight peering through checkered curtains and casting everything in blue hues.
A groan surfaces out of Sam's throat, croaks free through an unhappy grimace, and he can't quite understand how naked he feels, how exposed. His arms are wound tight around the pillow, half for his head and the other half clutched tightly to his front like a shield. His blanket is still up under his armpits, covering him—protecting him.
None of it feels like enough. Sam frowns so hard his eyes hurt behind his eyelids.
He needs to take stock of everything and figure out why he feels so stripped and raw without the vague dread of a nightmare clinging to him. Rubbing at the dry spit at the edge of his mouth with the mushed corner of the pillowcase, Sam forces his lagging brain to muster up the facts of the situation.
Sam slept alone last night. Without Dean. He was alone and he managed to fall asleep without the pressing, suffocating, sweet weight of his brother wrapped around him.
He didn't have any bad dreams. Nothing forced him gasping into wakefulness and his heart rate is steady, breaths even.
Something's still off.
Sam shifts under the blankets, rolling onto his back, and pushes himself up. It actually takes some effort with his cast and comforters wound in a mess at his waist and hips.
Sitting up, Sam's hair sticks to his face and probably looks absolutely ridiculous, all disheveled and unkempt from tossing in sleep. Dean would definitely crack a joke or two at his expense. In fact, he should be doing just that in the next few seconds.
Sam digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, pushing the last of the groggy unawareness out. He's off kilter, disoriented, and he needs something solid. Real.
"Dean?" he says. His hands drop into his lap and he glances around the cabin in search of the only stability he has.
He doesn't find him. Dean's not there. Not in the cot up against the wall or spread out on the couch watching daytime cartoons. Not kicked back at the kitchen table eating a bowl of Lucky Charms or wandering around the bathroom with a toothbrush humming AC/DC.
Dean's gone.
Sam's chest inflates. He sucks in the air like he's been thrown out into a vacuum chamber and it's the last bit of oxygen he has left. His heart pulses frantically, kicking up into his ribcage and upsetting his overfilled lungs, punching out a gasp that feels something like panic.
He's gasping, throwing the blankets off and pulling his legs over the edge of the mattress.
"Dean?" he calls again, louder this time, more forceful, and he wishes he had his crutches—doesn't see them anywhere. But he needs to find Dean, Dean is more important. Pushing up onto his good leg, Sam stumbles slightly and has to catch himself against the hard wood of the wall, palm aching.
"Dean!" He struggles to limp over to the door as quickly as he can, casting wild eyed glances out the windows, around the cabin, as if he somehow missed the presence of his big brother.
Everywhere he looks, he's alone, and his breath is punching and gasping and he's almost to the front door, practically falling into the kitchen table in his desperation. His good knee hits hard and loud against the edge of a chair and it topples sideways with a clatter that startles more angry, thudding heart beats out of Sam's aching chest.
Shoving off the table, he practically drags his useless leg behind him, clambering to get to the door and throw it open, to shout for his brother, to yell for him because he needs him.
He fiddles with the doorknob, cold fingers scrabbling at the slippery metal and making him curse under his breath, another ragged gasp of "Dean." It's less of a call than it is a desperate whine, but he's got the door flying open.
Wild eyes skate the melting snow of the landscape outside and Sam's lungs hold enough air in them to get a coherent thought through his stuttering mind. The Impala.
Baby is still here. Trunk open wide, exposed.
This observation is followed urgently by a hiccupping, anxious cry. "Dean!" It flies out into the snow, into the emptiness, and Sam's so scared nothing will answer it.
The furious groan of grating metal is enough, when the Impala's trunk slams shut.
Dean's standing there with grocery bags heaped on his arms. "Sammy?"
Whatever Dean sees, his face drops immediately into an alarmed scowl. Sam can't even muster up the coherency to say anything, panting out puffs of breath into the cold, hair frazzled and eyes wide. He just stares back, feeling absolutely lost with a wordless relief.
It takes just one short blink of a moment and then Dean's rushing around the Impala, bags dropped unceremoniously into the snow behind him. He reaches his arms out to Sam as he ascends the porch and comes within reach. "Sammy, what's—"
Sam beats him to the punch, grabbing him by the shoulders and jerking him almost viciously into his chest. He wraps him up in his arms and clings close enough to bury his face in Dean's neck. Dean wheezes when their chests collide and Sam only squeezes him harders, frantic breaths finally easing out in a grateful sigh.
Sam doesn't let go. He holds Dean so tightly to himself as if he can force the anxiety out through his airways, into the frigid air, dissipating up like the steam of his breath. He aches with it and he wishes he could crawl into Dean's skin, live inside him, inside the castle walls of his body.
A hurt and fragile sound escapes past clenched teeth.
Immediately, Dean's arms come up around Sam's back and hold him just as closely. But they're much more gentle, careful like Sam's a feeble thing, prone to shattering. Sam shakes in Dean's arms, lets him take on the bulk of him. He wants nothing more than to collapse into Dean, share the burden of their lives, the weight.
Dean just stands there, holding him as he breathes into his skin, soft relieved sounds past his lips. They puff out against Dean's neck, right where Sam's lips just lightly brush the heat of his skin, and maybe Sam presses them close on purpose. Maybe he mouths there just a little because he can't quite bring himself not to.
He wants to bite. He wants that heady, sinking, claim to dig deep into Dean's body, like anchors preventing him from ever drifting away.
Sam wants to own. He wants to punish Dean for leaving him, to cling to him so he can't again, and instead of that (because of that) he presses the ghost of a kiss to Dean's neck and forces himself to pull back.
Not completely. Just enough to look down into Dean's face with an accusing, wet eyed, terrified glare. "Don't do that," he says almost a growl. "Don't leave."
Dean swallows, the sound is audible, and his hands rub circles where they rest on Sam's back, slow and soothing. His eyes are huge under downturned brows, surely confused at Sam's angry, desperate demands. But he just nods. Once.
"Okay, Sammy." It's a quiet and careful murmur.
Sam watches those green eyes dart all over, taking Sam in, trying to understand maybe. They rest on Sam's mouth, hesitate, and flit back to meet Sam's gaze. "Sorry, Sammy," he says with a rough sort of ashamed tone. His hands slide to rest on Sam's waist, digging in enough to hurt. "I'm sorry."
Those long lashes fan out over unbelievably contrite eyes, huge and shiny, and he's all twisted up like guilt is sunken into every single crease of his face. Sam wants to kiss them away, to press his lips against each line and smooth them out, heedlessly forgiving. Though he absolutely can't do that.
No matter how much he aches to, no matter how little he understands in this moment why he can't, why he shouldn't. He just can't. Sam's been burying these impulses his entire fucking life, it's not going to stray now.
He blinks hard, sees spots, and hopes when he opens his eyes, he'll be okay. In control.
It sort of works.
He doesn't kiss Dean's mouth and lick his tongue and bite his lips and say, my Dean.
"It's okay," he manages, nodding to himself. He can't quite look Dean in the eyes, and he can't quite let Dean go. "It's okay Dean, I just—I freaked out, y'know? You weren't there and I—I don't know. It's okay, I'm okay."
He feels more like he's trying to assure himself, his own quivering confidence, the weak muddled thing inside him that just needs and needs.
Dean angles his head to the right like it'll give him a different view, a clearer view, and then he's prying his fingers off Sam's sides, leaving a throbbing in their wake. "It's cold, Sammy, get inside," he says, uneven, shaken.
An arm slides under Sam's, support, and Dean hauls Sam along, barely disentangling their bodies, like doing so might unravel Sam's sanity again. Maybe it would. In dutiful silence, they stumble back into the relative warmth of the cabin, attached from the shoulders down.
Rather than depositing Sam on the couch like before, Dean leads them to the kitchen table and helps him rest on the chair that hadn't been knocked to the ground in Sam's frantic mad dash to the door. After Sam's finally settled, Dean picks up the fallen chair without question and rights it beside Sam's cast.
Somehow, Sam's hand is still wrapped in Dean's jacket and he realizes it's Dean's actual jacket now. Not Sam's. This only makes it harder for Sam to let go, his fist curling into the material even tighter. It's like he's three years old again, his big brother Dean leaving him for the first time, no longer sleeping in late mornings curled around him in his crib.
Sam's so frustrated and embarrassed and furious. He wants to cry. His eyes burn and he's suddenly so young and scared.
"Sammy?"
Dean's voice is still low and careful, obviously trying to keep the balance from collapsing any which way. He turns in Sam's hold and wraps a hand around Sam's wrist like Sam had done to him so many times before. The touch is warm and solid and real and Sam wants to twist so their hands are clasping tight and tangled together like they used to do.
"Your hair's crazy," Dean says when Sam doesn't say anything. He raises his free hand to brush Sam's hair down for him, less teasing than Sam would've expected
Leaning into the curve of Dean's palm is almost instinctive now and Sam angles his head just enough that Dean won't notice. Or he hopes anyways as Dean lets his hand slide down to pat Sam's jaw in a platonic reassurance of a gesture.
When Dean drops his hand, Sam knows he needs to let Dean go. His fingers twitch in Dean's jacket, a natural inclination to resist, but Sam pries them free, releasing the grip on his brother. The sense of entitlement, the ownership. Petulance erodes way to something clearer, more sane.
Dean moves too, releasing Sam's wrist as Sam pulls back. Their movements are too coordinated, too in sync, and Dean's fingers brush along the remnants of the bite in Sam's hand. Sam still feels that leap in his chest when Dean touches it.
He wants him to bite, to assure, to tell Sam he won't ever leave him, to tell Sam he's Dean's. Like he would've done before, but Dean quickly steps back and away, letting Sam's hand hover empty between them, untouched.
Sam can't bring himself to look at him when he speaks with that assuring, big brother tone. "I'm just gonna grab the bags outside, okay Sammy? I wanna make breakfast," he says and he manages to sound almost normal. Like Sam didn't practically tackle him and demand he never leave Sam again.
Something shameful and furious melts into Sam's organs like dripping wax, clogging up his insides and solidifying into an unignorable mass. He can't keep the miserable thing off his face, letting his hand fall to his lap so he can push into the bite mark with a preoccupied thumbnail.
It's hard even to make himself nod, a stuttering jerk of a thing, but he needs Dean to stop watching him with those big, worried eyes. As if Sam's fragile, as if Sam needs to be coddled.
"Okay okay, yeah go," Sam forces out, going for a casual affectation, because Dean won't move until Sam's given him the go ahead.
He should look back up at Dean and give him one of his confident smiles, with teeth and dimples, but he doesn't want to face Dean again. Now that the clarity of Dean's presence has whisked away his anxiety, Sam's left with nothing but a mottled rock of disgruntled embarrassment in the pit of his stomach.
He can see Dean's hips in his peripheral vision. He always has to keep the smallest view of Dean, if he wants to keep from grabbing. There's the fumble of movement, the barest hesitation, as Dean finally turns to leave. Sam bites the inside of his cheek so his hands won't reach back out, so he won't pin Dean back down with bratty, needy demands.
Dean leaves the space Sam can consider close, and as he goes it feels as if Sam is being dragged after him but he can't follow. It tugs and insists and irritates under Sam's skin, an itch he can't find and he has no idea when he became like this. Like Dean had been.
When did they switch roles so completely? At what point did Sam's brain flip?
Now it's taking everything in him not to growl and bite and grab onto Dean like he owns him, like he's Sam's. Just like Dean did before, just like Dean isn't doing anymore after he pressed some mystical reset on his brain.
Sam hates that he wants to question it all. He wants to poke holes in Dean's sudden return to normalcy if only so it'll mean more touching, more teeth. Kisses.
Selfish and stupid.
It takes Dean less than a minute to reappear, several heaps of groceries in his hands, a kick of his foot throwing the door back open. He's panting like he ran and Sam wipes his face as clean as possible of everything he's thinking about.
"You got it?" he says carefully casual as if he doesn't want an excuse to touch Dean again. Dean just heaves a breath, chest and shoulders rising with it, and drops everything on the table in front of Sam.
"Please, I can carry a few bags," Dean says with a scrunch of his nose as he starts pulling food out. Sam glances over the haul and counts nine different bags of assorted supplies. There's several bags of chips, three loaves of bread, two gallons of milk, and three boxes of cereal among a sea of canned soups and familiar frozen delights like pizza rolls.
He raises his eyebrows. "Think this is a little more than a few."
Dean only waves a hand like the difference is negligible.
"Whatever," he says, dismissive, and tugs out a carton of eggs. Sam hopes they didn't break when Dean dropped everything and ran to him. There might be guilt about it, but it's swirling up and mixed around with something that feels suspiciously like pride.
Popping the carton open, Dean inspects each egg and is seemingly satisfied when he shoots Sam a lopsided grin. "You just sit there and look pretty. And I'll do all the hard work, alright Sammy?"
It's obviously a dig, brotherly and annoying, and an instant retort falls onto the back of Sam's tongue, ready to insist he isn't pretty, shut up Dean. But it doesn't get voiced, it just sits there unspoken, fizzling away with the flush that burns his upper cheeks. The heat of it is just more embarrassment, more shame.
Maybe something else too, but Sam just rubs at his face to give himself a good excuse.
Not that Dean seems to notice anything, shuffling around in the cabinets in search of a pan. Sam just traces the lines of his shoulders beneath his jacket, the jeans that finally fit him around the hips now that he's wearing his own clothes. For the first time in almost a week, Dean looks completely like himself again under all those familiar layers.
It's strange. He's acting like Dean again, he's looking like Dean again. He's really, truly back and healthy and normal again. Sam appreciates it, he does, or he's trying his best to. He's trying his best to turn off his brain and enjoy the familiarity of everything as Dean plops a pan down on the gas stove top.
"Scrambled eggs sound good to you?" Dean asks, turning back to the table to grab up the eggs and salt. He pauses to raise his eyebrows at Sam, then glances him over with those concerned eyes Sam's been subject to his whole life. "You cold? I can help you to the couch, get some blankets."
He's standing there balancing food in one hand and a spatula in the other, and Sam doesn't doubt he'll drop the poor eggs again in a second if Sam asks. His face still feels kind of warm, kind of red. Kind of flushed. He hopes he isn't getting sick.
He hopes it doesn't have anything to do with Dean's attention, his willingness to go along with whatever Sam says.
"I'm okay." Sam wonders how many times he's going to say that now with Dean on high alert for any tiny bit of discomfort. "Gonna eat soon anyways."
Dean watches him for a long second, squinting like he isn't sure if Sam's lying, as if Sam would lie about that. If anything, Sam debated saying he's freezing just to get Dean to come smother him with some more physical affection, starved and nearly delirious enough to do it.
Finally, Dean shrugs like he's sliding a weight off and turns back to make their breakfast. When they were small kids, it was always cereal. Easy enough for a seven year old to manage. Dean picked up pretty quickly how to cook hot meals for Sam after a year of whiny complaints.
Dad certainly didn't teach him, Sam's pretty sure he gathered it all from occasional babysitters and random chefs on daytime TV. Maybe a pointer or two from Bobby after one distressed phone call and a burned pot of spaghetti-o's.
Considering the way they grew up, living on the Impala's stash of cans and dried noodles, fresh eggs were a sort of rare, celebratory (and expensive) treat. Scrambled eggs on a hot plate was one of the first things Dean made from scratch.
They weren't perfect by a long shot, a little bit soggy, a little bit under salted, but bright and yellow and delicious anyway because Dean made them. When Sam ran off to Stanford, he tried to recreate them, but he never quite got it right. He never quite figured out what was off about them either, what he forgot to add.
Dean brings the pan to a sizzling heat and Sam's eyes stay glued to his back. It probably wasn't the eggs that were missing something.
Yet even now, with Dean right there and technically within reach if Sam just limbs his way around the table between them, there's some inexplicable distance. Sam is free to watch him, to drag his eyes over every inch of back and waist and hips, and he can even talk to him and get an actual Dean-like response.
Dean's close now, closer than they often are on long days, but it's like something has knocked loose inside Sam's head. He knows how the other side lives, he knows what he could have, if he was greedier, if he was more selfish. It's like this will never be close enough again. Not until they're on top of each other, inside each other, a single body.
The idea is ridiculous, impossible even.
Sam only wishes that was enough to put it out of his mind. After the fear and frenetic energy of waking up without Dean close by, without him close enough to touch and keep safe, Sam's coming up with nothing but justifications and he's starting to feel like he's the protective, clingy brother of the two.
All he can remember is Dean soaked in blood, fighting creatures without Sam backing him up, driving off in the Impala with an empty passenger seat, and it's sickening how his stomach flips and flops and hurts. He could almost cry in frustration.
It shouldn't be so easy for Dean to leave him like that. He should cling and scent Sam's throat. He should press his tongue to Sam's skin and mark him, demanding Sam be careful. He should bite him, the promise that they'll always come back together, ensuring they won't be apart for long.
Sam should've done that. Last night. Before Dean could disappear on him again.
He can't stop eyeing the hint of Dean's neck he can see over the collar of his jacket and his mouth is filled with fresh spit. Sam wants more than anything to believe it's because of the smell of simmering oil and not the sudden, painful need to taste his brother.
It isn't like Sam doesn't know the truth. He's still pathetically trying to square away the fact that he's somehow physically attracted to Dean on a level he's always sort of known but never given thought to. Now it's like this stupidly, obvious elephant in the room, except the elephant is just the way Sam can't stop tracing his eyes over Dean's wide, sturdy back.
If Sam's leg wasn't busted, he would drag his chair closer and grab onto any bit of Dean he can dig into.
Which deliriously reminds Sam of a pressing issue. He asks, "Are my crutches still in the Impala?"
One of Dean's shoulders hikes up, not quite startled so probably some sort of an answer. He cracks two eggs in one hand and Sam can only tell because of the familiar crunch of them.
"Yeah, I'll get 'em later," Dean says without turning around, apparently deciding further explanation was necessary.
Something seems to be going unspoken, in the way Dean doesn't even glance at Sam, in the way he only brushes him off. Sam doesn't know what Dean's not saying, or how to demand to hear it, so he just sits back in the wooden chair with a creaking noise.
He might be dependent on Dean's role as his personal crutch for a while yet.
This isn't actually a bad thing. Well it should be, but it's not. If Sam could have his way—his clingy, stupid, selfish, post-abandonment way—he'd have Dean against him all day. All night even.
The nightmares from before would never come and neither would that crushing sense of missing something crucial, that vulnerability, Dean would chase it all away. He wouldn't be able to sneak off when Sam's asleep either. He'd be trapped in the barricade of Sam's arms, the way it should be.
Tracing the slight taper of Dean's waist, Sam can't help but viciously wonder just where Dean ended up falling asleep last night. Where exactly had his brother chosen to curl up, if not on Sam? Wherever it was, Sam childishly hopes it was uncomfortable and Dean was miserable.
There's not really any indication in Sam's pre-sleep haze last night. He can only sort of remember faint wisps of events, like Dean dropping a shampoo bottle with a curse and the wet slap of his feet on the ground. Maybe Sam dreamed the quietest murmur of Sammy and something soft and pleasant and soothing.
Reluctantly drawing his eyes away from Dean, Sam spares a quick glance around the cabin. The cot rests against the far wall with its undisturbed blankets. It doesn't look any different than yesterday, not even slightly disheveled, which could mean Dean was extremely meticulous this morning. Or he slept on the couch instead.
Dean hums something low under his breath, almost a tune but not quite enough to register, and Sam decides he should just ask. It's a safe topic. Banal, platonic. Normal.
"Where'd you sleep last night?"
Dean's hand jolts and a bit of egg white flips off the spatula and onto the stove top. It sizzles with a pop of a sound and Sam's eyebrows raise. He didn't intend to freak Dean out with the sudden question, but there's a muttered little shit and Dean's waving the spatula up for Sam to see. Clearly an admonishment for startling him.
"Didn't sleep that well, so kinda everywhere," he says without turning to look at Sam, extremely focused on the eggs. It's the exact kind of non answer Sam probably should've expected. Dean has a tendency for vague half-truths, especially lately.
With that answer, Sam wouldn't be surprised if Dean didn't sleep at all, but his face hadn't looked tired. No dark circles or deep lines or unhappy little pouts like he gets when Sam doesn't bring him morning coffee on a case day.
When Sam dragged him into his arms and clung like a big cry baby, Dean looked like he had slept pretty well. At least he looked better than yesterday morning. Maybe the whole time in Purgatory has changed his circadian rhythm? They're not new to shifting around terrible sleep schedules.
Or maybe Dean isn't telling the truth.
Sam doesn't want to worry about that. He doesn't want to be overly concerned about whether Dean's hiding things from him again. Sam hates wondering if Dean's lying to avoid Sam's overinvested prying and prodding like he so often does. Like Sam knew he did before the massacre in the vamp nest.
It's strange to think that all of those secrets and omissions from before were all just Dean's messed up way of keeping Sam in the dark about his disreputable acts in Purgatory. As if any of that would have bothered Sam. As if Sam would've cared had Dean just told him outright.
Dean taps his booted foot, shoving the eggs around in the pan, and apparently quite okay with not speaking anymore. He obviously has no idea Sam's staring at him with an odd sense of—not quite suspicion, but maybe doubt? Confusion? Vague lack of understanding?
Sam watches Dean cook with a steadily creasing frown.
If he really digs into the facts, no longer completely blinded by the relief of Dean's sudden return, Sam can admit it's a little odd. Dean said he spoke less and hid things because he was scared Sam would realize he remembered and make him talk about everything. Back at the hospital, Dean seemed anxious, overly concerned that Sam might somehow judge him for being what he became out of Purgatory.
On the surface, Sam took that explanation at face value. He only wanted his brother back, he didn't really care about the truths and the why's when Dean was right there staring at him and talking and being Dean.
In reality, to Sam, Dean's reasoning isn't quite enough.
He hid so much and he acted so different, how can it possibly all be covered by the vaguest fears of Sam's judgement? Dean was absolutely determined to avoid Benny, to the point he even tried to divert attention back to Liz Lafitte rather than bring Benny up.
He refused to tell Sam he remembered anything at all until he absolutely had to, hell, Dean hadn't even wanted to talk. But he sure could talk enough to threaten Benny as soon as Sam was out of earshot. If he knew Benny might say something, about Dean and Purgatory and what he did, he must have remembered pretty damn early. Did he ever even forget?
The sheer amount of effort and secrecy doesn't add up to what Dean's confessed. At least not completely. Why hide it at all? Why let it go so far? When exactly did Dean come back to himself and make the decisions that he did, the choices? Sam tried asking him, in that hospital bed, and Dean only gave him the vaguest idea. But Sam's realizing he needs to know. Exactly when, he needs to know.
At what point was Dean operating totally as Sam's big brother and not the creature Purgatory molded him into?
Before the bites? During the kisses? After the sex?
Sam squeezes his palms together, relishes the burn of it, because the answer, the when of it, is integral.
It means something. It tells a very important story that steers the course of he and Dean's relationship. It determines what the fuck happened to them.
Sam doesn't have the answer and he's starting to think he never will. He can never find the courage to bring it up. He can't just demand Dean tell him the last final bit that could close the door on this terrible, mixed up week for good. The why'd you kiss me of it all that he can only bring himself to whisper in the safety net of night.
He can't ask because it always means giving voice to the other thing, the reality that Sam's willfully ignoring, the clawing, clinging, desperate letting.
"This time, we got plates," Dean announces loudly, throwing a cabinet open and pulling two out for the scrambled eggs. It's enough banging around to rouse Sam out of his spiralling thoughts and he doesn't know if Dean's doing it intentionally or not.
He doesn't mention how they used to eat when they were kids in shitty motel rooms without any dishes, stabbing forks into a shared pot between them. It meant sitting close, Sam situated happily in Dean's lap as they inhaled the ramen Dean was getting great at making.
Sam almost wishes he'd thought ahead and thrown Rufus's four ceramic dinner plates out the window. Not that he's constantly looking for an excuse to be close or anything.
Dean sets the breakfast down on the table, one in front of Sam and one to Sam's left. It's the space with the closest chair to Sam's side. He goes back to grab glasses and forks and Sam tries not to get excited that Dean's finally going to be near again. Finally within reach, within sense, body heat and familiar Dean smell.
Maybe Dean's doing it for Sam's benefit. He's very obviously still anxious and fidgety, clutching his hands together and watching Dean like a hawk. They both know it's just aftereffect of their abrupt separation, adrenaline still flushing its way out.
Maybe Dean just wants to sit close too.
When Dean settles down with a sad creaking of a chair, he bumps shoulders with Sam and lays a fork in Sam's open palm. It's cold against his bite and Sam pushes into Dean's space to grab a bit of soggy eggs from Dean's plate.
He doesn't think too hard about it, popping the food in his mouth easily and leaning back without a word. Dean's eyes are hot on the side of his face, just for a moment too long, and then he's silently mimicking the gesture, taking a bite off Sam's plate too. Ritual complete.
They might always be rougarou married now.
Upholding this new and kind of ridiculous tradition just seems like the only fun Sam can really make of the situation Dean's unintentionally put them in. Sure, Dean said they should forget it all, pretend none of it ever happened so they can enjoy being brothers again. Sam plans to abide by that as best he can, hopefully, maybe, as long as he can get his jittery self back under control which is sort of a toss up after this morning.
This small thing, though, the most innocuous of behaviors, Sam's going to keep. He can't help but want to. He misses it, what it represents.
After all, it's not much different from the rest of their lives. Sam always goes out of his way to find a good greasy dive for Dean. Dean always tries his best to provide for Sam too, has been ever since Sam could remember.
This food sharing is the same thing, just slightly tweaked.
What if Dean's behaviors have all just been that? The same, but slightly different. What would that mean?
"Well, dig in," Dean says, bringing Sam out of his head again with an expertise that's bordering on intentional.
As he's done so often before, Dean waits for Sam to eat first, watching him scoop up eggy bites and shovel it in his mouth with a little pleased grin. He's always pleased with himself when he gets to take care of Sam, his favorite job. Sam's used to the treatment and shoots him an approving thumbs up so they can both enjoy breakfast.
Time passes in relative silence, nothing but the clamber of metal on ceramic plates and noisy chewing. Sam's looking for something to say, something to fill the air between them that isn't demanding and grabby. The rest of the plastic bags are still littered across the table top in front of their plates, the dramatic amount of groceries Dean stocked up, and Sam swallows.
"They think you were doom's day prepping?" he asks, waving a hand at all the junk.
Dean swigs down the rest of his glass of milk and smiles around the white mustache left behind. "You should'a seen the cashier's face. Had to explain it's for a camping trip so she didn't think I was in a cult or something." He licks his upper lip to get at the last of the milk, looking quite proud of himself. "She was sweet though, said I'd be a great homemaker."
Sam frowns at him and Dean shrugs. "I don't know what it means either. But I kinda got the vibe it was a compliment 'cause she was laying it on pretty thick. I might'a got lucky tonight if I didn't have your ass to get back to." He chuffs a little laugh to himself, flicking an accusing fork in Sam's direction.
Something swirls uneasily in Sam's stomach, pushing the eggs around, and a deep scowl sets into the lines of his face. A sudden annoyance mixes queasily with an undeniable wave of satisfaction.
Of course, Dean is here with Sam, taking care of him and choosing him and being Sam's. Of course he is. Not off fucking around with random strangers he comes across like his libido is insatiable, like Sam's not enough.
It's a possessive, viscous, grippy little thing in Sam's gut.
Instead of grabbing for Dean like he immediately wants to do, Sam just rolls his eyes and shoves his empty plate away.
The uncomfortable brand of Dean's assessing gaze sears into the side of Sam's face and he resolutely doesn't spare a glance. He doesn't quite give Dean whatever reaction he's clearly searching for, if only because his reaction can't possibly be what Dean hopes to happen.
Something like yanking his hand over, into Sam's mouth, tearing in his skin, whispering my Dean into the calluses there. Which Sam won’t do, because Sam is definitely, one hundred percent in control of himself despite the jitters and the discomfort. Completely.
So rather than forcibly biting into Dean's unsuspecting palm, Sam stretches. His hands go up over his head and he relishes the ache of his shoulders and back muscles pressing hard into the chair behind him.
The tight, relaxing pull does well to distract from that agitated thing cloying up in his stomach, and he has to fight the urge to groan out loud at the relief of it. He can already tell his body is not going to appreciate being cooped up over the next several weeks, horizontal and totally immobile. The coiling tendons in his lumbar region are already preparing to bitch and moan.
Dean's still watching him when Sam opens his eyes again and subtly checks. There's a fork resting between Dean's teeth, lips parted for it, and Dean looks contemplative. Almost fascinated.
Sam drops his arms with a heavy exhale, falling forward into a lazy slump. The urge to ask Dean for a future massage bubbles back up again, dumbly, like Sam has enough mental stability to survive that. He wants to say he does, that he could manage.
Sam knows he doesn't, not really, but he misses Dean's touch so bad he feels like he's sincerely willing to demand whatever he can get however he can get it. If it means Sam having to retrain his dick not to react positively to his brother's attention, so be it. It's a change he has to work on anyways, right? What better way than exposure therapy?
Sam feels like he's shooting back over that line between being in his right mind and hallucinating the devil.
Before he can start to question his reality again and press into the multiple scars in his left palm, Dean pushes at his bicep for attention. A quick flash of touch that Sam's sorry to acknowledge he practically chased after, inclining just a fraction.
"What'd you do?" Dean suddenly says, voice all gruff like he wasn't ready to speak yet, but he forced it out anyway. The fork slides free from his teeth and he lets it drop completely onto the plate with a clatter. Sam stares at him and Dean elaborates after an audible swallow. "When I first disappeared, what'd you do?"
It's out of the blue and perplexing. Sam's eyebrows sink into a frown and his eyes skate off Dean's face to his shoulder, his chest, his right hand. The answer would be heavy, laden with a neediness they both know exists, a loneliness they both can't stand.
He doesn't think Dean's asking about that, about the feelings they feel when they're separated. Dean must only be curious because Sam's so clingy now, so petulant, so demanding. He must be wondering how Sam survived. Sam feels like he almost didn't.
Rather than explain all that, he says, "I drove."
He can't offer anything else. He doesn't want to think about it. That creeping, cold touch of a creature at the back of his neck. The paralyzing fear that knows he can't live without Dean. That loneliness is worse than dying.
It was three months on autopilot. No specific goal, no specific attempt to do anything at all except not drive himself off the nearest cliff.
Dean just grunts an acknowledgement, like it's enough, like he understands. Sam doesn't realize he's letting out a held breath until it's deflating his lungs, chest falling into a collapsed bow.
Without warning, Dean leans into Sam's space and pats his thigh like he's been doing lately. It's a familiar weight that Sam wishes would never leave.
His fingers squeeze into Sam's flesh and there's a crooked grin slopping onto his scruffy face. Too light, too nonchalant. "What, no pretty girls then?"
The question is supposed to ring cooly, jokingly. Their usual jabs that keep the mood casual between them, and don't let the overwhelming, flooding truth of them take over, drowning out every last bit of normalcy.
It's supposed to, but it hits in Sam's chest strangely. It comes out of Dean's mouth a bit jilted and Sam doesn't know what strikes so wrongly, but he knows he needs to keep the answer casual in spite of it.
He remembers how alone he was, how desperately he missed Dean—how he always always misses Dean—that mounting surge of relief when he finally had him, injured and scared, but back in Sam's arms.
How Sam frantically drove him to the nearest medical facility he could find and there was that nice doctor who helped them despite how suspicious they were, despite how insane it all was. He never asked for her full name, too caught up in Dean like he always, always is.
She really was the only other human Sam interacted with between losing Dean and getting him back, pretty girl or not.
"Other than Dr. Richardson? No," Sam says to maintain that attempt at casual. He always remembers the names of the people who help him keep Dean alive, even when Dean was at his most unaware, growling and spitting and tackling Sam to the ground. Her kindness, her concern, was a steady presence in the face of Dean's baffling return.
Sam almost wishes he could thank her again.
Dean, beside him, digs his fingers in harder than Sam thinks he's done since Sam woke up in that hospital. His grip pulls at the flesh of Sam's thigh through his sweats, each finger a throbbing pressure point of near pain in the thick muscle of it. Sam's leg shifts without his permission, stuttering up into Dean's hold and he's staring over at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean who's got a scowl twisting his mouth, gaze hooded. It's somewhat accusing.
"Thought you said you didn't even know her," he says and the words are rough, annoyed, obviously unhappy. Sam blinks, confused in the face of Dean's sudden downshifting mood, and cocks his head to the side.
"I… don't? It was a joke, Dean," he clarifies and feels extremely stupid doing so, because he can't tell if this is some sort of schtick Dean's putting on for laughs or if he's actually angry about something. He's acting as if Sam remembering the name of a single person in their lives isn't allowed. Like it's some kind of affront on Dean's place in Sam's life.
The muscles in Dean's face twitch, jumping like he's trying to determine what the proper expression is for this conversation, and he settles on an even deeper scowl. That hand clenching would-be bruises into the meat of Sam's thigh doesn't seem to be joking around either.
Sam enjoys the ache of it too much to tell him to stop, and he only innocently raises his eyebrows in the face of Dean's apparent aggravation.
"Really, Sammy?" Dean finally growls and he sounds like he used to sound. It's the gravel Sam's used to hearing right before Dean digs his teeth into his skin, and he hates the way a thrill swirls up his spine at it.
And that explains all Sam needs to know.
Putting it into the context of Dean from before, owning and feral Dean, it makes all the sense in the world. Even Dean just being Dean has acted this way, annoyed and bitter that Sam would dare have anyone else in his life without Dean's permission.
Big brother jealousy, Sam always dubbed it. This very same scenario played out between them back in that ratty motel room. It was about Dr. Richardson then too, right before Dean bit at him and said my Sammy.
Here again, with Dean's fingers branding marks into Sam's thigh, Sam hits on the strikingly familiar realization that this isn't just the innocent, brotherly jealousy he always pretended it to be. It's ownership, it's marking, it's feral just like before. Except Dean's himself now and he doesn't have an excuse, and he's marking and owning Sam anyway. It means something more.
More what, Sam can't say.
Somehow the both of them have managed to act like jealous, bitchy lovers in the span of about ten minutes. Sam doesn't know why the idea doesn't freak him out as much as it might've once.
"Really, Dean," he finally assures, careful and kind of amused. He forces an exaggerated glance down at the palm pressing a handprint into his leg, because he can't really make himself say anything about it out loud.
It works as intended. Dean tears that intensely pouty stare away to follow Sam's eyes and, as if he hadn't known that was his hand on Sam's thigh, he jerks up and back with a fury. Sam watches him flail, arms tucking back against his sides like they can't be trusted, with the darkest glower on his face.
There's the growl of a throat being forced to clear and Dean's very sternly glaring at the last of his eggs.
"Sorry, Sammy," he mutters, quiet.
Sam won't make him elaborate on what exactly the apology is for. Is it the touching, the marks he definitely left in his wake, the smarting throb of Sam's skin where he squeezed too hard, or the jealous, grumpy attitude? Could be all of it, so Sam finds he doesn't really want to know.
He just misses Dean's warm hand gripping into him like he owns Sam, like Sam is his and nobody else's, never will be and never was. Never had a choice. His chest is achy and his lungs are liquifying in his ribcage and he has to change the subject before he says something stupid.
Something needy and greedy and filled with teeth.
"What'd you do?" Sam asks so he doesn't say the other thing. He absently pushes his left hand into the space Dean's vacated, rubbing at the soreness to keep it alive. Dean cuts him a sideways look, and just as Dean had before, Sam elaborates.
"When you disappeared, what'd you do?"
Somehow they're always really asking the same question: What are we, without each other?
Sam probably shouldn't have asked. Not if Dean's been traumatically affected by Purgatory, not if it's no different from his time in Hell—no different from Sam's. It makes his stomach quiver, but Sam doesn't take it back. He just lets it sit there for Dean to ignore or not.
There's that familiar clenching muscle in Dean's jaw, his eyes skipping back to the plate in front of him, but he doesn't look distraught. He doesn't look like Sam's thrown him over a fire and demanded explanation. No budding tears, no furious scowl.
"You saw, Sammy," Dean answers after a few soft blinks, the kind that makes his eyelashes ghost over his cheekbones. Distracting. "I hunted."
He doesn't need to say more. He doesn't need to talk about the blood, the monster he became to kill the monsters he chased. It's Dean's own drive. The drive to kill anything and everything, to channel that fury, that anger, that base instinct Dean's had since Dad first gave a child a shotgun and said kill it, son.
Dean could massacre the whole world, so long as it's not got Sam.
Sam knows and understands and doesn't care because Sam's the same.
One of those flashes of a weak smile blinks across Sam's face, just a quick raise of the corners of his mouth. A nervous gesture more than anything, but Sam says what they've known, what they've said before.
"Guess we really suck without each other." He means it to sound objective, plain and simple. True, because it is, but his throat sabotages him and he comes out shakier than he intended.
Dean snorts a breath through his nose, shaking his head once.
"Yeah, but we knew that," he says, and it's just as offhand. Just as true, but it's rough and laden with something gooey and Sam frowns because it means something.
It feels like it means something more than their simple words are saying, more than the lightness of their tones, more than just a patented Winchester truth of their fucked up, miserable lives.
It's different, in the wake of everything that's happened this morning, it's so drastically, ridiculously different. After Sam's desperate, clinging, crying demands for Dean never to leave him, and Dean's clawing, digging, angry jealousy, it feels like they don't know what they're saying anymore.
It's like they have no scale for the weight of their words, but they're still true and sincere and honest somehow.
There's something else buried in there, laced in every syllable, heavy and dripping. It's more.
Sam could draw a conclusion from all this, Sam actually does draw a conclusion from all this, but what Sam says is, "TV?"
It's the only thing keeping his inquisitive fingers from sneaking over to sink into Dean's skin, from searching for the answers under those freckles.
Dean shoots up, kicking back the chair in his hurry.
"Yeah, yeah, lemme put this up," he says with an eagerness that betrays how happy he is to have the subject flittering off nonsensically into wordlessness. Sam throws on a half smile, like he's just as invested in getting them out of this strange mood, and he is.
Though Sam's more invested in looping his fingers through the waistband of Dean's jeans when he leans over to grab the dirty dishes.
"I got firewood too," Dean says, escaping the orbit of Sam's reach to take care of everything. "Finally put the woodstove to use and keep us from freezing our balls off."
His back is to Sam again as he moves around, and Sam feels cool when Dean's not exuding his body heat nearby. Which is natural, obviously, but Sam wonders if it's good enough of an excuse to get Dean to sit close. If Sam can use it to keep Dean near enough to grab in case he thinks leaving is okay again.
Sam wants to tie Dean down and keep him close and never let him escape again. After everything today, he wants to be selfish and bratty and entitled like he has a right to be. Like Dean's tacitly given him the right to be his entire life.
The tack of his clinging thoughts is gummy in his head, molding together into something behemoth, unruly. Sam flexes his fists on the table as he watches Dean work with an attentiveness that should worry him, but doesn't anymore.
The shame and constant overthinking are giving away, crumbling underneath Sam's precarious resolve, and when he looks at Dean, he feels owed.
His left hand stings, bite stretching and red and trying in vain to heal. It's bright and unmistakable, a poignant reminder as much as it's a painful taunt. Dean promised to wrap it for him.
Sam presses his nails into the skin, cutting his eyes over to drink in a glimpse of the matching one on Dean's. Just as worn, just as irritated somehow, even without Sam's doing.
He's beginning to think they'll never heal.
He won't let them heal.
If Sam is owed, he's going to take.
Notes:
sam always comes THIS close to getting it with his big, overanalyzing, dramatic brain. in the end sometimes it's just easier to make it up on a whim lol the next update is TOTALLY platonic and 100% not dirty at all, nope ;)))))
i'm writing this fic's final chapter this weekend :> anybody got any must have's before we get off [this rollercoaster]? (ง ื▿ ื)ว
Chapter 27: Bound
Notes:
i'm late! i know!! i would blame work (which i could tbh) but i really think it's because the closer we get to the end, the more anxious i get T_T i just don't wanna disappoint any of you so i feel pressure when i edit like IS THIS OK??? and then i procrastinate, bc i'm nervous….. anyways! sorry for the wait, and thank you for the KUDOS MILESTONE!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There's a shared sense of triumph when Dean finally manages to get a fire going. With the help of several bits of firestarter, a tiny little flame kindles up into something hungry and hot inside the narrow confines of the wood stove. It greedily eats through three of the logs Dean bought before he deems it self sustaining enough to leave it alone.
While Dean was tossing in scrap paper and poking around in the flames, Sam laid propped up on the couch and let the fuzzy signal of the TV's antennas choose their entertainment. Hours passed with enough daytime reality shows to melt his brain right out of his ears, and Sam would be lying if he said he remembered any of it.
It's probably a fair observation to say his mind didn't come back online until Dean finally left the fire alone to shuffle back within reach. Not that Sam reached out for him when he settled on the floor with his back to the couch. In fact, Sam stayed very very still, hyper aware of the way Dean's shoulders pressed against his good leg where it stretched across the cushions.
Sam can and can't believe how ridiculously distracted he was by that fact for a good three episodes of a teen pregnancy, a plot twist ghost reveal, and two breakups. He was so distracted that he's only aware those events even happened because Dean kept up a running, highly opinionated commentary.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, while Sam was debating how best to ambush him later, to take, Dean eyeballed the TV with an unabashed enthusiasm—none the wiser.
"If Kate would'a just exorcised Ally like I said, this could've all been prevented," Dean says over the fuzzy sounds of an actress screaming. His mouth is full of chips and he noisily crunches through them when he shoots Sam a glance over his shoulder.
It's just a quick flick of a look, like he's seeking some kind of agreement or even a disagreement so they can argue about it. In reality, Sam knows he's just checking on him. Always casting sidelong stares in his periphery to make sure Sam's not uncomfortable or bored. Sam is both, but he's very good at acting like he isn't.
For Dean's sake, he shrugs. It’s the only reaction he can really muster to the comment since he has no idea what Dean's even talking about. They've been watching the same thing for hours, pausing only for Dean to make them sandwiches and later noodles. Sam's butt went numb around noon and he's probably molded to the couch by now, sweatpants fused to gray corduroy by sheer blobbiness.
If he moves, the blood flow will get back to all the sleeping bits of his body and hurt like a bitch. Sam has been busy mentally prepping for the psychological impact of losing his toes for the last three episodes of whatever's playing. At the same time, he's ensured the spot where his knee meets Dean's warm back stays perfectly still and close and capable of feeling. He might be savoring it too much.
In an attempt not to look suspicious when Dean spares him his assessing glances, Sam's been staring blankly at some point above the TV set and thinking very hard about various things. Like how cold he's going to be tonight, what Dean's weight would feel like if he laid over him, the itch of his bite that keeps trying to heal against his permission, every single possible iteration of a conversation that starts with so lets hold hands.
Each one of them leads back to Sam's rights as an injured little brother, as Dean's, to demand things and get them. Things like touching, like cuddling, like sharing a bed and a couch and a breathing space. It's not even sexual. Or at the very least Sam is going to make very sure that it doesn't come out that way.
He just wants to hold Dean. Hold his hand, his face, his chest close to Sam's. If anything, Dean wanted the same back then. Doesn't that mean it's okay? Shouldn't Sam be allowed to want these things? Sam can take. He wants to take.
It's just really hard to draw the line between taking what Sam's owed and taking everything.
How far Sam's willing to go is something he can't, or maybe doesn't want, to know and any attempt at voicing these thoughts to Dean would just come out stupidly bratty at best. Pathetically selfish and wrong, at worst.
Rather than open his mouth and let something insane crawl out, something Dean might take in a strange way and bristle around, Sam quietly stares. He keeps his leg angled just the right amount to keep pressing into Dean even when he shifts, and internally whines because he'd much prefer skin on skin. The soft plane of Dean's back would give so nicely under the point of Sam's knee.
It's traitorous wants like these that remind Sam how harsh he was on Dean when he first got out of Purgatory, when all Dean wanted was to crawl into Sam's arms and stick to his side like a persistent, needy little burr.
Back then, Sam put up his token resistance, shaking off Dean's hands and teeth and his constant, desperate stares. Sam pushed and refused and tried very hard not to stick so close. He hadn't even wanted to share a bed that first night.
All of that denial and protesting for what? Some odd idea of personal space? Some misplaced sense of what they should do? Dean only wanted to be close to him, clutching for his little brother when he was messed up and scared.
Laying on the couch now, deprived and wanting just the same, Sam wishes he could go back to that time and give as good as he got. No more pushing Dean off him, no more swatting his seeking hands back with some excuse about normalcy or what brothers do.
Obviously, they're not just brothers, obviously they're not normal. Sam's already figured that out. He's already given voice to the words. They're all they have. Don't they deserve to be a little touchy, a little physical, a little close?
The rationalization sits somewhere just left of making sense. It's not quite enough for Sam to use as an excuse. He can't find the right words to say to Dean without sounding suspiciously like just touch me again, jerk.
Even if he did, it's the exact opposite of what Dean said he wanted. Ever since recovering, Dean's done nothing but signal how very much he wants things to go back to the way they were before all of this happened to them. Before Dean happened to them.
It makes Sam pout like an oversized baby, slumped against the couch's armrest and stewing in his self imposed misery. The trips back and forth from the bathroom are the biggest doses of Dean that Sam's managed to get after he hugged him hard enough to squish his ribs this morning.
Since his crutches are still yet to appear, Sam's still slinging an arm over Dean's broad shoulders to get around. Every time Dean lowered him back onto the couch, it's taken an embarrassing amount of willpower for Sam not to tug him down too. Or at the very least keep him from escaping Sam's hands.
"Burn Ally's bones! Burn them and it'll solve all your problems Kate, c'mon!" Dean slaps a hand against his raised knee as the credits begin to roll and a commercial for a heartburn medication cuts in. Sam still has no idea what's been happening on the drama that’s played for the last five hours.
"Sammy," Dean says, providing Sam with a great excuse to look at him. He's tossed the half eaten bag of chips on the coffee table and leaned into Sam, reclining his head back to rest on the slight rise of Sam's thigh. His hair is disheveled and Sam wants to make it messier, fingers twitching, and he resolutely doesn't move.
Under Sam's attention, Dean turns just enough to press his cheek into Sam's sweatpants, aiming a grin directly at Sam like some sort of shiny, indulgent attack on Sam's self control. "Wanna sleep now? It's gettin' late and you got your tired eyes going," he says through that grin, practically soft with it.
For a worryingly long second, Sam thinks Dean's offering to go together. That he'll help Sam limp to the ratty mattress, lay him gently down and crawl on top of him, burrow in with his sleepy heat, and fall asleep without nightmares. Sam's whole body aches with it like he never decided to be a good brother who doesn't cling to Dean, doesn't kiss, and bite and crave.
All of that seems to have burned away the moment Sam woke up in bed alone.
Dean's grin slides away into an almost pout, lips poking out, and he picks his head back up off Sam's leg with raising eyebrows. "What?" There's a slight urgency in the word, like Sam's hurt, like there's a good and reasonable explanation for Sam's silence. Like it's not because Sam wants to curl around his brother and never let him go.
"Nothing," Sam says, swallowing an impulse that flits into his fingers and makes them stutter against his stomach where they lay. It draws Dean's gaze, his whole body shifting where he sits to turn completely towards Sam, and Sam immediately covers the bite with his other hand, shielding it from Dean's curious eyes.
He doesn't want Dean to say anything about it anymore, to offer to fix it, to act like he regrets it. Like he regrets all of it.
The way Sam doesn't.
"Well? Sleepy or not, huh, I don't got all night," Dean says after dragging his gaze away from Sam's hands to pin Sam with a heatless glare. He raises his arm to pat demandingly at the couch cushion, barely brushing Sam's side when he does, and Sam startles upright, away like Dean might grab for him.
"Yeah, yeah, okay," he says in a hurry, but he's momentarily derailed by the clear view of Dean's matching bite, resting close enough to tear into. Sam licks his bottom lip, completely unrelated to this observation, and forces his own gaze back to Dean's face. Back to safe ground.
Dean is watching him with those bright green eyes, they blink a few furious times and if Sam followed the track of their gaze he would end up licking his lips again. As if reading the wayward track of Sam's thoughts, Dean flicks a tongue out to wet the corner of his mouth, bites just slightly into the plush of it, before shoving up to his feet.
"Let's go then, sasquatch," he mutters through that twisted mouth, somehow looking at Sam but not looking at Sam. When Dean leans down to slip under Sam's arm like usual, his stare jumps everywhere across Sam's face that isn't his eyes. Sam isn't sure if he's avoiding them on purpose as he's tugged up and into Dean's side.
Using Dean as his makeshift crutch is so routine at this point, Sam's forgotten the impulse to even ask after his actual crutches anymore. There's been plenty of time for Dean to go get them from the Impala's backseat, and every time Dean helped Sam limp around the cabin, Sam worried he would finally remember to.
He hasn't yet, and Sam's not going to say anything. He dreads the moment Dean will finally get tired of him clinging so closely, of needing him for every little movement, but somehow Dean still hasn't complained.
Up under Sam's arm and pressed in, Dean's warm and heady. It's stupid how tempting it is to lean heavily into him, to force him to take most of Sam's weight. Secretly, Sam has the smallest wish that he'll push hard enough to topple Dean over this time, knock him to the ground and pin him down and refuse to let him escape.
Dean doesn't fall over despite Sam's best attempts, he never does.
His arm flexes over Dean's shoulders, curling close to hook around Dean's neck and squeeze him tight to his side. Surely, Dean only thinks Sam is worried he'll fall if he doesn't cling to him. Surely, Dean has no idea Sam just doesn't want him to pull back.
They maneuver over to the mattress with a familiar ease and the motions are reflexive, but no less gentle when Dean helps Sam lay back. None of it is any different than the millions of times Dean used to tuck Sam into bed, lugging his legs over and pulling the thick comforters up to his chest.
He even still wears that pinched brow of concentration, mouth downturned, as he gets everything just right. There's the customary Sammy once over and Dean drops his hand on Sam's heart, just above the edge of the blankets.
Just like last night, it's an almost absent gesture and Sam zeroes in on the comforting pressure of it spread across the flat expanse of his sternum. He spent the entire time zeroing in on every inch of contact they made, every single press of Dean's expert fingers into his lazy limbs. An unintentional focus Sam can't seem to shake.
Just like last night, Sam wraps a hand around Dean's wrist, the hard angle of bone depresses his fingers when he lightly squeezes. Last time, Sam only grabbed Dean to throw his hand off him. A casual push towards the showers so Dean would stop giving him that assessing look he always gets when he's taking care of Sam.
Often, when they were younger, Sam would grab onto Dean in a similar way. Before Dean could leave for his own bed, Sam would clutch at Dean's skinny wrists and cry and beg him to sleep in Sam's bed, stay with Sam. It always worked.
Without fail, no matter what mood Dean was in, no matter how many times Dad scolded them for it, no matter how grown up Dean wanted to look, it worked. Dean would always crawl into Sam's bed if Sam asked him to. Always pliant and coddling, despite everything. Even now, Sam can even hear Dad's protests echoing in his head, the rough and tired growl, quit babyin' him or he's never gonna stop.
But Dean didn't want Sam to stop. He couldn't have when Sam never even had to ask twice. In the face of Sam's request—Sam's need for his brother—Dean would make any excuse, any reason for why this time, tonight, just this once, it was okay to share. Then he'd crawl in with Sam, curl around him and kiss him good night with one of those big, dorky grins on his face. Pleased as pie.
Sam slept best those nights.
He still does. He still feels warm and safe and protected in Dean's arms, under his weight, surrounded by nothing but Dean.
"Sammy?"
It's nearly a whisper. Sam can't look at Dean's face. He doesn't want to see what kind of expression he's wearing with his hand over Sam's chest and his wrist trapped in Sam's grip. He doesn't want to know if Dean doesn't like it, if Dean's waiting for Sam to let him go so he can go sleep wherever he slept last night.
That hand over Sam's thudding heart shifts when Sam only hums a questioning noise, Dean's fingers dig in just a little, wrinkling Sam's shirt. Sam can feel his own heartbeat in his veins. He can feel Dean's pulse under his thumb. They might be in sync.
Sam doesn't want to have nightmares. He doesn't want to wake up like this morning again.
He doesn't want Dean to go.
Grip tightening, hard this time, hard enough that Dean's arm flexes, Sam's nearly holding Dean to him. In the quiet, he says, "You should sleep here."
Here as in this bed, here as in Sam's arms, here as in with Sam. Close and kept. Safe and my Dean. Sam can't say all that out loud though. He can only say as much through the tight and restraining hold he has on Dean's wrist, imbuing his aching fingers with everything he doesn't give voice to.
Dean's wrist shakes in Sam's hand, not necessarily trying to escape, but trying to do something that isn't staying there. A soft little choked noise forces out of Dean's throat when Sam doesn't give, and he clears it, loudly, roughly, obviously. It's almost awkward, almost nervous. Dean's other hand raises to push at Sam's grip, not too hard, not too desperate.
"I'm good, Sammy," he says, but his words sound muffled as they slide past his pursed lips. His fingers are pushing into Sam's bite where they're trying to loosen Sam's grip and it sends electric pinpricks straight up Sam's arm. It makes him want to clench down tighter, harder, if only so Dean will tear into his wounds to escape.
Vindictive, possessive, Sam grits his teeth and refuses to release Dean. Neither of them are looking at each other's faces, stares fixed on the trap Sam's made of their hands.
Dean's fingers finally still, resting over Sam's knuckles, for the time it takes him to heave a huge, exasperated sigh. "Dude, I can sleep on the couch or the—the cot, or somethin' don't worry. We're too big to be sharin' this tiny bed, okay?"
He's nearly rambling when he hip checks the edge of the mattress, jostling Sam and the bed and their twin grips. "And your leg is busted up, I'd probably kick it in my sleep, huh? You want that?" Dean speaks lightly with a punched out sort of chuckle, an attempt at joking around, but his pulse beneath Sam's thumb is racing.
They're all excuses, all so stupid and pointless, and exactly what Sam doesn't want to hear and he doesn't care. Dean never refused him this before. He never came up with a million reasons why they shouldn't, he never said no, he never tried to pull away. And Sam was the same.
He was the same as Dean, letting Dean crawl into his bed, lay over him, hold his hands, cling and bite and claim him. At first, sure at first, Sam was hesitant about it all. But he let it happen after that first night. He stopped refusing Dean when Dean needed him.
Sam couldn't turn Dean away when Dean was hurt and wanting his brother.
Something sharp and stabbing pierces up into Sam's lungs, inflating them right up under the weight of their hands, and Sam's furiously thrumming with a righteous indignation.
Face twisting into a scowl, Sam glares hotly up at Dean like he's betrayed everything Sam's ever believed him to be, like he's betrayed Sam, and Dean's staring down at him with those shiny, big eyes. His stupid long eyelashes glitter with something damp and he looks anxious. Flighty and guilty even, almost scared.
Sam doesn't care.
Sam's hurt and wanting his brother.
"Sleep here."
It isn't a request or a casual suggestion or some plausibly deniable afterthought Sam's thrown out to be polite.
It's a demand. It's an order.
A claim.
Sam's fingers wedge up under Dean's palm, against the bite there. He scrapes his blunt nails over it and relishes the way Dean sucks in a sharp breath, eyes still big, still shiny.
"Sammy, I—" He stops and flits his gaze around the cabin, frantic, searching. "I gotta put out the fire, man, and get the trash and change and, and brush my teeth, you should just sleep. I don't wanna—"
Dean's breath stalls, an almost gasping hiccup of a sputter, when Sam leverages his grip to pull Dean down on top of him by the arm.
He hits the mattress with a hunter's reflex, angling his hips and knees so he doesn't completely collapse onto Sam, bouncing against the edge of the bed. Sam doesn't let up on the grip he's still got around Dean's wrist, holding it aloft with a punishing squeeze. Hopefully hard enough to leave some sort of mark.
Dean's half splayed over Sam's stomach, free arm bracing across Sam's ribs to prevent a face to chest collision. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are parted, breathing like he's just run somewhere far and fast, like his entire world's been up ended. Huge eyes stare at Sam through the shadow of a frown that can't quite seem to understand what's happened.
They're close enough like this that Sam could kiss him. He could sit up just enough to slot their mouths together and finally get that taste back on his tongue. It's an unbidden and familiar intrepid thought that invades Sam's sense of reason as his gaze falls to Dean's pink lips.
When Sam speaks, he sounds like he's begging, pleading, whining. "Dean, please. Don't leave again."
He might have pulled out the wet eyed, sad, soft expression that always has Dean giving in completely, to anything, to everything, to whatever you want, Sammy. Caving to a doting indulgence as easily as breathing.
It's playing dirty. It's using every resource to get Dean to go along with Sam's ugly, needy, clingy sense of entitlement. But Dean never says no to Sam unless he really doesn't want something. Sam just can't believe that something would ever be him.
The arm bearing down on Sam's chest is a heavy pressure, heavier than it has any right to be, as if Dean is actively pushing into Sam, weighing him down to the bed. It's unbelievable how much Sam enjoys that idea. Dean licks his lips again, leaving a spit shine in the wake of his pink tongue, and Sam tracks the movement like he thinks he always has.
Rather than say anything, Dean simply thumps his head down beside that bar of his arm, against Sam's ribs, and exhales hugely like that one breath is filled with every ounce of reluctance Dean had swelling in his lungs.
The damp heat of it escapes into Sam's shirt, sending a pleasant buzz through the expanse of Sam's torso. Sam doesn't get a moment to enjoy it because Dean balls his hand into a fist and shoves hard enough into Sam's chest to punch out an oof of a noise from Sam's mouth. It erases the pleasant buzz and makes the muscle there throb, just beneath the anti-possession tattoo.
Sam definitely should've grabbed both of Dean's wrists.
When Dean finally raises his head, his cheeks are still red, still glowing under the freckles Sam loves. He's shooting Sam a very unhappy glare.
"I'm still wearing jeans," he says as he shifts to lay more of himself over Sam's front and the side of the mattress. It gives him enough leeway to petulantly kick his knee up into Sam's side, just this side of too hard. A very apt punishment for the manhandling Sam gave him, but Sam's grinning wide and toothy as he squirms away from it.
Because he's finally won.
As if bequeathing Dean with a great reward, Sam kindly releases the grip he had on Dean's wrist, prying his fingers free. They come away with a numb sensation and Sam ensures he gets one last scratch into the imprints of his teeth along Dean's palm before dropping his hand.
Dean visibly winces and Sam's grin only grows bigger.
Free to grab at something else, Sam pushes at the knee Dean's still punishing him with. Pinching at the denim of his jeans, Sam says, "Take 'em off then, get comfy."
He's very gratified in the face of Dean's utter disdain if only because he knows it's mostly for show. Sam can tell by the purse of his lips, pouty but not a dimple to be seen above them, in Dean's patented pretend to be annoyed by Sammy's antics expression. One of Sam's favorites, it's usually accompanied by a reluctantly acceding yeah, whatever and a masterful change of subject.
Dean eyeballs him in silence, knee still trying to take Sam's spleen out, and Sam just raises his eyebrows. Equal parts expectant and innocent as if he has no idea Dean's trying to wait him out of this particular request. Dean tracks a searching glance all over Sam's face, like some hint that this is all just a big joke is hidden there.
Whatever he finds, he pushes up off Sam's chest to sit up straight.
"Are you serious?" he asks and the skepticism is just as heavy with suspicion. He's still very much kneeing Sam in the side like if he's annoying enough Sam will change his mind and kick him to the couch.
Sam rolls his eyes and follows Dean's lead, pushing himself off the bed so he's more upright too. His actions also conveniently lessen the space between their chests. Glancing over at Dean's jeans, at the knee that finally can't reach his organs from this angle, Sam fights to keep his grin down to a more manageable half smile.
"Yeah, why? Need help with your jeans again?" he says and hates how easy it is to sound deadly serious, like he's not joking, like he's offering and very glad to do so. Dean's face, which had dimmed down to a safer pallor, immediately fires back up into an embarrassed flush. He's all red and the angry dimples appear over his mouth.
"Uh no, thanks. I got it," he says through the frowning curl of his lips, already flipping onto his back to get himself free of his jeans without Sam's offered help. It's sort of impressive how quickly he undoes the button and zipper, shucking them over his hips and down his legs with a speed Sam hasn't seen since the days Dad made them run drills.
Distractingly half naked, Dean bundles up his jeans with a few punches that seem a bit too aggressive to not be symbolic. When he chucks them like a football across the cabin, he growls out a displeased, "There. Happy?"
Sam has enough shame not to readily confirm that yes he is very happy as Dean casts forlorn looks down at his bare legs like he's willing them to sprout another pair of jeans. In a bout of extremely poor judgement, Sam follows Dean's gaze and has to resist the sudden and disquietingly strong urge to grab onto Dean's bare thigh where it rests, pale and unmarked, just inches from Sam's fingertips.
He recalls with a stunning clarity the feel of the flesh under his grip, the way it hardly gave when pressed, muscles clenching and quivering, how Dean bracketed Sam's hips with them, sat in the dip of Sam's pelvis like he belonged there.
Sam wants to touch. He wants to grab Dean by the waist and haul him over his front like another layer, another blanket to keep him warm. More than that he wants to pull Dean's face to his and bite his lips. He wants to shove his hand past the band of those thin boxers.
The want of it unfurls in Sam’s chest like a feral and urgent creature. His hands ball up in the comforter's edges.
"This bed isn't big enough for us, Sammy." Dean's still whining, glancing around with a fidgety denial. He's rubbing at the skin of his thighs with rough palms, either to work out nervous energy or because the cabin's too cold.
Sam can solve at least one of those issues.
"It's bigger than the bed at Marley's," Sam says congenially, flopping back down onto the mattress with a puff of dusty air. Dean's watching him pitifully, still pouting and still red faced and still shiny eyed. Sam meets his gaze with an encouraging smile, like he isn't thinking about how milky soft Dean's thighs were under his calluses.
He pushes those errant thoughts down and out of sight in favor of throwing his blanket open in invitation. As if that isn't enough, and it might not be, Sam stretches out his arms across the pillow and pats at his own shoulder with his other hand. "C'mere."
There's no room left for misinterpretation. Sam very clearly intends for Dean to drape over him like he did so many nights before this one, tucked into Sam's side so closely that he sleeps on Sam more than the bed itself. Just like Sam likes it.
Dean swallows, Sam can see the bob of his adam's apple, and his eyes are jumping all over Sam again, from Sam's mouth, to his shoulder, his chest, his jaw. Maybe also giving Sam ample time to change his mind in the face of Dean's apparent hesitance, his jittery, stilted energy. Of course, that's the last thing Sam would do. He only pats his shoulder again with an expectant smile.
"Can't believe you're makin' us cuddle," Dean mumbles through a pouty lower lip, but it's merely a token complaint. He slides in against Sam readily, no stopping or stuttering or second guessing, Dean slots over Sam like it's his natural place.
Sam expected him to keep as much distance between their bodies as he could manage on the worn double mattress, but he doesn't. Dean moves like liquid, pouring into the empty space Sam's made for him and filling it completely without a single drop of spillover.
His head fits easily in the hollow of Sam's neck, between his chin and his chest, cheek pressing warm and scratchy to Sam's collarbone. His left arm takes its place back across Sam's chest, a heavy bar pinning Sam down like a restraint. And when Dean plops a leg over Sam's hips, curling around him like a koala with his favorite tree branch, Sam stays silent.
He's kept close and contained within Dean's hold and Dean's so warm somehow, even though Sam's the one with all the blankets. He's soft too, despite the solid weight of him. There's give where Sam needs it and bone where he doesn't.
They slot together almost uniformly, as if in all the ways that Dad raised them for each other, this was taken into account too. As if Dad said to them, okay now boys, you have to fit perfectly together and they grew to match, grew to fit. Made for each other.
"You're lucky you're warm," Dean says in a low gravel, barely discernible where he's mashed into Sam's shoulder. He pulled the blankets up to his armpits, properly covering them both with an assessing eye, before burrowing completely into Sam's body with a merciless grip.
Sam hums, knowing the vibration of it will travel through Dean's cheek, and takes Dean's settling in as permission to do the same. He finally curls his arm around Dean's back, squishing him closer to his side like he might try to weedle away in the night, like he isn't allowed to, like he's Sam's.
Dean squeezes Sam in return, hard enough to ache a little, and it could be a threat. But it feels even more like an assurance, like mine too.
For the first time since Dean pulled out of his arms in that hospital room, Sam is satisfied. A heady rush like relief washes through his limbs at every point of contact, radiating as if Dean's body heat is its fuel, and Sam wants to laugh with it.
He wants to nuzzle his face into the hair that's tickling up under his jaw and smell that eucalyptus mint shampoo sample and sweat and Dean. He's melting into the mattress, turning to goo and molding around the line of Dean's body against his, pooling in Dean's arms. Nothing but a pliant putty under the watchful protection of his brother, of Dean, of the only thing Sam has.
His eyes are already drifting shut, toasty and snug in Dean's limbs, and he knows there won't be any nightmares. He won't wake up alone and cold and missing Dean.
In the dim last light of the dying wood stove fire, Dean turns his face just a little. Sam would almost call it unintentional, but something soft and plush presses very lightly to the bit of skin peeking over Sam's shirt collar. Warm and damp enough it could be a kiss, or just Dean shifting to get comfortable.
Either way, Sam feels as much as he hears Dean murmur, in a husky near purr of a voice, "G'night, Sammy."
A singular thing that seems to never change, no matter how different everything else has become. Sam exhales through his nose and whispers a wanting, scraping reply. "Night, Dean." It wafts up into the cold night air.
He wants to say more. He wants to kiss Dean.
But he satisfies himself with the pleased croon Dean mumbles against his neck and doesn't struggle for sleep.
Sam drifts up into consciousness the way he floated back to the surface of a motel pool once, having jumped in with lungs full of held air. You're not gonna drown if you keep the air in, Sammy, jeez.
It's an insistent pull across liminal space, nearly magnetic, when the held air buoys Sam's lungs above the murky water. Floating, and safeguarded from drowning, from the fear of never being able to come back up. Sam feels secure, gradually surfacing from sleep like this.
He doesn't bother opening his eyes. It's more of a vague call to consciousness than actually waking and usually when this happens, Sam's body's just trying to make him comfortable again. His brain just doing its best to rectify the problem without completely interrupting Sam's REM cycle.
There's an awareness that comes entirely from sensory input, soupy and slow to process as Sam's hindbrain pokes and prods at his sleep addled consciousness. Sam's sense of touch registers the quickest and with the most immediate comprehension.
He's warm, warmer than Sam has been since they drove past the border of Texas and New Mexico a few days ago. Humid and heated like the swamps in Clayton, Sam lazily notes the damp sweat coating the back of his neck, sticky and oily down the small of his back.
At the same time there's a mild, dull pulse of wrongness in Sam's leg and he recalls with some effort, drudging it up from the depths, that his leg is broken. If it's aching, it's not elevated anymore like Dean left it. If it's not elevated, Sam's moved a lot in his sleep.
Taking stock of each of his limbs, Sam realizes he's rolled almost onto his stomach. His face is smushed into the pillow in his arms, and his good leg is pulled up to hang half off the mattress. Nothing of this position explains the heavy, overheated weight pasted to Sam's back with sticky sweat. But Sam doesn't need to think overly much to understand what the cause of that is.
Dean is unmistakable, even when Sam's barely even cognizant, plastered over Sam from behind. He's practically a strip of duct tape stretched along Sam's hot skin from shoulder to thigh, octopus arms clutching around Sam's chest, and nose pressed in between Sam's shoulder blades.
Very faintly, Sam can feel the damp puffs of heavy exhales, sleepy and nearly snoring against his almost soaking shirt. No doubt contributing to Sam's current high internal temp.
It's not quite irritation that swirls in Sam's half functioning brain, but the incessant urge to fix the suffocating heat of Dean's body on his that makes him shift. He moves slowly, easing back into Dean with a snail pace, more because he's barely awake than any wish to keep Dean comfortable.
Blearily, he figures if he can just roll onto his back again, Dean will dislodge naturally so he doesn't have to fight free from the furnace. Even if he feels like his skin is burning, Dean's heavy weighted security blanket is the only thing keeping Sam mostly asleep, and he doesn't want him to get too far away.
When he pushes back into Dean's front, attempting to ease them backwards, Dean makes a noisy snuffling against Sam's back and clings harder, tighter to maintain the adhesive of their tacky skin. Another wave of heat overwhelms Sam like a plume of cloying steam and he huffs an almost miserable sigh, eyes still closed, still mostly dozing.
He suddenly wants to kick and struggle free like a trapped toddler, irritation tensing him up. If he pushes Dean off, makes him the little spoon instead, then he can finally get some much needed cool air while still keeping Dean close.
It seems like a sound idea, but it's also way too much effort when Sam can barely string together a fully formed thought beyond hot get off me. Semicoherent, he bucks back into Dean with one forceful, frustrated shove, wearily hoping Dean will wake up and kindly disengage on his own.
It doesn't happen. Dean stays attached like a very persistent barnacle. As Sam's desolately burying his face into his pillowcase and preparing to succumb to his fate, Dean does actually shift a little. Just not away from Sam like he might've hoped.
He’s pressed tight against Sam from shoulder to thigh and Sam, in a puzzled lethargic way, vaguely recognizes the distinct length of his brother's dick, hard and insistent against his ass.
This is supposed to be more urgent, a bit more fight or flight inducing than it inevitably ends up being when it mucks through the murky waters of Sam's consciousness. Instead, the notion sidles up behind Sam's eyelids in a sluggish way before morphing into a sign flashing wake up wake up at him.
It's only when Dean makes one of those soft breathy sounds over the exposed skin at the top of Sam's spine that Sam's eyes fly open. He's blinking frantically in the pitch black of the cabin as if he'll see something else responsible for this situation, but there's only vague shapes for his dilated pupils to take in.
Sam's alarmingly awake, mostly aware, and Dean's rutting in slow, sleepy, stutters of movement into the slope of his ass.
Alongside this realization is the rush of heated blood straight down to the pit of Sam's gut, pulse thundering in his ears. His good leg is still crooked up, nearly off the edge of the bed, and that only props his hips up even more into the angle of Dean's drowsy thrusts, nearly lining up the thick of his cock right between Sam's legs.
All that sweaty, overheated warmth pools conspicuously low in Sam's navel. The worst part is his dick responding more to the little whines escaping Dean's mouth in wet, panting breaths against Sam's skin than the friction of their meeting hips.
He went to bed in the same clothes Dean helped dress him, a pair of boxers that are probably Dean's and thin sweatpants, which keeps a few layers between himself and Dean. Sam can't make out anything but the hard press of him grinding into him, sending warmth all over his already overwarm skin. Having at least this modicum of protection is definitely a good thing and Sam works very hard to keep his swirling panic from drifting into something else entirely.
Rationally, he should take a few deep breaths and figure out what the hell he should do, but it's so hot wrapped up in Dean's clinging hold. His arms are so tight, Sam barely has room to breathe at all, let alone calm his pulse and stop the blood rush where his cock is pressed down into the mattress.
On some level, insanely, Sam maybe could have predicted something embarrassing like this would have happened, considering everything that's happened. Sam's laying here, clutching his pillow tighter to his face so his already short breaths don't get any more obvious because he absolutely does not want to wake Dean up, and he's telling himself he could've called this.
Maybe he didn't exactly anticipate Dean dry humping his ass in his sleep, keening and whining into Sam's burning skin like he's having the best, wettest dream and Sam's just his unfortunate hapless target. Although, of course, neither Sam nor his dick see it as unfortunate at all and he'll pretend it's just because he's half awake when he cants his hips up even further.
It's not intentional—or it is, but Sam's is just definitely too sleep-addled to have known—when his purposeful shift presses his half hard cock down into the blankets under his thigh. Or when it also lifts his ass just enough that Dean slides between his cheeks.
Another soft breath roughs out and pitches down into something closer to a groan when it spills past Dean's lips and over Sam's skin. Goosebumps raise in its wake, bringing with them a shivery sensation that makes Sam want to curl his fingers and toes up.
He knows, in a far off way, that he needs to do something to stop this. He should wake Dean somehow, let him know it's Sam he's currently rutting into, so they can awkwardly brush this all off and go back to sleep. With, perhaps, a small sneak away to take care of business before that.
As much sense as that makes, all of it still rings hollow in the echo chamber of Sam's foggy brain, like some other Sam is suggesting this. But this Sam, here pinned down under Dean's hips with his face buried in a pillow, pretends he doesn't know about it, shame mixing hotly with that stupid, needy entitlement.
Yes this is bad, yes Sam absolutely should not let this happen, but thinking that only makes Sam harder, only makes his cock throb like the shame is part of it all. Like that makes it even worse, but in the best possible way. What's happening is bad, and secret and shameful, because it's Dean and Dean's not even awake, yet all of it makes Sam want to do is tug off their underwear and ask Dean to take.
But that's too far, too hard to recover from. Sam has no idea what the fuck Dean would even do with that when he's himself, when he isn't feral and licking into Sam's mouth and sliding his fingers in between Sam's legs. This is Dean Dean. Dean who's Sam's big brother, who's in his right mind, and hard as he is, panting and rubbing off on Sam, they've never done this. Not as them. Sam can't just force them back and expect no consequences, but at the same time he can't stop this.
Rather than push Dean off, rather than slide his hand down Dean's boxers, Sam circles his hips around, just enough to catch some friction for himself. He can chase his own quiet orgasm completely independent of Dean rutting him down into the mattress. This way, it's not his fault. This way, they can both get relief and Sam doesn't have to face whatever Dean might say if he wakes up, whatever he might tell him to forget about.
Even if Dean's the one who started it. With his shaky, sporadic thrusts against Sam's ass, and his mouth pressing wet, erratic breaths into the back of Sam's neck, Dean is the one using his brother to get off. Sam's just leveling the field when he follows suit.
He works his hips carefully, wary of moving too obviously and waking Dean up, and he tells himself it's just so he can get rid of this problem Dean stuck him with. Each soft shift garners him a terribly satisfying reaction from Dean, sleeping Dean who's mouthing out these rough, wrecked little noises into Sam's skin. Every one of them gathers like sweat and trickles down his spine from the base of his neck, tiny encouragements that settle at the base of Sam's cock.
He's fully hard, teasing bits of friction bringing up the smallest bit of precome, and it's basically automatic when he hikes his knee up just a little farther. He's only chasing a better angle down into the blankets for his own relief, but his actions aren't as subtle as he'd like because Dean's thigh squeezes tighter around Sam's hip, keeping him close. Something low and familiar like a growl rumbles against the little bit of skin above Sam's shirt collar, accompanied by the barest hints of Dean's teeth.
There's this punched out gasp of a sound escaping Sam's lungs and he's suddenly so hard it hurts. So hard the reality of it burns away into nothing but a reckless need to get off, Sam's hand sliding under himself to slip past his waistband and palm his cock. Just the touch is enough to strangle out another choked half-whine, almost loud, and maybe it's that, maybe it's the way Sam pushes encouragingly up with his hips, but Dean bites.
His teeth pinch the flesh at the top of Sam's spine, the smarting sting of it has Sam trembling, and he squeezes the base of cock to keep from coming right there, boxers damp. His breaths come in sharp and quick, panting, as Dean picks up the pace, thrusting like he's close, and clutching so tightly around Sam's chest, like he's scared Sam will try to struggle free.
Sam doesn't. He angles back into each of Dean's chasing thrusts, and Dean's hiccuping out these quiet, tiny breaths—almost scared, almost panicking—just on the edge. Sam doesn't imagine it when those cute stammering pants crumple in Dean's lungs and come back out different, come out creased and jagged and sounding exactly like a hushed, desperate litany of, "Sammy Sammy Sammy."
And Sam burns up, throbbing in his hand, he aches so hard with how desperately he wants to spin around and pin Dean down to the mattress, mash their mouths together, lick under his tongue, bite at his lips until they're sore and red and crying nothing but my Sammy. He wants to shove his hand down the front of Dean's boxers, take his leaking cock in his palm and suck it down his throat, beg his brother for his fingers again, for his tongue.
Sam feels like he's been thrown into a wood stove and left to ignite, so hot he's soaked in sweat, balls tight, and cock twitching hot under his hand with each thrust. He's close, so close, firestarter under his skin, in his bones, and Dean's the one who lit it all, burning everything away in a plume of smoke and ash. Everything Sam owns is on fire and it's all Dean's fault.
Dean wrings the orgasm out of Sam as much as Sam's hand does and when he comes, it's his brother's name on his lips. A sobbing little cry more than anything, it comes out like a request, a begging, wanting, grabby handed, "Dean." But it's audible, it's loud in the hush of their whispering, panting breaths.
It's enough to wake Dean up.
Sam knows immediately because Dean goes deadly still, his hips stopping with his cock shoved up hard against Sam's ass and his arms around Sam's chest constrict like a snake suffocating its prey before consuming it. Sam feels consumed, feels absolutely devoured, and he can't even let himself try and breathe. He's just as still, just as precarious.
There's a precipice they're perched on, wavering so dangerously near to the edge, to crashing down into something they can never ignore again.
He thinks Dean might not be breathing either.
They stay immobile like that for a couple flittering heartbeats, sweaty and shaking and trying very hard not to tip over the precipice. Sam swallows, so much spit in his mouth, and they can't just stay like this forever. Maybe he should say something, maybe he should assure Dean it's fine, it doesn't matter, it won't happen again—lie, and lie, and lie like always.
Dean tears away from him before he can. This time it stings and agitates like real stripped velcro, sticky skin chafing and raw as Dean practically flings himself and releases Sam from every limb he'd wrapped him up in. Sam's entire body feels like molten goo, boxers wet with come, and still he has to force himself not to chase after Dean's syrupy unbearable heat.
Even though Sam feared he might, Dean doesn't get up and leave. He doesn’t rush to the bathroom to take care of himself in privacy, or even disappear outside to brace the frosty night air and cool down.
No, Dean just flops the other way, tucked into a ball so no part of him is touching Sam in the small amount of space the bed offers. The blanket they shared stretches woefully with him, but Dean refuses to let it go, pulling it up over his shoulders.
Sam's back feels naked again, exposed, the way it did when Sam woke up and Dean was gone. Maybe Sam was suffocating in the heat, but he would rather die in the fire of it than feel this lonely, oppressive, absence at his back. It makes him vulnerable, panicky, and he wants Dean. He wants him curling over him, a protective shield like he's always been for Sam, blocking out the fear and the monsters in the night.
Alongside everything unpleasant and wanting and missing and guilty that festers like an ugly wound in Sam's chest, something just as familiar flares up and razes it all. Something bratty and indignant and selfish, it's the combatant to Sam's resolute attempts to be good and do as his brother asks. It's Sam's own feral side in a way, this demanding, biting, possessive thing in him. If Dean can be this way, so can Sam. They're the same, Dean raised him to be like this.
Behind him, Dean is eerily quiet, no sounds of shifting or even breathing that Sam can make out over the gentle rushing of the mountain winds outside. It's impossible to know what's racing through Dean's head right now, the conclusions he's drawn, the worries he's furiously overthinking in his silence, the swell of his untouched cock in his boxers.
Sam makes his decision after he's turned over to face Dean's back.
Dean's shoulder twitches, surely feeling Sam move behind him, feeling Sam's eyes searing along his back and down the line of his waist with a predatory conviction. Even so, Dean doesn't make an attempt to escape. Sam gives him ample time to wriggle out of bed and run to the couch, to avoid what Sam's about to do. One heartbeat—two. Dean stays still, stiff as all hell, blanket bundled up to his ears.
Sam is silent when he slips his hand over Dean's waist, ignoring the startled jolt at his touch. Still Dean doesn't say a word, still he doesn't move, and Sam takes it for what it is. He loops his arm around Dean's stomach and yanks him backwards, close and heated and home, molded against Sam's chest.
This close, Sam can tell Dean actually is breathing, short little breaths like a trapped prey animal, but he doesn't put up any resistance and Sam wraps around him like a vice.
His hold is tight, just as tight as Dean was clinging to him, and Sam's hand is splayed over Dean's lower belly, expanding across the whole plane of it. His thumb brushes Dean's navel and his last two fingers dip below the waistband of Dean's boxers so naturally, it could almost be unintentional. It could almost be an accident.
The stomach under Sam's palm quivers, almost ticklish, but Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Sam to stop, he doesn't fight to get free, and Sam inches his hand lower. It's slow, overly cautious like Dean's a frightened puppy, when Sam finally slips down past his knuckles and brushes his fingers over Dean's aching, heavy cock.
It jumps against him, twitching at Sam's touch, and Dean sucks in a sharp, urgent breath that inflates his chest huge, pushes him farther into Sam's arms. Sam presses against Dean's back in kind, situating himself so he can hook his chin over Dean's shoulder.
He wants to kiss. He wants to taste, to bite, but he settles for grabbing the base of Dean's cock instead. The needy little gasp he gets for his effort is so pitiful and small in the cavernous echo of the cabin and Sam relishes it.
There's precome smeared all over the material of Dean's boxers, sticky and warm on his skin, even more of a mess than Sam's had been. Sam runs his palm against the head of Dean's cock, each finger tip too, coating himself in it, getting himself wet with it. He wants to taste, he remembers the taste, but he doesn't know what they're doing here, what this is, what exactly is allowed in the dark.
Sam doesn't press his sticky fingers to his lips. He imagines he does, flicking his tongue out to pull his lip between his teeth, and slides his hand up Dean's cock.
Dean lurches and shakes in Sam's arms, where he always fits so perfectly—always a perfect fit for Sam. Those quiet little gasps are back and he bows his head down, chin to his chest, and curling forward like he can't bear it. Sam can feel the tiniest tremors under Dean's warm skin, shivering with restraint or sensitivity, and it makes Sam reckless, makes him wanting.
He pumps once, twice, sets up a gentle circle of his fingers just for his brother—always for Dean. He hunts after those soft, punchy noises, wringing them out of Dean's parted lips with each stroke of his hand and wishing he could eat each one.
Sam wants to whisper into Dean's skin as he works his cock for him, little encouragements like he did that night on the boat, talk him to his orgasm like only Sam can do. But that's too real, it's too much too fast. Sam knows it's too fucking far when Dean's being Dean and Sam's Sam and he's not just letting Dean do anything to him, he's doing it.
So Sam stays dutifully quiet, dutifully concentrated, savoring Dean's filthy sounds and the stuttering, ungraceful thrust of his hips until Dean's shivering with it. He's clutching at the blankets, balling it up in trembling fists, and it's like sinking teeth into something soft to keep from doing something dangerous.
Sam knows he's close. He can recognize it now in the taut pull of Dean's shoulders against his chest. It's in the shaky, uneven, furious cant of his thrusting hips, in the throb of his hot cock against Sam's hand. Sam knows Dean's very close, and the words rush up his throat and out of his mouth like the smoke of a possessive demon. He growls them into Dean's ear, an angry, owning, and righteous, "My Dean."
Dean comes all over Sam's fist with a groan that dies in his throat, shaking and collapsing hard back against Sam's chest like he needs something stable to ground him. Like he needs his Sammy in the disorienting flood of relief.
Sam can't stop the grin that bunches his cheek up against Dean's, where his chin is still hooked over a shoulder, and he holds him carefully in his arms like he's fragile. Sam wants to kiss Dean so badly right then. He wants to be gentle and sweet and assuring, pour it all into Dean's mouth with his tongue.
Maybe it's delusion when something tells him if he did, Dean wouldn't push him away or tell Sam to forget about all that stuff. Dean would wind Sam up in his grumpy, clingy, octopus arms and never let Sam leave. Maybe it's wishful thinking.
Sam doesn't do more than wipe his messy hand after carefully slipping free so he won't jostle Dean's soft and oversensitive dick. With both arms securely wound around Dean's waist in a proper cage, Sam hauls Dean alongside him as he rolls onto his back.
They're just like before, when Sam first insisted Dean crawl into bed with him, and all the while Dean is wordless and gooey. He goes along with Sam's manhandling like a floppy rag doll, lax when Sam tucks him to his side and squeezes him close. There's nothing but the rhythmic sounds of Dean's deep breaths to tell Sam if he's okay with this, if they're okay at all.
It shouldn't be left like this. Sam knows he should say something about it, but he has no idea what the hell to say to make it alright. How can he make Dean understand, when Sam doesn't even know what he's trying to argue? And Sam's too sated, too sleepy and pleasantly buzzing to try and work out something that sounds reasonable.
When he glances down to check, it's too dark to tell if Dean's eyes are open, but he's breathing so soundly and he's so pliant, Sam wonders at how awake he could be in post orgasm milky fuzz. Rather than try and say anything worth saying, Sam presses his lips to Dean's forehead like Dean always did for him.
The tiny, gravel rough hum Sam receives is telling enough and Sam murmurs into his hair, "Night Dean."
Dean's arms, slack and loose limbed, sneak their way around Sam's chest again with the relaxed pace of a tortoise. They wrap Sam up like it's natural instinct, like roots in search of water, and Dean buries his face in the dip of Sam's collarbone.
It's all the response Sam's going to get, but it's all Sam needed to fall asleep. He drifts off to Dean's soft breaths, his familiar heat, and knows he won't wake up alone.
Notes:
time to place bets on how they're gonna deal with this in the morning haha maybe it will surprise y'all >.>
my lateness is kind of apt for this, but i've decided to update on saturdays now just for that extra cushion. i also don't want to post on spn ep day once the show comes back so this seemed like a good time to change it~
there's only 3 chapters to go everyone, we're gonna get thru this together (*°▽°*)八(*°▽°*)
Chapter 28: Wake
Notes:
here's the spotify playlist i made to write this last year. it's 20 tracks long and each one fits lyrically or sonically with the overall vibes of this fic (and also sam/dean in general imo haha). so if ur looking for feral wincest tunes, there ya go <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bright sunlit mornings bring with them an air of clarity that is both illuminating and humiliating, depending on the sleep addled actions of those who don't think too hard before doing strange things in the dark.
In Sam's case, it's an interesting amalgamation of the two, mixed with something that suspiciously feels nothing like regret.
He awakes lazily, drearily, somewhat cooly, burrowed into something soft and squishy. It's warm and smells faintly of Dean after he's spent the night chasing a werewolf. A gurgling rumbles against his ear, coming from beneath his cheek, and he cracks an eye open to assess his surroundings.
It's brighter than yesterday morning was. Either it's later in the day than the last time Sam woke up, or the sun has finally decided to grace their icy existence with its ultraviolet presence.
The cabin is glowing in a white haze, sunlight reflecting off the melting snow and soaking the dark interior in patches of blinding brightness. It's too much for Sam's poor eye, and when he immediately closes it, there's an orange imprint staining the back of his eyelid. Clearly, that was a mistake.
Groaning deep in his chest, Sam tucks his face back into the soft thing under his cheek. The thing that gurgles sometimes and smells like Dean. His arms are wrapped around it, just the way he traps his pillow, but this is infinitely better than a lumpy, feather filled cushion any day. Drifting back off like this would be too easy.
Sam almost does, but then a heavy hand is petting into his hair like he's a fluffy puppy. It cards through the strands over his ear, a pleasant pull, and Sam groans again, an appreciative noise this time.
The sleepy soft smile that slides up one edge of his mouth is instinctive, independent of any notice on Sam's part. He has definitely gotten to go to heaven, one that's not being run by egomaniacal power tripping angels.
Which, logically, would mean he's laying on Dean, his brother, his person—his soulmate? Something like that, Sam hardly remembers what Ash said that time, and drowsy as he is, it's impossible to do anything except press his face into what is definitely a thin henley over a familiar stomach. The one that gurgles when it's craving morning bacon.
Dean's, Sam's brain supplies helpfully when he's seconds from dipping back into sleep. This is Dean underneath him, my Dean—it rushes in with a sinister wave of everything else from the night before, Dean coming in Sam's hand, rubbing up against him in the dark, panting Sammy Sammy Sammy into his skin.
Sam shoots upright with enough force to knock the petting hand in his hair back. He's blinking blindly into the bright cabin, and his palms sink into the uneven mattress to keep his body from collapsing right back to Dean's. It's almost magnetic, the pull of gravity begging him to bow to its force, heavier than Sam ever remembers being.
The rush of movement has Sam recalling with sudden, uncomfortable clarity that not only is his leg still broken, it's hanging half off the mattress and certainly not elevated. He needs to fix that, he should probably fix that, because it seriously aches. But if he's too busy doing that he won't be able to find the words he'll need to be coherent and human when he has to make up excuses for what the hell happened last night.
He's squinting ahead, brain not quite online enough to have any kind of sentence ready, and when he focuses, he sees the glowing visage of Dean's unimpressed, scruffy grimace.
Dean's not actually glowing, but he's pale and bright under the sunlight filtering through the windows and his eyes are shining, practically sparkling. Sam just sort of stares at him with his face all scrunched up, an awkward and half-forced yawn tugging at his jaw.
While Sam's propped on his hands, splayed a bit like a beached sea turtle, Dean is reclined back against the cabin wall. One of the blankets is bundled behind him for support and when Sam darts his eyes down, he can see the wet spot on Dean's shirt where he definitely drooled on him.
Glancing even further down, completely against Sam's better judgement, he identifies more wet spots that are not from his drool, but are definitely still his fault.
There's a furiously embarrassed surge of warmth flushing up Sam's torso and he suddenly wants to pull the covers up over his shoulders, maybe even his head, so he can sink back into the bed like an overlarge, shameful caterpillar.
He doesn't budge, but the hands he's got keeping him immobile are just shy of Dean's hip, and Sam curls his fingers away just to make sure they don't accidentally touch.
Since Sam took the other blanket up with him in his haste to get off Dean, Dean's poor bare legs are exposed to the cool cabin air. His right one is bowed gently, just angled enough to press into Sam's side and the other is half hanging off the edge of their cramped bed. Sam tries not to stare too long and wishes someone would say something and that someone didn't have to be him.
He gets his wish, but it doesn't make him feel better.
"Mornin', Sammy," Dean finally says amid Sam's subtle attempts at taking stock of their positions.
He's still scowling, eyes a little hooded and puffy with sleep but no less shiny for it, and he scratches at the bristles on the underside of his jaw. Sam quirks up the corner of his mouth, lets a dimple appear—perhaps strategically—and huffs out something that could be construed as a light, tension diffusing laugh.
Or not. It comes out a little more awkward and forced than he wanted.
Sam tugs the blanket up around his shoulders after he's finally shifted around enough to sit properly, no longer looming over Dean like some threatening predator. Which he certainly doesn't feel like.
It's actually an entire ordeal, moving to sit on his ass, because Sam has to slide his casted leg around the side of the mattress to do it. Resituating when most of your leg is permanently stuck at a specific angle and weighing about three pounds heavier than normal is harder than it sounds and it sounds hard.
He ends up with his good leg bent at the knee and tucked up in the blanket, would-be cross legged if he didn't have to stretch his cast out on the bed beside them. This slow event of a position change results in a more slightly more familiar atmosphere, one that's much less fraught with strange tension.
It's probably because Sam's not all cuddled up and toasty against Dean anymore. This should be a good thing, but it weedles at Sam in an irritating way.
To make up for stealing the blanket, and only that, Sam uses his hips to shimmy up the bed so part of the quilted comforter can drape back over Dean's thighs. Maybe the gesture also puts their legs back to touching, just a little, but it was just because the mattress is way too small for both of them and Sam's busted tibia.
This whole time, Dean's been watching Sam with those same tired, hooded eyes. Sam can't really meet them, running his hand through his hair, half to tame it and half to give himself something to focus on. He still doesn't know what time it is, how late he's slept, at what point after the events of the night he draped over Dean's belly like a dog joining a pile.
"How long've you been awake?" Sam asks, trying to sound nonchalant even though he's weirdly, perhaps overly, concerned with the answer.
His eyes are trained on the spit stain he accidentally left on Dean's shirt and not any other stains at all. Dean scoots a little so he can sit up straight, rising off the back wall and closing the distance between them even more than Sam had. Seemingly unaware of this, or uncaring, he just stretches his arms up and out with his own jaw cracking yawn.
When he's done, and Sam's enthralled despite himself, Dean slumps forward to drop his elbows on his thighs. It would be a lazy, flop of a gesture if he wasn't also hanging his head down like his neck is too tired to keep it up anymore. Like he doesn't want to look at Sam.
A husky sigh scrapes out of his mouth as he stares at his lap, soft hair just one smooth action away from getting pet by Sam's itching fingers. He shrugs then.
"Snowed a few hours ago. Feels like a ghost bit my toes off," he mutters, rough and almost cranky. His hands fly up to his own hair, scrub at his scalp with blunt nails, a quick flurry of aggressive movement. Sam has to lean back a little to avoid getting elbowed.
He's probably supposed to say something to this utterly banal weather comment, some faux casual, completely unproblematic acknowledgement. Before Sam can even try and come up with something, Dean shoots upright, spine straight, and those giant eyes are back on Sam, like traffic lights shining a green go go go.
"Sammy," Dean starts past parted lips and it sounds like a plea and it makes Sam want to jump him. "What the fuck?" The intonation lilts up a little pitchy like he squeezed it through a very narrow space in his throat.
It's a subtly mounting hysteria, just shy of outright panic, and very clearly threatening to edge right over the line depending on how Sam answers, how he spins it all into some pitiable excuse. Depending on what he says.
Sam doesn't say anything.
He can't really decide what he should say. He isn't sure what Dean wants to hear anyway, what Sam could possibly do to make what happened okay, to keep things from changing drastically.
Sam's never been on this side of that question, that plea for any kind of sense or explanation behind what they've done. He always spent the after as the normal brother in their dynamic, the one with the horrible capacity to silently and internally freak out about the bewildering upset Dean's actions have caused.
Since the beginning, Sam was the one enduring the touchier aspects of Dean's new behavior with his own quiet, mental gymnastics trying to justify his actions in a guilty, post-orgasmic clarity.
Despite the inner turmoil that no doubt wore Sam's teeth down a few millimeters, Sam never really forced Dean to explain… anything, really. At first, because he didn't think Dean could. And later, because he was too weak for his brother's stupid mouth.
Sam can't see why Dean can't just take that route here, now, several hours after Sam jerked him off. Why can't he just push it to the back of his head and pretend it's not the enormous deal it probably actually is? Why can't he just act like Sam always did?
What happened to forgetting it all? What happened to ignoring the oversized, monstrous elephant in the room? Sam is definitely not advocating for healthy methods of dealing with stressful situations here, but shit—if he can do it so can Dean, right?
Dean's decision to ask about it at all is proof enough he isn't just going to brush everything off like it never happened until it happens again. Apparently Dean isn't going to just let this slide.
So Sam swallows in his dry throat and wrings his wrists in his lap and works his jaw and tries not to give Dean the puppy eyes to escape his own growing discomfort. If he was like Dean was, if he could do something terrible like take all of Dean inside his mouth, or sleepily suck on his bottom lip in the dark of the Impala, or stake his claim with teeth and growls—if he were like Dean was, he would just grumble my Dean and bite into him and all would be forgiven.
Dean had it so easy. Sam is too soft, too quick to allow, too suspiciously not averse to everything that they became.
In spite of all that, Sam isn't like Dean was. Sam doesn't have the veneer of a trauma response to hide behind and he can't just tackle Dean to the bed and ravage him like a beast so he'll stop talking about it. Even if Dean would do it, even if Dean's done it. Because Dean has an excuse, a reason. Sam doesn't know what he has.
He blinks harshly, rather than say any of that confusing, accusatory mess of thought out loud. Shrugging his shoulders, Sam can only stare at Dean's parted spit slick lips so he doesn't have to look him directly in the eye.
Dean asked him what the fuck and all Sam can manage in return is, "What?" in feigned innocence.
Because he's staring very resolutely, Sam can't miss the way Dean's mouth twists downwards into a very dissatisfied glower of an expression. Obviously Sam's go-to strategy of letting the both of them play last night off like some kind of extremely vivid and extremely enjoyable shared fever dream isn't going to go over well with Dean now.
"Seriously?" Dean's mouth says through the unhappy, almost pouty curve of his scowl. His voice comes out strangled again, almost pitched up, strained and a bit squeaky.
Sam is dutifully employing Dean's former strategy of intently watching Dean's lips in hopes it will somehow give him whatever answers Dean wants to hear. Whatever he has to say to make the distress go away, to keep last night's actions from becoming some life altering thing they don't have to be. In fact, they kind of haven't been under Sam's jurisdiction.
It was probably naive to think they could somehow keep pretending.
Sam still remembers that guilt, that fear, he felt every time Dean so much as pushed his tongue past Sam's teeth, every time he clung too close and tore into Sam and called him my Sammy. It ate Sam up, gnawed at the insides of his stomach and made him nervous, made him flighty.
In a sense, Sam feels it now. That vague, creeping sense of disquiet that comes about whenever something very off is mucking around in his chest. If Sam tries, he can find it crawling up under his skin like goosebumps, starting from the bite marks in his left hand.
But he's gotten so good at ignoring that feeling. It's less an ominous, sickening fear than a simple, familiar excitement. He's been pushing all of that down and away so much, in favor of things that were always more pressing like saving Dean's life, that even here in the cabin with no immediate danger, it's nothing more than a faint lull.
Lax and a little fuzzy-brained from sleep (a spectacular sleep, actually), Sam can't seem to rally up that former guilty anxiety again. The overwhelming sense of responsibility and conflict he's always felt is barely there, like his body decided that was all just an extra step it wanted to skip this time around. Like he's Dean from before, and he's taken and taken without apology, and all he really wants to do is grin like an idiot and maybe bite at Dean's fingers.
If Sam were like Dean was, he would slot his teeth home in Dean's hand until it tears again. Or press his lips to those stupid pink ones Sam's gotten so good at staring at. Or shove Dean down on the bed and reach his hands back down his boxers. Just like Dean would have done.
But Sam isn't like Dean, he doesn't have an excuse.
He has to use his words.
His teeth ache though.
"Right, uh, you mean last night," he fumbles, finally tearing his eyes away from Dean's stupid open mouth because this, the talking about it thing, is embarrassing and awkward in the daylight.
Not regretful though, somehow. Sam doesn't regret last night as much as he doesn't regret the way he wants to bridge the negligible distance between their faces to taste Dean again. As he doesn't regret anything they've done to each other lately.
He stares at his fingers entangled over his lap and the torn skin of his palm looks redder and angrier where it roughs against his nails. He wants to pick at it, but he doesn't want Dean to see him do it.
Besides, he has to keep talking.
Something more should be said, something worth saying, some kind of phrase Dean can actually reply to. But Sam doesn't know what the hell he should be saying to keep Dean from yelling at him, or freaking out and running off to the safety of the Impala. Or something even worse.
"What do you want me to say, Dean?" Sam asks and he meant it to sound like an earnest question, but it sounds confrontational. It sounds frustrated, coming out on an exhale. Dean doesn't immediately provide anything but that big eyed stare, that guileless, questioning stare of his.
For some reason, Sam's unintentional frustration burns a little more real in his gut and he doesn't stop the next inciting slew of questions from falling right out. "What can I even say, anyway? Sorry? It was an accident? Just forget about it? It's not even—" the first time it's happened.
That sets Sam back, thought fighting in unbidden so quickly he almost let it out. Dean's still staring, but there's a frown casting his eyes in shadows and his mouth is twisting like he wants to say something. He doesn't though, he doesn't answer at all. Maybe he just wants Sam to finish that sentence, but Sam's too busy thinking, hesitating, glancing over Dean's face to continue.
What happened last night wasn't the first time. No, the first time was set into motion when Dean grabbed Sam by the jaw and licked into his mouth. The first time was Dean toppling them over and rutting down into Sam's hip. The first time was half awake in the front seat of the Impala, both of them coming in their jeans with teeth on skin.
Dean did it first. Dean did everything.
Sam decides his sympathy on the matter is running a little dry under the scrutinizing frown Dean's pinning him with.
Even if he knows from personal experience that would be the most comforting thing for Dean, for Sam too maybe. The easiest way to bury those things bubbling up angry and strange between them, caked just beneath a cracking layer of ignorance and blind optimism.
Even so, Sam doesn't say the more apologetic, begging offer to brush it off as a one time mistake.
Instead he says, "Not like it's the first time, though."
Dean sucks in a breath, a rather appropriate reaction. He can't keep eye contact with Sam, ducking his head abruptly to send hooded glances at any other thing he possibly can. The angle shows off the red tip of his right ear, warming up in a flush that might be shame, and his fingers tug at the henley Sam drooled on.
He coughs something like a hybrid between a clearing throat and choking on spit. Sam would be worried for him, if he didn't know Dean's just floundering to come up with some reply that isn't embarrassing, so he just waits. Dean seems to shore himself up, shaking his head with the pout that comes with unhappy dimples.
"Sammy," he tries weakly, a quiet grumpy little huff of Sam's name that's partly admonishing. Sam is patient, silently awaiting what direction Dean could possibly take them now that the ball is in his court.
It's actually sort of relaxing, letting go of the reigns when it comes to facing the impending, guilty wave of internal conflict. Finally, Dean can take the burden of reacting to their fucking weird relationship, to the kissing and biting and coming in each other's mouths thing.
Finally, maybe Sam will know what Dean really thinks about this. He burned countless hours screaming in his own head, twisting himself in knots worrying about how Dean would react to it all once he came back to himself.
He prepared endlessly for what excuses he would have to make, the responsibility he would have to take for letting it happen, all in the face of Dean's inevitable disappointment, his disgust, maybe his anger.
After all that anxiety, Sam will finally know the truth. He can finally assuage that uneasy, unknowing, hesitant thing inside himself, finally understand what made Dean kiss him that first time.
It's as relieving as it is terrifying.
"Sammy," Dean says again, like a preparation, like he needs to say Sam's name to do anything. He hesitates again and Sam doesn't interrupt him, watching the flushed side of his face with a fearful attention.
Dean swallows. "Sammy, I'm sorry."
His face is still all twisted up, still not looking at Sam, and he's said exactly what Sam doesn't want to hear. It's sort of what Sam's been hearing in various different ways since Dean came back, since whatever knocked his brain around at the vamp nest gave Sam his brother, dorky bravado and taciturn reticence all packaged up neatly.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. It's in the words Dean says just as much as it seeps out of every gently, attentive stare Dean pins Sam with. Just as much as it congeals in scabbing skin over the bites Dean can't seem to look at, hiding from Sam's view.
Apologies spring up like persistent weeds every time Dean acts like nothing ever happened, smiling at him with that oversized, toothy grin that makes Sam feel guilty and sick and hungry—
Sam doesn't want Dean's apology. He doesn't want Dean's guilt and Dean's regret and Dean's responsibility. Every last bit of it tastes like bile going down and Sam grits his teeth when the acid of something angry quells in the pit of his stomach.
He wants to be a good and understanding brother. He wants to do as Dean asks and help him heal if that's what Dean really wants, but he's also a selfish, craving, pathetic person so he doesn't even try to stop the words that knock past his teeth.
"I don't want you to be sorry." His mouth is dry and it comes out scratchy like grains of sand roughing up his throat. He doesn't know what he's trying to say exactly, what he wants Dean so desperately to understand when he says it. He just can't take hearing another apology out of Dean's mouth, another excuse.
He doesn't want him to be sorry because sorry means regret, guilt, shame. It means Dean wishes he hadn't done all those things. No assuring kisses, no possessive teeth tearing into skin, no my mine my Sammy.
Sam hates it, loathes the idea of it. Suddenly, he absolutely can't stand the prospect of going back to how they were.
"Dean," Sam says like he always does, more an interjection than a call for attention. It's the only syllable Sam's mouth can say in any circumstance, the noise he makes when he can't make anything else. "Dean, I don't want this to—"
"But I am sorry." Dean bowls over whatever truth Sam was even planning to pour out and when he keeps Sam's gaze again, his big eyes are a little wet, a little shiner than before. They're framed in eyelashes so long Sam just lets him speak. "I'm so sorry all this shit happened. I got fucked up in Purgatory and I took it out on you and I screwed us all up. It's my fault and I'm so sorry, Sammy."
It's so painfully earnest, Sam doesn't even know where to begin. He only knows he hates it when Dean does this, when Dean takes the load of everything on his shoulders. So guilt-ridden, so penitent. Sam hates it, and he hates how he only ever wants to assure him.
"It wasn't your fault," he says and he believes it if he doesn't specify what it is. "You said it yourself before, it wasn't you. You were out of your mind, practically feral with it. Hardly remembered anything. I don't blame you for what happened and I don't blame you for Purgatory, okay? I don't."
It's supposed to help, it's supposed to wipe that hangdog, shamefaced, scared look off Dean's face. But Dean only shakes his head and huffs an incredulous breath that's nearly a laugh, nearly a self-deprecating sound of disbelief.
"You don't get it, okay? It is my fault, Sammy. It's all because of me that we—that that happened to us, not Purgatory or that vampire or some trauma, it was my fault. I should've stopped it, I should've known better and I did. You don't know what I—"
Dean stops, choked. His eyes are huge and beading with tears that light up in the sunlight. He blinks hard and continues in a steadier assertion. "Just don't say it isn't my fault. It is. And I'm just trying to say I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so fucking sorry for doing that to you, okay? I can't fix it or take it back and I'm sorry."
He keeps muttering it like that'll make it all okay, like that'll satisfy whatever's eating at his conscious to make this spill out. He's always like that though. Always desperate to keep Sam from leaving him, always so contrite.
His lower lip is red from biting and trembling and when he blinks those shiny eyes, the tears pool in the corners. A whisper, quiet and scared, escapes in the hush. "Please, Sammy."
And Sam doesn't know what he's pleading for. He doesn't know what that imploring expression is trying to pull out of Sam, not quite touching, but close enough to. Close enough to kiss, close enough to grab, to bite and hold down, and take.
It would be so much easier than this.
Sam can't tell very well say that though. Just like he can't say he doesn't care about how or why it happened. He can't say it doesn't fucking matter to him, in fact he wanted it to. In fact he still wants it to, he wants it right now. All of it—the teeth of it, the spit, the come, the warm syrupy affection.
Sam misses it and he craves and he wants more.
Just more.
Always more.
Sam feels like he's just on the cusp of finding out what that means, why it seems so damn important, but Dean's about to cry, right here with Sam, nervous and shaky and so extremely desperate. Sam can't just drop all of that on him.
He can't. Dean doesn't deserve to shoulder the burden of Sam's greedy, clingy wishes. Dean shouldn't do it if he doesn't want to, but he would, of course he would. For Sam he'd shoulder everything. Sam wouldn't want it that way.
But at the same time, Sam doesn't remember how best to comfort Dean without touch anymore. The instinct to grab him and press something tender and careful to his lips is so painfully overwhelming, Sam's finger bones ache with it.
He can't remember the words they used to use. He can't string together the bandaid sentence that'll have Dean blinking away the dampness clinging to his lashes, forcing out a gruff laugh and carrying on good as new.
He can't remember it at all.
With two open palms, Sam presses his hands to either side of Dean's face, just at his jaw where it meets his neck. He's all scruffy and heated and his eyes go impossibly bigger, lips parted, and it's just like that night outside the Impala what feels like months ago.
When Dean's anxiety was nearly palpable, painted across his pale face with all the questions and inexplicables of mating bites and Purgatory and Benny the vampirate. When Sam was mad at him, irritated with the lies, the secrets, and Sam demanded answers, for Dean to just tell him everything. Finally, just come out with it.
Then Sam held Dean's face in his hands just like this and he was too soft, the thing in his chest, the little creature that's so weak for Dean, wanted nothing but to pull him close. He wanted to kiss him and whisper that Sam won't leave him, Sam would never leave Dean.
Now, here in Sam's hands, Dean is still, completely unmoving, but for his pulse jumping up against Sam's fingers. Dean's breath is coming in short, nervous little bursts and Sam wants to kiss him. He knows Dean won't ask for it like he used to because this Dean isn't the same as he was.
This is his brother Dean, rough and tumble, give 'em hell, shoot first and ask questions later, Dean Winchester who won't tear up and ask Sammy for a kiss to make him feel better.
Sam knows that. Dean can't, he won't, so when Sam's thumb runs along Dean's cheekbone just shy of his lower lashes, Sam decides for him. He exhales a long heavy breath through his nose and doesn't falter under the wide-eyed gaze of his big brother.
Sam will do it, because Dean needs it. Because Sam wants to so badly he hurts with it.
He'll take the fall—for Dean.
"Kiss?" he asks on a sigh, and can't stop the barest hints of a smile.
Dean keeps staring, not even a blink for Sam's effort, but he's not breathing either. He stopped completely, breath caught inside, and that pulse under Sam's finger rabbits up to a frantic thud.
There's no refusal, no desperate scramble to escape just yet, and Sam angles his palms up under Dean's jaw, raising his chin just enough. His intent is clear and he gives Dean a chance to say no, a chance to push Sam off him. A beat or two, and all Dean is doing is aiming those huge, wet eyes at Sam. Immobile.
So Sam closes the gap.
It's not really a kiss, not like their usual fare. Sam doesn't bite into the give of Dean's lower lip and pull like he'd done before. He doesn't slide his tongue into Dean's mouth as natural as the breath Dean exhales when they touch. It seems too much to push for in that moment, too far.
Sam only presses their mouths together, and it could almost be platonic, a gentle heated touch. Dean makes one of those sounds in his throat, the soft little noise that always makes Sam want to sink in and keep.
But Sam sucks just enough on Dean's lip to wet it with his spit. Just enough to taste his brother and savor it like he's starved because he is—he feels like he is.
Then Sam pulls back.
Dean's lip comes free with the tiniest resistance, all glossy now, and Sam tampers down the ache to nip him red and puffy. He can't do more, he's only calming Dean down now, only speaking a language they both remember.
Dean blinks up at him, still big, still green and shiny and almost dazed. It takes just one thud of Dean's pulse for Dean to flush the darkest red like blood on his hands, a guilty realization coming up vibrant under his freckles.
He's breathless, his skin is heated, like he's been running and it's cute, it's attractive, it makes Sam want to follow the heat down his neck, down his shirt, past his waistband.
Dean sniffs loudly, less a gesture of necessity than it is an excuse to rub at his nose and dodge Sam's prying eyes, Sam's sure. He clears his throat, making every sound possible that isn't actual words, and drops his fingers to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand, knuckles rubbing his lips red with a fury.
It's all more embarrassed than angry, but Dean shoves out of Sam's hold with gusto, not quite violent. Frantic more like, a desperate escape attempt.
Sam doesn't resist, and his own heart is starting to kick up a little madly, a little nervously. Frantic too. He can only watch Dean leap off the bed and steadfastly avoid eye contact with anything but the floor as he's scrambling to his feet. The overly self-conscious flush to his skin doesn't leave, in fact it might get worse, and he's biting his lip so hard it might bleed.
Clearing his throat again, finally standing at the side of the bed, Dean pats at his stomach, smoothing out the wrinkles of his henley with an attention that's too focused.
"Uh," he grunts once he's tugged at his shirt too many times to be normal. "Sammy, uh, what—actually, yeah, okay Sammy. Just, I'm gonna go—you just lay down and—and stay here 'n I'll go make us breakfast, huh?"
He's all gruff and gravel, nearly growling in his throat, and he doesn't even wait for any kind of agreement on Sam's part. In a fretting swirl of limbs, Dean grabs Sam's shoulders to manhandle him around, forcing him to lay flat back on the bed.
It's completely nonsensical. A pure mortified avoidance like his whole brain has short circuited and sparked a fiery red alarm all up under his skin.
Dean can't even look Sam's way as he shoves him down and shuffles around to elevate Sam's cast again in efficient, jerky movements. Sam's too busy drinking this whole, odd reaction in to do anything other than let himself be tossed around and tucked in like a baby.
"You good, Sammy? Gonna make us some bacon, you don't gotta pee, right? Huh, Sammy? That okay?"
Dean's stuttering out rapid questions that all seem to actually be various iterations of is this okay? But Sam can't quite tell what this is. He's certainly trying to dig it out of Dean's shifty posture, twitchy fingers curling back into his wrinkled shirt and a very evasive glare pointing at the kitchen.
Whether Dean's actually just totally thrown by Sam kissing him or completely disgusted and scared to say so or something else entirely, Sam can't really tell. All he knows is Dean clearly wants to run away to the safety of breakfast duty, to the easy familiarity that taking care of Sammy provides.
"Yeah, go ahead," Sam says, just to give that to him.
He only gets a resolute nod for his trouble, Dean stomping off to the fridge on naked bow legs as if he's just narrowly escaped a war. His face is still blushing red as hell, probably a suitable internal furnace in the cold, and Sam's completely bemused.
The reaction isn't exactly what he expected, not that Sam expected much anyway. He just wanted to calm Dean down, to reassure him the way they've done before. In a way Sam's done before. He can't say he predicted that Dean, completely himself, would blush like a shy kid with little more than a stuttering mumble of deflection before running away.
It's new and strange, but stupidly adorable, and Sam wants to clamber off the mattress after Dean and drape himself over his back like a big floppy blanket. He wants to cling to his brother's body to keep him cozy and warm while he makes them breakfast. While he takes care of Sam like always.
And Sam wants to kiss him again. Casually, affectionately, constantly. He wants to bite into his hands and his cheeks and his thighs and mark him all over and call him my Dean every day for the rest of their lives.
He wants Dean to be his because he's Dean's because Dean's his. The sentiment turns Sam warm and soupy in his meatsuit, all fleshy goo on the bed. He's nothing but a blurry mass of a yearning, wanting ache.
It clicks, as Sam watches Dean throw a pan onto the stove like it's offended him, peeling bacon off into strips with his tongue ghosting over that red lower lip. His face is all pink and concentrated and freshly kissed, his underwear is coated with the stains of Sam's handiwork, and his hair's a fluffy, pettable mess.
Dean makes breakfast for them in the snowy winter morning, just the two of them alone in the world, and it clicks.
Sam loves him. Sleepily, warmly, invariably.
Dean's standing over the stove to avoid talking about how Sam kissed him, how Sam assured him with his touch, and Dean's assured. Dean's steadied and Dean's not on the verge of crying anymore and Sam kissed him and Dean's making breakfast and Sam loves him.
Sam's in love with him.
Silhouetted by the bright sunlight, Dean's all soft and beautiful and the only person Sam's ever really had in his life, the only one he's ever been able to keep for himself, and Sam's in love with him.
It isn't the earth shattering revelation it might have been. Sam's in love with Dean, and it barely registers as a life changing blip once it settles in for the long haul, digging its teeth deep into Sam's chest and taking up residence.
Because it was always there, waiting for the right time to bite, an inevitable conclusion like crossing the finish line in a long distance marathon. Foregone, predetermined, set into motion the moment Sam said his first word.
Nothing new, nothing exciting.
A universal truth.
So Sam's in love with Dean, so what?
The more noteworthy thing is just how long it took Sam to realize it.
"What day is it today?" Sam asks and his ribcage is overly tight around his organs, constricting his words into something a little fragile. Dean startles over the stove, dangling a piece of raw bacon between two fingers. He doesn't look at Sam (still red, still shy) but he answers in typical fashion.
"The hell should I know? I look like your PA?"
The bacon sizzles angrily, loudly, and Dean's too busy making them breakfast with that focused frown.
Sam blinks and what he just knows is a dopey dumbass grin stretches his cheeks into an ache at the sight of Dean's blustering attitude. Of course Dean wouldn't know. Dean hardly ever cares what month it is, unless he has to prepare a last minute birthday present for Sam from the gas station.
If Sam counts every time he's slept since he was driving down that miserable road, alone without Dean, moments before colliding with him. Finally getting him back. If Sam counts each time, it must be Thursday by now.
It's definitely Thursday, and that means it's been exactly a week since Sam got Dean back from Purgatory. To the day, it's been a week since Sam carried Dean into that motel room covered in dirt and growling. Since Dean tackled Sam, hugged him tight, bit him and called him my Sammy.
It only took Sam seven days to fall in love with his brother.
No, not fall, that's wrong.
Sam's fallen, Sam's been falling for years, for decades, for his whole life.
Sam fell into Dean's arms when he learned how to take his first steps in 1983. He fell into that pit three years ago with Heaven and Hell against them to keep Dean safe. Sam always falls for his brother, always will, always has. It's no wonder he fell in love too.
It only took Sam seven days to see it.
A fucking week.
The pot on the stove sizzles again and Dean leaps back with a start. "Shit!" He's patting at a spot on his thigh just below the hem of his boxers and Sam can't do anything but smile at him like an idiot. Dean huffs and shoots Sam a very pouty, very criminating glare.
"Quit grinning at me, I almost lost leg hair to bacon grease. Need my damn jeans," he complains, seemingly recovered from Sam's kiss to something a bit less reactive, a bit less nervous. He points at Sam with a spatula he's procured from the counter. "This is your fault."
There's the tiny, barest hint of a smile creasing the crow's feet of his eyes.
Warmth surges up into that tight enclosure that's become of Sam's chest at the sight and it's always been like this but now Sam knows why. He's so in love with Dean, it's a fucking embarrassment it took him this long to realize just what the hell all of this was. What it always was.
Sam wants to say something, he wants to do something, anything to alleviate this suffocating pressure in his lungs.
Dean's hands shoving Sam away aren't easy to forget though, the flustered escape he made after Sam kissed him, and maybe that was embarrassment, but maybe it was shame. Maybe it was fear. Anger. Maybe Dean doesn't want what Sam does, maybe Dean wants their normal back.
There's absolutely no way Sam can ask him what he wants without telling him the truth.
Sam's truth, the in love of it, isn't something he can put on Dean. He can't just push this overwhelming, stifling, impossible realization at Dean for him to shoulder and internalize and try to understand. Sam can hardly make his own sense of it. What Sam even wants out of it.
This, at least, Sam should keep to himself right now. He can't have Dean willfully bearing the weight of what Sam feels just for Sam's sake, he can't. Not when he doesn't know what Dean's thinking, not when he has no idea what the fuck Dean even wants from him.
Sam has to deal with his feelings by himself. They're his and his alone.
It took him just a week to realize he's in love with his brother. That he might be alone in love with Dean is another thing entirely.
Notes:
can you sense it? how very close they both are to getting it? if sam and dean didn't have the power to drag everything out excessively there wouldn't have been fifteen seasons of spn, am i right? (lol i kid) now, who misses the biting, because it's coming back very soon ;)
Chapter 29: Yours
Notes:
two days late thanks to another damn hurricane and a couple migraines ugh, but on the bright side!! i'm technically dragging out the end of this fic for y'all haha ^^;
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The days meander by in intervals of quick and slow. Snow falls when the forecast said it wouldn't, but that only gives Dean several tasks to distract himself with each morning. Like kindling the wood stove and keeping Baby from freezing up.
Sam doesn't say anything about anything (especially not the 'in love with Dean' thing). They don't kiss again and Dean almost never loses a permanent fluster when Sam stumbles too close. As if he's overtly aware and burning with it.
The worst part is it only makes Sam want to grab him harder, to cling more, to wind him up in all Sam's working limbs and refuse to let him free. Which is embarrassing enough on its own, but with the new context, all of Sam's bratty, entitled behaviors mean something different. They hit on a new pathetic, lovelorn level that would make Sam cringe at himself if he wasn't so sick with it.
Dean appears to be none the wiser and Sam doesn't know if that's attesting to his acting skills or if it simply means Sam's always looked at Dean like he wants to consume him. It could be a little bit of both, with a hint of Dean's wilful ignorance thrown in.
The whole unexplainable, half-naked mess of three days earlier has yet to affect how much Dean touches Sam, even though Sam worried it might. Not that he's made it obvious that he's had an emotional epiphany, but he did kiss Dean on the lips and act like it was perfectly uneventful.
He wishes it would be.
But they're still touching, as much as they have to so that Sam can get around. Suspiciously, Sam's crutches are still in the Impala even though Dean has had an infinite number of chances to go get them. Sam isn't going to complain, but Dean's been more obviously affected each time he has to be Sam's support. At least, more than he had before he came all over Sam's hand anyway.
It's hard to tell if Dean even notices how awkward he's being. When he takes Sam's weight, hand at his waist with Sam's arm pulled tight over his shoulders, he slots in like usual, but more nervous and more twitchy. He gets all pinkish and avoids looking too closely at Sam. It's—maybe not shy, but certainly self-conscious.
When he isn't lugging Sam around like it's his extremely regrettable duty, he's rambling out loud, saying a million nothing words just to keep them from lapsing into silence as if Sam will fill it with something dangerous. If he isn't talking nonsense, he's staring off at the ceilings, or the wood stove, or the log walls. Anything not to meet Sam's eyes.
At the same time, Sam's caught him looking his way any time Sam pretends to be preoccupied with his food or his cast or the TV screen. Every chance he gets, there's the heat of his gaze boring into Sam's skin, burning as if Sam's sitting just beside the fire, and it's so unbelievably distracting. Sam has to grind his teeth to keep from calling Dean on it, from grumbling out a demanding what, dude?
Or from threatening to do something to him again, grab him, kiss him, bite him. Just to watch his freckles glow over a red flush like the last time.
It's hard to resist. Sam hates resisting.
But he hates the idea of losing Dean even more, so he keeps his hands and his teeth and his feelings and his inciting words all to himself. And he spends the days, over analyzing every single interaction they have, every blink and shift Dean makes like any of that will tell him what he so desperately wants to know.
It's the why'd you kiss me? of it all. The reason and the answer and the excuse. The only thing Sam needs. If he got it, he could toss every sense of rationality to the wind and never let Dean out of his arms again.
He's working on it. For now, he lets Dean take the lead with them, because he can't bring himself to force him again. Not when Sam's realized just exactly why he's been such a brat to his brother. Why he let Dean kiss him and bite him and get him off all those times. Why he can't live without him.
Maybe he already knew, but Dean sure fucking didn't. Doesn't.
Dean definitely doesn't know. If he did, he wouldn't touch Sam so much.
Even when it makes Dean potently aware of what they've done, he keeps touching Sam. He hasn't grabbed at the crutches and forced Sam into total independence, and he hasn't shoved Sam away to run off for the Impala where Sam can't get him.
That has to be a good thing, right? Dean's not flat out rejecting Sam at least.
On a potentially related note, Sam's finally allowed to bathe himself like an adult, which is actually a welcome change. Rather than join Sam in the tub and scrub him down, close and suffocating and there, Dean monitors him for as long as it takes Sam to settle in before going to prep their dinner.
The needy, clingy, in love part of Sam whines like a five year old when Dean leaves him alone after pointing a finger gun his way with a click of his tongue. But Sam's managed to be satisfied with the autonomy he's gotten back, the smallest return to a normalcy they've been lacking.
Besides, Dean always leaves the bathroom door wide open and regularly yells nonsense to make sure Sam hasn't drowned every two minutes. He's there when Sam has to get out too. Way too helpful and way too protective. Sam's not sure if he actually appreciates that or not, considering he's got an extremely healthy libido.
Honestly, it's even worse now, knowing what he can get away with, how close he can actually get. Sam can have it. He's had it.
Except now he knows why he wanted it in the first place, and he gets bothered and overheated and uncomfortably aware—of Dean, of himself, of that too eager thing in his chest.
They still sleep together at night. Despite the apparent, obvious, odd way they left it all that snowy morning: Sam, stupidly in love, and Dean, stupidly avoidant. None of it's come up again, Dean hasn't told Sam not to do it again, and Sam hasn't confessed that thing he realized.
They've just let it disappear into the snow drifts like they do most things they can get away with forgetting. It's the Winchester way.
Their shared mattress is still lumpy and uncomfortable and way too fucking small for two grown men, but they're sharing it anyway. Because Dean undoubtedly believes Sam would complain and demand again if he tried to get out of it, and Sam thinks Dean likes it but can't quite say it with words. Teeth are still out of the question.
So Dean slides under the covers after he's got Sam all settled in comfy, with his back pressing warm and solid and safe against Sam's side and another pillow wrapped in his limbs. Sam lets him keep this distance, because Sam absolutely can't do anything about it.
If he did, it wouldn't be some childish, little brother request anymore. It wouldn't be a misguided attempt at economically getting off either. It would be more than that. To Sam anyway, it would be more. If Dean isn't willing to cross that distance himself, Sam isn't going to push.
Even if he wants to tug Dean in close and tuck him into his side, he can't, because he's in love with his brother. Sam can't just jerk him around and demand things anymore, because that's what it means and Sam understands that now. He understands what he's really asking for when he digs his fingers into Dean's skin, when he presses their mouths together, when he clings and clutches and whines.
Sam won't do that to Dean. He can be satisfied with what he has. He can do whatever Dean wants him to do, he can take these small scraps as they come, and drink every bit of attention up like a dying man.
If it's Dean, it's okay.
Tonight, they're sitting on either side of the coffee table, spread over the ratty excuse of a rug with Sam's busted leg propped up. Dean found a board game behind the TV stand with a bright grin and wiggling eyebrows and decided they had stared at the ancient TV screen long enough.
"What game even is this?" Sam asks, not exactly impressed with the box in Dean's hands. It starts to collapse in on itself when Dean drops it on the table, the colorful illustrations across its waxy surface worn away with age. Whatever title was blasted across the top in black curly font is no longer legible under the water stains bleeding ink into unseemly blurs, but Dean doesn't seem to mind.
He tears the lid off to scour the board game's contents with a calculating eye and only spares a disinterested, "Who cares, Sammy."
Sam follows suit, glancing over. The game could be anything and they're bored and awkward enough, it wouldn't really matter. There's a folded board inside and at least fifty different variants of game pieces. Chips, dominoes, tiny colorful men, what looks to be the revolver from Clue. Along with plastic triangle slices that Sam thinks might have come from that trivia game.
"This is like Frankenstein's Monopoly," Dean says, digging a hand into the mass and sifting through the smorgasbord of junk. A few pieces fly up over the box's edge and off the table, rattling to the threadbare rug and rolling off into the distance.
Sam could grab after them, but he's too busy watching the wheels turn in Dean's head, the way he squints through his eyelashes and pouts his lips out. A very concentrated duck. One Sam wouldn't mind kissing, but he just crosses his arms and leans against the table.
"Wait, I got it." Dean turns his smirk on Sam, all triumphant and proud with a snap of his fingers. It's cute, it's very Dean. Sam raises his eyebrows. "Remember when we were kids, we had that babysitter with the mohawk? She lived in a tiny studio apartment and there was like jack all to play with?"
A laugh puffs out of Sam's chest. Of course he remembers. "Yeah, yeah and she passed out on the futon soon as Dad left. But with one specific instruction."
"Don't touch her cabinet knob collection." Dean shakes his head with his own laugh. "Still don't get that, but damn did those things make great pawns for some good ol' fashioned Yahtzee—"
"Jacks-Checkers, yep," Sam finishes the name and grins with his teeth out. The game was some unholy abomination Dean invented for them that night, back when Sam was just barely four. It had almost nothing to do with the games it was named after, but Sam didn't even notice the titles were stolen.
Amidst all the casual, childhood big brother worship, young Sam had just enough room to think Dean's made up game was the pinnacle of ingenuity. He heaped praise on Dean with all the words a four year old could know until Dean was rolling his eyes and shushing him.
"We played it for like six hours straight. I don't think you'd ever been that entertained by something that wasn't my face before." Dean's wearing a little lopsided, half smile as he fishes out several of the mismatched tokens from the box and sets them down in a familiar arrangement on the table.
Sam scoffs, picking his elbows up out of the way to help. "Well, you do have a weird face."
He's still smiling, now a bit more petulant, when Dean shoots him one of his favorite narrow-eyed, slightly disbelieving stares. It's a faux offense, but Sam finds it funny knowing how much he actually loves Dean's stupid face. How much he wants to press kisses to it and see it glow all red with exertion.
A warmth oozes up under Sam's shirt, completely uncalled for, and he sucks in a cool breath to wash it away and refocus. He zeros his complete attention on setting a handful of flat Scrabble letters in a circle around Dean's green piece from the Sorry game.
Sam likes to think he's gotten a lot better at keeping his mind off anything particularly dangerous. He tries his best not to let it show in his posture, in his face when he's staring at Dean like he wants to throw him to the couch and bite at his fingers. Like he wants to tell him he's never gonna leave him—tell him he's Sam's.
"ThunderFleet position already?" Dean asks, effectively stopping Sam's derailment. When Sam glances up at him with nervous eyes, Dean's just shaking his head sagely. "We haven't played in decades and you're still predictable as ever, Sammy."
He's got a pink plastic car pinched delicately between finger and thumb, looking over the assortment of game paraphernalia for a proper position. The car's maybe half an inch long and Dean's jammed two little blue men in its front seat. Sam thinks it might be from the Game of Life.
With his Impala stand-in, Dean mows down a few dominoes and claims the territory to start the game. Every time Dean takes land, it's in favor of General John, the leader and namesake of Dean's go-to team.
"I'm predictable? What about your Thundera blues?" Sam tosses a triangle piece into Dean's favorite battlefront after a few nonsense dice rolls.
The move gets a small bit of territory back for his own team, named Dee in a similarly childish way. Simple and pretty self explanatory. It never changed, even after years of minor and major annoyances between them, and even now Sam's still killing enemies under the flag of his brother's name.
Yahtzee Jacks-Checkers burns the hours into a bleary sunset faster than they've managed to for a while without a bit of fizzy help. Sam flicks away an army soldier and replaces it with a chipped wheelbarrow piece. It's another victorious proclamation in the name of Dee.
As Dean mourns the loss, Sam spares a glance for the fridge. "Didn't you get beer at that gas station in Texas?" he asks lightly, basking in his third full territory sweep of the night.
Dean glares at his displaced army man where it lays, overturned and suitably conquered as if it's at fault. He picks it up and chucks it into the box, currently dubbed the Graveyard, sighing heavy enough his whole upper body deflates.
"Yeah, a six pack of the good shitty stuff you love."
"You love it." Sam pats his casted leg with a hollow, undeniable thud. "Go get 'em for us. Maybe a little liquid courage can get you back your win streak."
He's been stupidly cheerful, and a little antagonizing, ever since he took over Dean's most protected monument: the red plastic gingerbread man from Candyland.
"You're lucky you're broken or I'd beat your ass," Dean grumbles, slamming his palms onto the table and shoving to his feet.
The more precarious leader pieces wobble under Dean's jostling, but Sam's beloved little battleship remains proudly upright thanks to the way he wedged it into a divot of the coffee table.
Dean shoots it a sneer before heading off to the kitchen, and Sam knows he was hoping he could've toppled it with gravity at least. Only Dean would be such a sore loser for a made up game, but it just makes Sam feel more triumphant.
As he watched Dean bang around, the swaggering result of his bowing legs, there's something heated and fond and probably way too affectionate mucking about Sam's face.
When Dean bends down to tug out the case of drinks from the bottom shelf, Sam doesn't blatantly stare at his ass. Except that he does and he debates how strong his puppy eyes would have to be to get Dean to sit on his thighs.
The loud clanking of glass bottles feels like an admonishment as Dean shuts the fridge and spins around.
Sam's eyes have darted back to the set up of Yahtzee Jacks-Checkers across the table like a guilty man with much to atone for.
"You're bringing the whole thing?" Sam forces the question out in a very casual way, shaking off the twitching nerves of his hands that just want to grab grab grab, even now. Even knowing why.
"I don't know about you, but I could use a few more than one tonight," Dean says and it's rough past his lips as he gently sets the whole case down in the Graveyard box. He has to shuffle it around to make sure no bodies of the fallen are creeping underneath and then he's fishing out one bottle for each of them.
"Losing the gingerbread man really took its toll, huh?" Sam says, tugging that playful, light air from before back on like a cozy blanket.
He likes the feeling of it, the familiar, familial warmth of their usual back and forth. Without the hidden meanings and the underlying tension, just being themselves is almost easy.
Sam missed it.
He missed Dean. His banter and his body comedy and his presence, Sam missed him so much when he was gone, he was fucking distraught with it. He couldn't do anything but drive and drive and drive like some kind of automaton.
In a normal, unfucked up world, Sam would be nothing but happy and relieved to have Dean like this. Back before everything happened, before they got so twisted around, before Sam realized he's so in love with his brother he can't stand it.
Now, he can't function like a human anymore without almost tripping up, now he can't even feel grateful just to be near Dean. Now he wants more and it's messing up everything.
"I know you cheated before," Dean says, pointing an accusing finger at Sam with the hand that's wrapped around a bottle neck. "I don't know how, but you did."
Sam just blinks up at him, innocent until proven guilty. He doesn't let his eyes stray from Dean's as he does, actively ensuring they don't end up on Dean's mouth, ensuring Sam doesn't pull Dean down by his shirt and bite him.
He is grateful to have these moments with Dean. They hardly ever get them even when one of them isn't struggling with how much he wants to kiss the other. For once, there isn't some world ending force bringing doom and destruction in its wake. There's no one threatening them with something unbearable and sick. Like separation, like loneliness.
Right now, in the quiet haze of a cabin, buried in the snow of northern Montana, they have each other. Together and safe and that's it. That's all it's ever been, all Sam's ever needed it to be.
Dean wedges the bottle tops against a worn edge of the table, popping each cap off with a well aimed palm. Foam bubbles and the hiss of released air bring the familiar smell of a cheap beer. They haven't had this brand since that night in the Impala.
After taking a hearty swig. Dean thunks the bottle down in front of Sam. It's shiny around the mouth with spit and beer.
Neither of them talk about it, even with the pleasant atmosphere they've crafted through hours of Yahtzee Jacks-Checkers. It's not something they can admit to out loud. Sam just reaches out for the other bottle, the one in front of Dean and makes sure to drink just as much as Dean did his.
When he's done, he plops it down and they carry on like it never happened.
It might be this way forever, an unspoken pact Dean has introduced them to and Sam has been unwilling to break. The one thing from the last two weeks that Dean has wordlessly approved, it's the only habit Sam's been allowed to effortlessly keep. The only thing left from it all, from the sex, the kisses, the bites, and the needy, craving, crawling, yearning love part that Sam's doing his best to reign in.
"Best nine outta ten?" Dean asks, picking up the beer Sam set in front of him and downing half of it right out the gate.
His lips are wet around the bottle, and Sam doesn't think about secondhand kisses or how he knows exactly what Dean's mouth tastes like when he's had this very brand of beer coating his tongue. The heat of it, the softness. Sam just follows suit, drinking from his own bottle, and wishing he could still catch some of Dean on the edge of it.
As he does, Dean's eyes stay on him. Maybe simply waiting for Sam's answer, but those eyelashes are long, fanning out over hooded eyes that reflect the flickering of the wood stove flames like fireflies. It's distracting. It's overwarm.
Sam doesn't delve too deeply. He doesn't push too far and he doesn't ask anything. He shrugs a shoulder. Casual, platonic, familial. Not in love.
"You're on," he says, pulling on the mask he thinks he may have been making his whole life. The visage of a Sammy who just wants to play with his big brother, just wants to beat him at Yahtzee Jacks-Checkers and enjoy his beer. Nothing more, nothing less.
"But it's already four to two, y'know, don't forget your place."
Don't forget your place. Sam could almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
By the time they finally hit game eight, the wood stove has dwindled to embers and a small chill rolled into the absence left behind. They're almost tied, or they will be after Sam finally destroys Dean's precious gingerbread trophy for the second time tonight. At some point in the interim, Dean insisted Sam pull the blanket off the couch and wrap it around his shoulders.
Across the table, Dean is half leaning on his bicep and casting forlorn glances at Sam's Panthro formation, painstakingly crafted around Dean's last remaining Lion-O brigade. There's no blanket around his shoulders.
Sam would be worried about him in his thin shirt, but Dean managed to down the remaining four beers on his own and he certainly doesn't look cold. His cheeks are tinged a dusty red, this time from the alcohol instead of Sam, and Sam didn't notice he was going through their drinks so fast or he might've told him to ease up.
With that kind of beer, Dean's definitely not drunk yet, just happily buzzed. Or sadly as the case looks to be. He's all pouty lips and dewy eyes, cheek mashed up against his folded arm.
"Sammyyyy," he draws out the last syllable in a noise that's a cross between a whine and a groan. "Don't send Candyland back to the Graveyard again, c'mon man." His lips obstruct his vowels because of the way they're all smushed, so the words are mumbled and moody.
"Don't beg for his life. Let him perish with honor," Sam says, wrapped in his blanket and shooting Dean amused looks tinted with just a hint of concern.
Sam's as clear headed as he was before the drinks arrived, and that means he has all the faculties he needs to observe Dean's soft and drowsy demeanor shamelessly.
He could very easily reach over the game between them and pet Dean's hair, fluff the strands and scratch at his scalp like he's done before. He knows the sounds Dean would make if he did, how Dean would angle into his fingers and chase after him if he pulled back.
His hands don't move from the edge of the table where he's been drumming his knuckles. As much as he wants to touch, he absolutely can't.
The worst part is that Sam could take advantage of how easily Dean would fold for him like this, how simple it would be to finally get an answer to the question Sam can't make himself ask.
This buzzed and sleepy, Dean would give Sam whatever he wants.
Sam can't take it.
Under the scrutiny, Dean huffs a heavy sigh. It's ragged and miserable as if he's the one who's been warring with himself for the last several days. Maybe he has.
When Dean hauls himself upright with bleary eyes fogged up from beer, he's floppy, wavering a little like his spine isn't strong enough to support him. Braced against the table with his elbows, Dean pins that green gaze on Sam, always as accusing as it is askance, and Sam doesn't reach out to steady him.
There's a couple long moments where Dean just stares openly at him, heat in his cheekbones making his pale skin light up. Sam can only wait him out when he gets like this. Valiantly attempting to focus despite the alcohol, Dean's either going to start hysterically laughing at Sam's hair or crawl under the table and screw consciousness. It's all very familiar.
Another deep breath expands Dean's chest, makes him puff up, and then he's letting it all out in a grumpy, growly, exhale. There's a scowl on his flushed face.
"Sammy," he says gruffly, more of a grunt than anything, and he's frowning directly at Sam. His glazed eyes drop to Sam's mouth, hover there, and Sam is determined not to flick out a tongue under the attention, not to wet his dry lips.
"What?" he says instead, using his words. His hands are antsy, tapping along the worn wood as an outlet for the jittery, thrum in his bones. They want to throw the blanket up over his head so Dean can't keep staring at him with that milky, buzzed stare.
Dean blinks, soft and slow, and Sam can track the shift of his gaze, the way it drags down Sam's jaw, his neck, along the line of his shoulder, the dip of his elbow. It lands squarely on Sam's left hand. On the bite he won't let heal.
Sam doesn't follow Dean's stare. He doesn't move his hand to hide it or cover it like he might've done before. He only freezes in place because he doesn't want to do the wrong thing. Because he doesn't know what Dean wants him to do.
Dean blinks again, hard, and a muscle in his jaw jumps over clenching teeth. Sam hates that his bite throbs at even the idea of it, fingers twitching into a fist to crush that flood of want surging up his arm.
There's a sniffing sound, Dean scrunching up his nose in a way that's almost cute under the red tint, and he rubs his face with a rough palm, like he's trying to keep himself awake, keep himself aware.
Sam wants to offer him the couch to pass out on, but Dean starts moving and Sam shuts up.
He picks around the end of the coffee table on his hands and knees, clambering with a clumsy flop of limbs to get to Sam's side. It's kind of ridiculous looking, very uncoordinated, as he slips tight into Sam's orbit and it might be so unruly because his eyes haven't left Sam's left hand the whole time.
Even when Sam shifts to make room so Dean doesn't knock too hard into his side, Dean stalks after his bitten hand with a gaze that burns, feral and bright. A laser focus. It's like every time Sam's been on a hunt, running from any manner of creature—ghosts, demons, werewolves—they always chase him with the eyes of predators, lit from the inside with a single minded determination.
Dean's pupils are huge when he climbs into Sam's lap, surprisingly careful of Sam's cast despite his fumblingly awkward shuffling. His shoulder is sturdy where it presses almost too hard into Sam's chest, and it's very warm and very pleasant, and Sam inches away.
"Dean?" he says, though he hardly expects an explanation. His hands are hovering up and away, in the air like he's guilty of something, or he might soon be. Sam should probably lean back, scoot over to get some distance between them, but the way Dean's eyeing him makes him nervous, makes his heart kick up like a warning, like if he moves wrong Dean will tackle him.
Of course, Sam doesn't get any kind of acknowledgement, and when he shifts just enough to get the smallest gap, Dean doesn't let him. He's kneeling between Sam's thighs and it's the perfect position to leverage his weight into Sam's front like he's holding him down, preventing him from wiggling away.
A protest, some kind of complaint, surfaces in Sam's throat, but Dean's too busy reaching past him with greedy, scrambling hands.
He hooks Sam's wrist over and pulls his hand directly between his awaiting teeth.
Sam doesn't move. Dean, buzzed as he is, gives Sam the smallest, shortest moment to move and Sam doesn't, so Dean's teeth bite down.
When they sink in, it's sharp, it's aching and it's perfect. Each tooth digs right back into its familiar place, created just for them, by them. Their mark.
A flinch jolts up Sam's arm from the elbow, he can't help it, but Dean just hums against the tearing sensitive skin, a vibration that pours heady liquid heat right down Sam's limb. It seeps through every bone, melts them into soup inside Sam's flesh, and when Dean presses harder, he gasps a punched out breath, chest jumping, fingers shaking.
His hand feels hot and wet and it hurts, it hurts so much and Sam loves it. He pushes his palm up into Dean's upper, savoring the sharp sting and the flood of Dean's spit that coats his hand.
There's a growl rumbling against Sam's palm, approving and heavy where it slips into Sam's bites. Dean twists a little, just enough to flop back against Sam's chest, and doesn't release. He's merely settling in for the long haul as he worries his teeth deeper, jaw clenching and unclenching in a reflex.
Being tangled like this, the broad warmth of Dean pressing into Sam's front, is achingly familiar. He's wedged between Sam's thighs, laying into Sam like he's just an oversized couch cushion, and Sam's reminded of that night. Back at Marley's, when they were squeezed onto that little bed and Dean crawled into the cage of Sam's limbs, coddled and protected, practically nesting.
It's sappy like heated syrup up in Sam's mouth, and he should say something. He should make sure Dean's aware enough to be okay with burrowing in close like this. He definitely isn't when he curls away from Sam in bed at night.
There's a stark contrast here between now and then. Dean's been red and nervous and he's refused this, the touching and the proximity and the teeth. Sam should do something.
At the same time, the wet slide of a tongue runs along the edge of Sam's palm, almost absently, just tasting, and Sam's spine crumbles at the base.
He flops back himself, taking both he and Dean into a recline as he hits the couch behind him and the impact forces breath from his straining lungs. Dean is pliant and easy against him, shifting his shoulders and resituating with a practiced ease. They always fit together. Naturally, effortlessly.
"Dean?" Sam says, not quite a whisper and not quite steady enough to be voiced. It's more of a heaving exhalation against Dean's temple. That soft hair Sam wanted to card his hands through tickles up against Sam's cheekbone and he presses down into it, rests there. Perfect, warm, secure and most importantly his.
There isn't a response, Dean just teeths at Sam's skin, grinding into the calluses with an unfocused attention. Sam raises his free arm, his good knee, and tucks Dean in against him. He's just keeping him secure, he's not trapping him, he's not clinging. But it's very hard not to enjoy the way Dean sinks further into him when he does though.
The heat of his steady breaths fans across the roots of Sam's outstretched fingers and Dean's grip on his wrist is tight, tight enough to make the skin turn bright white. It's just as trapping, just as clinging.
Sam's kept.
Against his better judgement, against the tiny sense of right and wrong in Sam's head that says he needs to pry Dean off and pretend this didn't happen, Sam wants to see the expression on Dean's face. From this angle, with Dean pressing back into him, he doesn't know what Dean's thinking, he can't tell why Dean's doing this. He desperately wants to.
Sam places his free hand flat to Dean's forehead and it's warm, not overly so. Dean's bite digs in harshly.
"Dean?" Sam says again, a little more voice this time, as he presses into Dean's forehead and pulls him back. Dean's chin tilts up, taking Sam's palm with it, and the back of his head thuds against Sam's collarbone. When he looks down, Sam can see those bright green eyes.
They blink over blown pupils, lashes long, and Dean peers up at him with a certain light, a certain reflection that Sam wants to call clarity. His cheeks are still flushed with the buzz of those five beers and his tongue lazily traces the bit of Sam's hand that sits in the wet heat of his mouth.
Sam wants to kiss him. He wants to fold Dean up in his arms and crush him close until he says he'll never go anywhere. Until there's promises and cries and my Sammy bubbling up in the heated air between their faces. He wants Dean to say he wants it too.
But Dean just blinks again, slow and measured. When his mouth moves it's not to speak, but to pry his teeth free with a burn that has Sam hissing. The sound draws that light gaze to Sam's lips, so close to Dean's face where they touched the soft skin at his temple.
He traces the lines of Sam's mouth with his eyes, Sam watches them do it, and whatever he thinks, whatever the sight brings out in him, Dean growls a rough thing low in his throat.
Glancing down, he runs his tongue over the fresh and bloody wounds of Sam's hand, slick and overly hot, before Sam hears, "Sammy."
It's not anger or frustration that gurgles Sam's name past Dean's slightly reddened lips, it's more urgent, sharp. He releases Sam's hand to turn in the barricade of Sam's limbs, readjusting until they're almost chest to chest in a quick, frantic movement. His face is closer than before, their noses could touch, and he's frowning as if something very important has gone amiss.
Sam is watching his lips, so he sees as much as hears when again Dean growls, "Sammy." All husky and roughened and nearly debauched as it falls out of his mouth like an order, and Sam's heating up from his face down to his gut. It feels like anticipation.
Dean's right hand skates up between them, ghosting along Sam's collar, and then he's angling his palm to Sam's sealed lips. The bite is there, Sam can feel the scarring skin against his mouth and Dean's still frowning, serious and determined and buzzing with it. He presses into Sam's lips.
"Bite, Sammy," he says and this time it's definitely an order, no nonsense. Sam's jaw drops on request, saliva pooling under his tongue when Dean's hand slips between his teeth. He situates the bite inside just as easily as their bodies slot together, and Sam bites down as told.
The skin breaks and Dean shakes, and Sam loves it as much as he loves the satisfying give of flesh under his teeth, the relief of it—the mark of it. Sam wants to grind his jaw, clench hard enough to tear Dean's palm to pieces, until his skin is scarred and unsalvageable, until Dean himself is.
Dean's still staring up at Sam through his lashes, still all milky fuzzy with the beer, flushed under his freckles and considering Sam with a rapt attention. It's shiny, it's haloed, it might be something called devotion. It's surprisingly clear despite the alcohol, and Sam can't face it for too long. He can't meet Dean's attentive gaze because he's scared they'll see something more.
Hiding behind the force of his clenched jaw, Sam squints his eyes shut and bites down as hard as he can, like a warning, like a threat, like quit looking at me I'm in love with you. He sinks his teeth in and he wishes he could say it out loud just as much as he wishes he could bleed it from his mouth into Dean's open wounds like a venom.
A venom concocted from all his heated affection, his frustration, his need and his love and his Dean. That venom could seep into Dean's veins, spread into every dark corner of his body until he's filled with everything Sam wants to give him, until he's anchored down with it, until he can't think of anything else.
Whatever expression is twisting up Sam's face, Dean sighs and Sam's blinking eyes open again in spite of himself. He's always looking, always attuned to Dean's stupid mouth, those plush, soft, familiar lips that Sam knows the taste of and he finds them easily. They're tinted red from Sam's blood and when they part they make a wet sound.
Sam's completely avid, waiting for the words Dean will say, waiting for his next request. When his tongue presses into the familiar crease of Dean's palm, lapping at the salty skin there, it's an encouragement.
Dean's littlest finger curls against Sam's cheek, prodding into the space where his dimple would be.
"My Sammy," he says softly, gentle and whispered like something precious, something delicate. Benediction. No growls, no teeth, just a tender truth.
Sam's jaw stutters, releasing just to bite down again even harder, just to make Dean shiver again. It's Sam's answer, it's agreement, and Sam pries free just after to lave his tongue over the fresh wounds. The marks are so deep now, so permanent and Sam relishes it.
"My Sammy, my Sammy," Dean murmurs, still quiet, still subdued. "My Sammy, my Sammy, mine." It rambles out, mindless and emphatic, like Dean's collected all the times he hasn't been able to say it since he came back, like it all has to come flooding out now, released after Sam tore his bites anew.
"My Sammy, my Sammy," escapes past Dean's lips like air from a punctured tire and Sam's awash with it—the oxygen he desperately needs. He inhales deep and gasping and he's owned and he wants to be. He wants to assure, he wants to agree, just like that time back on the boat, like that time Dean made him with his tongue and his teeth and his fingers.
"You're my Sammy."
Sam's cupping Dean's torn up hand with his own freshly bitten one, holding tight enough their wounds rough painfully together and Dean quiets immediately. Lip pulled in between his teeth, Dean flicks his tongue out to hold there, like he has to reign his mouth in or it'll just keep spilling Sam's name.
Sam has never wanted to kiss someone more. He wants to grab Dean's jaw and lick inside him. He wants to roll them over and pin him down, just so he can slide a hand under Dean's sweats again.
He wants.
But Dean's buzzed, Dean's had five beers, and he's flushed all the way down, and Sam swallows hard enough to hear it.
He doesn't kiss him, he doesn't do anything but raise his other hand to press against Dean's shoulder. There's the smallest resistance, Dean pushing up into him and Sam's fingers squeeze hard into the muscle there. Too hard to discern intent.
Dean regards him with those clear eyes, those careful blinks.
"Yours," Sam says, just as careful, just as measured. He sees it up close and lovely and soft when Dean's face crumples. His crow's feet appear and the biggest, dumbest Dean-est grin pulls up his cheeks. It's so fucking cute, completely unbearable, and Sam wants to pounce on him.
Dean does it first.
Sam's pushed hard into the couch behind him, wooden frame digging into his back, and Dean's hands are on his face. The bite Sam gave him is damp and hot against Sam's cheek and Sam just wants to angle his head to bite it again, but Dean's inclining toward his mouth. He pitches forward and Sam has just a moment to realize he has to stop him because he's—he's not drunk, but he's certainly not thinking right.
When Sam turns, Dean's mouth finds his jaw instead of his lips and he isn't the least deterred. Even when Sam murmurs a quiet, warning, "Dean."
It's a plea that's supposed to tell him to cut it out, to calm down, maybe get off him finally so they can both go back to being platonic and normal and whatever.
But it kind of sounds encouraging, sounds wanting, and Dean's lips give way to those teeth with a hushed breath that roughs out like another growl.
He bites into Sam's jaw and it stings and it's exactly like that first night. When Dean was thrashing and spitting and doing his damndest to throttle Sam, when Dean had no idea who Sam was, hell, who he was, and he wrestled Sam to the bed, attacking him with gnashing teeth.
That mark is long healed by now, not like the ones in their palms. It was little more than a mottled bruise, even harder to notice under the scruff along Sam's unshaven face. It's no longer there, but somehow, Dean bites in the exact same place. Maybe it was unintentional, maybe coincidence, but he bites down right there and Sam winces. Sam shivers and doesn't try to stop him.
Those teeth press into the bone there, an aching sense of reclamation, and Dean's tongue slides along too, hot and wet as always. It has Sam hiccuping a startled little breath, hands scrabbling at the material of Dean's shirt. He only holds on, though he intended to push, he should push.
That tongue licks at the cut of Sam's jaw, trail of cooling spit in its wake, and it feels hungry, it feels dangerous. A threat of more to come when Dean pries his teeth off, and tastes along Sam's jawline. Not towards Sam's mouth, but back along his cheek, at his ear.
This, too, is familiar. Just like that night, when Dean pressed his nose there and breathed in deep, taking Sam in once he knew who he was. Scenting him, his brother, his Sammy.
It happens the same, but it's charged now, like an electric current tracking along Dean's mouth as he trails Sam's face. He presses his nose up into that spot behind Sam's ear again, and his breath is damp and hot and distracting. Sam can hear each inhale Dean takes as well as he can feel when it releases, tracking goosebumps down his neck.
Lips press to the shell of Sam's ear, not quite giving way to the teeth behind, and when Dean says it again, it's worse somehow. "My Sammy," slips out of Dean's mouth, ghosting softly like a caress along the curve of Sam's ear. The way it sounds, close and breathy and low but the quietest lilt on the first word, Sam thinks Dean might be smiling.
Those hands slide down from Sam's nape and they're not gentle, they're not delicate when rough fingers shove up under the tail of Sam's shirt. They're warm despite the cold, too warm, searing when they press neat bruises into the lines of Sam's ribs and Sam startles, jumping a little in Dean's hold. He wasn't trying to get free, but Dean's lips give way to teeth at his ear and he catches Sam's earlobe like he's preventing him from leaving.
It's a pinch there, a bear trap, and hot breath escapes in what's almost a laugh as it curls around the sensitive skin of Sam's nape and makes his fingers curl into near fists in Dean's shirt. Against Sam's rib cage, his heart is picking up, hitting the flat of his sternum like it wants to meet Dean's nails where they dig stinging, red crescents into the planes of Sam's chest.
The teeth at his ear release when Sam doesn't try to get away and Dean's tongue glides along the bite that's there now too, soothing, tasting. "My boy," he whispers, and those hands under Sam's shirt are touching him all over, a thumb grazing his nipple, making him hiss and twist.
It's so familiar, the feel of it, the callouses, the shape of Dean's palm, the scratch of the bites, it's all so familiar and it's fucking agonizing that it's familiar. That Sam's had all this before, that Dean's done all of this to him.
When Dean drags four fingers down his abs and his stomach trembles, Sam's whole system thrums with it and he's never going to be touched by anyone else again without thinking of Dean.
In every fucking aspect of his life, he's going to think of Dean, because he always has, because Dean always made sure he would, because of fucking course every bit of Sam belongs to Dean. Even this, with Dean's mouth against his ear and his knuckles brushing Sam's navel, this is all Dean's to take. It always has been.
Sam's thudding, beating, pulsing, and he's arching up into Dean's touch, he's swelling in his pants, and there's Dean's tongue at his ear, and Sam doesn't think. He hardly even breathes. He's freezing up and he's clinging to Dean's shoulders like an overwhelmed kid and he can't do anything but feel it all.
But Dean hums into his ear and dips his fingertips below Sam's waistband, and Sam's brain flashes bright red alert no no no.
"Wait." Sam says it louder than he intended, it comes out scared and pitched up. It's sort of pathetic but Dean stops.
He doesn't pull back though, his hand is still hovering beneath Sam's sweatpants and Sam can't feel his breaths against his ear anymore.
"Dean, seriously, I think you're drunk," Sam says, sturdier this time. It comes out almost casual, like they're not doing anything abnormal.
Like he's just scolding his stupid, sloshed brother for trying to pick a fight at a bar. Like Dean's only acting up on liquid courage and Sam is the long suffering little brother who's got to reel him in. Like they've done this all before.
As if Dean's not pinning Sam to the couch with his fingers sneaking into Sam's boxers.
The craziest part is that they've done this before too.
Sam releases the fingers he's dug into Dean's shoulders when Dean doesn't move. His shirt is all wrinkled now and Sam tries to smooth it down over Dean's back, a nervous gesture, before he uses the flat of his palms to push just slightly. He doesn't have to force him, Dean goes easily, though the gap doesn't widen too much.
It's just enough for Dean to see Sam's face and for Sam to see Dean's. There's that glow still, lighting up Dean's green eyes. That feral glint that makes them almost eerily bright, like he's got his prey locked down in his crosshairs.
Rather than regret, rather than guilt or some kind of clarity Sam is certainly feeling, Dean only smirks in Sam's face. His teeth show and that stupid, distracting tongue darts out to drag over his lip. The very lip he was just pressing to Sam's earlobe.
"So?" Dean says, and it's a challenge. Sam can see it all over his face.
"So? You don't know what you're doing, you're just—I don't know, acting on instinct or shitty beer or something, okay, you're not yourself."
Sam feels like he's grasping at a fraying rope, each word another twine unraveling from his fingers and it's weak, unsteady. He doesn't have an excuse ready, he doesn't even know what to do except that he shouldn't let this happen. He shouldn't let Dean do this.
His palms are still resting over Dean's shoulders and he absolutely should shove Dean off. Sam's strong enough to do it, but he knows he won't.
The smirk on Dean's face says Dean knows that too. He angles his head to the side, a slow, disbelieving little gesture, and licks his lips again. It's practically an invitation and Sam's too fucking distracted.
In a roughened voice that catches as it escapes, Dean says, "Never cared before, Sammy."
As if it isn't damning, as if it isn't the painful, inexplicable reality of everything Sam didn't stop before. Those words implicate Sam in all of it, in every single moment like this one, when Sam didn't do anything to push Dean off, when Sam let and kept letting.
It flushes Sam with an icy shame, washing over his skin in a hair-raising sensation that has him shaking. He can't refute it, of course he can't, because Dean's right. Maybe Dean wasn't drunk before, all those other times, but he was out of his mind. He was feral and damaged and completely not himself and Sam didn't stop him.
Sam didn't stop him because Sam's in love with his fucking brother.
"Dean." He stalls to come up with something, some kind of pitiable excuse that isn't a confession of everything Sam cannot put on his brother. "Dean, I didn't mean to let you do that, I mean it wasn't supposed to be—"
"Shut up, Sammy." Dean punctuates the interruption by curling a fist in the top of Sam's underwear, dangerously close to touching skin. It pulls at the material, a friction that startles a sound out of Sam's mouth, and he whips a hand down to grab Dean's wrist.
A snarl peels Dean's smirk away, eyes glancing down at where their hands meet. He tugs, just a little, enough that his knuckles brush the base of Sam's semi hardness and Sam squeezes Dean's wrist tight enough to feel bones shift.
"Sammy," Dean says, frowning back up at Sam like he doesn't understand. "I owe you."
Plain and very succinctly stated. It's simultaneously horrifying and hilarious, and the swirling heat in Sam's gut flips over and bubbles up in something that feels stupidly like laughter. He's fucking laughing.
Dean thinks he owes Sam. In his slightly buzzed little brain, Dean thinks he should pay Sam back for the handjob from before. It's so completely dumb, but it's exactly what Sam tried to do back then. It's the exact fucking excuse Sam used when all he wanted was a reason to pin Dean to the bed and take his cock down his throat.
It's hysterical that it's coming back to bite Sam in the metaphorical ass now.
His chest is quivering with the nonsensical laughter escaping through his mouth and nose, Dean's hand in his shirt is moving with it and that's funny too. Sam feels delirious, he feels tired and drawn out and horny and kind of sad, but he also feels grateful to have the big, stupid brother he's in love with right here between his thighs.
And maybe Dean's just trying to even the scales in his fuzzy, feral brain, maybe it isn't the excuse it was for Sam, maybe Dean really just doesn't care about them jerking each other off when he's buzzed. But Sam can't know any of that for sure right now. He can, however, keep them sane and normal tonight. He can make sure the next time Dean tries to reach down his pants it's because he's Dean.
"Dude, get off me," Sam says through his quieting huffs of laughter, pushing back against Dean's shoulder to sit a little more upright.
He pries Dean's hand off his waistband and Dean comes away oddly pliant, those big green eyes staring at Sam like a deer in headlights. They're very shiny, somewhat awed. His distracting lips are parted too, just as shiny, and his face is glowing that dusky red Sam's starting to really love.
"Let's just sleep, okay Dean? You don't owe me anything, and I'm tired," he says, leveling Dean with an earnest look. One that tries to telegraph that what just happened isn't a big deal, that Sam honestly just wants to go to bed. He maybe uses the dewy eyed thing that gets Dean all sappy and giving too.
It works. Dean melts like popcorn butter after just a second of wide-eyed contemplation. As if Sam's permission is all he needs, Dean struggles out of Sam's gripping hands to press himself back to Sam's front. He burrows in as he collapses against Sam's chest, cuddling close and snaking his arms around Sam's back. He squeezes him tight, constricting and owning.
"Sleepy too."
Sam feels the husky grumble into his chest, Dean's mouth still very warm through his cotton shirt, and when he looks down he can only see the top of Dean's head. Being clung to like this, being held and coddled, it simmers down that abiding heat from before. Mellows it out into something milky, just as buzzed as Dean.
It's a liquid goop in his core, pooling thickly, and Sam wraps Dean up in his own arms, holds him close, holds him tight. Not leaving.
Dean groans, a pleased sound against Sam's skin, and Sam pulls him along when he shifts to lay them both down flat on the rug.
A throw pillow lays just beside the couch and Sam positions it comfortably under his head in preparation for a long night sleeping on the floor. He's not complaining though, not with Dean stretching out lazy and heavy over Sam's body. His own personal weighted blanket to squash the anxiety straight out of his pores. Dean'll fight away the nightmares and the monsters that come for Sam when he sleeps, like always.
There's a soft noise, whiny almost in Dean's throat, and he frees an arm to prop himself up on Sam's chest. When he stares down at Sam with hooded eyes, it reminds Sam of that first night yet again. After Sam selfishly made them sleep apart, refusing to let Dean crawl in beside him because of some misguided concern for others, for Dean.
But Dean didn't care. Dean doesn't ever seem to care and he never really listens to the boundaries Sam arbitrarily sets, even when he's not feral out of his mind. In the cover of night, he draped over Sam like he belonged there, and assured Sam when he woke with careful touches. He entangled their fingers and gripped hard to keep Sam from working himself up into a panic over where Dean had been.
Now, almost two weeks later with Dean mostly back but for a few unhelpful beers, Dean's got his arm splayed over the flat of Sam's chest and his chin rests right where Sam's anti-possession tattoo is inked. He's looking at Sam through soft eyes, no longer alight with that focused energy. They're a dull glow under the dark shadows cast by his lashes and the weakening wood stove.
A lazy blink, already half asleep Sam would wager, and then Dean's moving. He presses his callused finger to his own lips, just enough pressure to part them a little. Sam watches speechlessly when Dean turns that same finger to Sam's lips, almost a shushing gesture but not quite.
It's familiar too. Sam remembers this, vaguely in the way people remember wisps of dreams upon waking. He remembers the rough pad of Dean's fingertip against the give of his mouth, the earnest expression as Dean pressed hard enough to touch Sam's teeth.
That night again, when Dean tried to comfort Sam and he didn't have his words back yet. He could only say a few things, the essentials. Like Sammy.
Now, that finger falls back to Dean's lips, sinks past to touch teeth, like he did with Sam—like he did that night too. Sam tries to recall the meaning, glancing all over Dean's sleepy red face for some kind of explanation, but he doesn't think Dean ever really gave him one.
At the time, Sam assumed Dean was just trying to say he couldn't speak well. He even remembers thinking how ridiculous the silent message felt, considering how painfully obvious it was that Dean was a bit too messed up for words. But in the dark, then, Dean only shrugged at Sam's guess, only said close enough with his body language.
Here and now, Dean's fingers come back to Sam's mouth like before, but this time he holds Sam's chin. His thumb presses down with enough force to pull Sam's lower lip down, opening his mouth.
Sam doesn't move. His breath comes a little more shallow, almost not at all, and he waits.
"My Sammy," Dean whispers with the tiniest quirk of a smile, like it's their secret, like only they know the depth of it, the reality of it. Only they know the weight those two words impress into the cavern of Sam's chest, sinking and settling in. Made for it, raised for it.
Sam wants to nod, to agree, to say something that sounds insanely like I love you, but Dean kisses him.
Just like Sam had done that snowy morning, it's only a touch of their lips. There's nothing urgent in the action, no heat, no desperate need. It's gentle, it's reassurance. It's more.
Dean falls back and that smile is still there, across those lips that just touched Sam's, and it's so, so pleased. It's having and wanting and Sam's seen it before and he still can't explain it.
Dean taps Sam's lips once more with the end of his index finger, nail catching, and then slides down to plop his head back to Sam's chest.
There's a husky rough, "Night Sammy," once he settles in.
His ear is undoubtedly pressed flush to Sam's sternum and Sam worries for a quiet moment if Dean is listening to the uncertain thuds of his heart, if it's lulling him to sleep. Sam hopes it is.
He stays awake a little longer, staring up at the dimly visible roof of the cabin, and breathing very softly.
There're simple truths to Sam's existence, he's painfully aware of that now, after everything, after tonight. Sam's in love with Dean, he needs Dean, and Dean's all he has.
Under the weight of his brother with the phantom of his kiss against his mouth, Sam sleepily dares to wonder. What does Dean mean when he kisses him? Or when he bites into Sam's skin and clings too close? What is he saying when he presses his finger to their mouths with something emphatic and real? Why does he look at Sam with an expression Sam can't find a name for?
Blearily, hazily, in the comfort of Dean's body heat, Sam knows he won't get any answers if he doesn't ask.
When Sam finally falls asleep, he's decided.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he'll ask.
Notes:
the last chapter is likely going to be massive. i'm still tweaking it to my liking, adding bits, and editing it to death, so i don't want to say a concrete posting date for the end. (also because i just cannot trust the weather here!!!) i will say i am aiming for monday 10/19!
no promises though, i just don't know anymore with what goes on in the world. but it'll definitely be sometime next week, if it's not up by monday~ (pls subscribe for more accurate update information lmao) AND THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH ME THIS FAR!! I LOVE YOU (*¯ ³¯*)♡
Chapter 30: Drive, Part 1
Notes:
[season 5 episode 22 chuck voice]: endings are hard
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It sounds impossible, the idea that Sam could ever be alone in anything when he has Dean.
Sam should've realized this. He should've known from the moment he blinked soft at his brother and thought I'm in love with him.
Instead, Sam tried to satisfy himself with the lonely prospect of loving Dean and loving him different. Different than Dean did Sam.
Among all the questions, all the vagaries he was left with at the hospital, Sam never asked for more from Dean. He never forced him to explain, never pried out the most important answers from him, no matter how strange it seemed when he overthought it like he always does.
Sam couldn't question Dean. He wasn't allowed that, not when Dean asked him to forget it all and Sam worried he meant everything. Every single thing. So Sam tried and failed to let it go and in the end he opened up something bigger, something worse.
Alone in his head, Sam realized he was in love with Dean.
The only thing he actually forgot was something he wasn't asked to forget at all. He could talk to Dean. He could ask that one question and mitigate all the fucked up, swirling, nonsensical thoughts coloring every single interaction they have.
Sam always assumes things, he always figures the worst, and he's usually not wrong. But after last night he can admit he has no idea what his assumptions are. They're wavering, not as deeply moored as he once thought, and in the wake of that shift, Sam realizes he doesn't actually know anything.
When it comes to Dean, what he thinks, what he thought, why he did the things he did, and what he wants Sam to do, Sam's never asked.
It wasn't something he could ask about, or that's how it felt. Like some untouchable subject between the two of them. Some barrier crossed that would ruin everything.
Even now, Sam's not sure how to put it into words that don't sound as desperate and needy as he feels. A simple and curious, why'd you kiss me? might suffice. The one from that night, in the Impala, when Dean took and Sam let, and Sam knows why he let, but he doesn't know about Dean.
Sam doesn't like not knowing about Dean. In fact, Sam hates it. He hates it more than he hates being safe and holding himself back and keeping their normalcy, so he'll fucking ask Dean about it. About all of it. Out loud, without accusation, without interrogation.
Just curiosity.
It doesn't have to be this giant, momentous, earth-shattering thing.
Still, the words clog up Sam's throat and come out mangled, come out safer. He asks, but he doesn't ask Dean why he kissed him first.
It's past noon. They woke up late, stretched out on the musky rug in front of the couch and sore from all the wayward limbs and bony shoulders. Dean scrambled up and complained about headaches and backaches and gettin' too old for this shit, before helping Sam onto the couch.
Their palms matched, dried with blood, and they didn't say anything about it. As always.
After breakfast and showers, they're outside for the first time in what feels like forever. The sun is shining more than it has since they arrived and Dean figured it would be good for both of them to get a little air.
He didn't say why and Sam didn't press. Sam just agreed. Maybe because he was going stir crazy, or maybe because his skin was crawling and itchy and overwrought with unspent energy. Maybe because he wanted Dean to bite him again.
Maybe because he resolved to talk about it.
So they're outside, propped up on the Impala's hood like they've done a million times. The sun has warmed her surface into a pleasant heat that seeps through the blanket underneath them like another living thing. Sam would've spread out completely over her front and soaked in it if not for his broken leg hanging off the bumper.
It's still cold despite all the new sunlight melting snow drifts down to mush, but it's a refreshing kind of cool. Sort of an invigorating rush like chewing mint gum or drinking ice water, a pleasant sensation, and Sam's not shivering. Compared to Rufus's stuffy, cabin, it's like night and day.
Any other time and Sam would be basking in this quiet moment. He's at home beside Dean, comfortable with nothing sinister bearing down on them for once. If they each had a beer, it would be exactly as they are when they have a chance to relax on their own terms. The kind of peace they always have to fight for.
But with everything unspoken bubbling and simmering in that space between their shoulders, Sam had to ask something.
He isn't brave enough to ask the other thing. When all Sam can do is mourn the loss of Dean's weight over him, his lips on Sam's, his dorky grin on his face, his finger on Sam's mouth, Sam can only ask the easier question.
"What were you trying to say that night?"
Dean scoots a little further back on the blanket beneath them, hands set back in a casual recline. He doesn't look over at Sam, still staring up at the tops of the pine trees topping the mountains they've holed up in. They're no longer capped with snow in the new melt.
"What night?" Dean asks after an inhale, a puff of visible breath accompanying the words.
The stupid, nagging, desperate thing in the middle of Sam's chest wants to suddenly switch gears when it hears Dean's voice. It wants to finally pin Dean down, trap him there, and demand to know why he kissed him. Why he bit him. Why he claimed Sam as his to own all those times before.
It hopes, bleakly disbelieving, that Dean has the same reason as Sam.
But Sam can't make himself say it. He can't find the words that will come out right and gentle like they should. It's like he has no idea how to form a sentence that isn't just a pathetic call for Dean's attention, Dean's touch.
He can't force Dean's hand like Dean did Sam's. Though, he's starting to wonder if they wouldn't both be better for it.
Thudding back against the hood, Sam splays out and squints up at the nearly cloudless sky. His elbow presses into Dean's hip with the move, but he pretends not to notice. Both of them do.
"When you kept touching my mouth," Sam clarifies once it's been too long. He has to clear his throat to make sure the right thing escapes when he speaks and it's exhausting. Pressing his own fingers to his lips, Sam mimics Dean's gestures and taps at his front teeth.
If he could reach Dean from this angle he might do it to him too.
"You did it again last night. Just curious," he says and doesn't miss the way Dean tenses where Sam's elbow rests against him. It's definitely because he's thinking about more than just poking Sam's lips last night, more than laying on top of Sammy and calling him mine.
The dull gray of the winter sky makes Sam's eyes water when he looks too long. The sun is around but it's no clear day by any standard. He shifts his gaze over to look up at the side of Dean's face instead, along the cut of his jaw.
There's a clenched muscle there, alongside the sudden downturn of an almost scowl. Dean's still not looking at him, gaze resolutely front facing, but Sam can see it all anyways. In the avoidance, in the awkwardness, in the set of his teeth, Sam knows.
What Dean's going to say next won't be the truth.
Another huff of warm breath escapes in the cold when Dean says, "Thought we already said before? I couldn't talk."
It's vague, almost a non-answer, and Sam frowns. Because that excuse doesn't make sense anymore, Dean can speak now. He said plenty of words despite his buzz, grumbles and declarations and requests. Yet that gentle gesture from the first night remained.
It probably doesn't matter why Dean did it. The reason alone can't fix the weird, limbo-like state of their relationship. It's definitely nothing, some feral ritual even, some residual Purgatory habit. But Dean isn't keen to explain and because of that, it feels important, heavy with some meaning that Sam desperately needs to understand.
Sam taps fingers over his ribs and keeps staring up at Dean.
"Yeah, but you could speak last night," he says, no patience for careful word choice or delicate tiptoeing.
The blunt delivery finally drags Dean's glance down on him, eyes a little big, a little nervous. His brow is furrowed with something Sam can't quite place. It's not like Dean is mad, it's more anxious—scared? Sam watches without blinking so he'll see when Dean licks his lips, when he swallows.
Dean's hand drops lightly onto Sam's chest, the one bitten bloody last night, and it could almost be an absent gesture. Until he presses his palm down over Sam's sternum in a purposeful way, placating even. Maybe pleading. Dean's eyes track his own movements like they're not his own, and he purses his lips so the unhappy dimples appear.
It's hard to say if he's thinking of an excuse or trying to figure out the safest truth to tell. Both have happened before, and Sam grabs at the hand on his chest with his own. When he winds their fingers together like they used to, it's a welcome warmth as much as it is an encouragement.
In Sam's grip, Dean's fingers shake, the tiniest shiver, and even though it can't be from the cold, Sam wants to wrap him up completely until he's overheated. Until he's happy.
"Dean," he says, an entreaty. "What's it mean?"
That's what Sam's always been asking, really. The crux of everything that's happened to Dean, to them, in these two weeks. The meaning of it all, the implications and the intentions behind their actions, behind Dean's.
From the mating bites itching in their palms to the soft press of kisses to the angry, possessive claims. And that purposeful press of a finger to Sam's mouth, to Dean's mouth, with wordless messages, what did it all mean? In Dean's mixed up, post-Purgatory mind?
Sam asks, what does it mean? Sam also asks, what did you mean? Every time, all the time, now.
Is it the same as what Sam means?
The fingers in Sam's dig in, a tight clench of fist that presses against the sore wounds of Sam's bite. Dean makes a noise at the contact, small in his throat, and his bright eyes are affixed to their joined hands.
Sam waits, staring, and ignores the heat of their clasped hands.
"The truth," Dean finally says.
He won't look at Sam's face, and Sam doesn't understand.
"About what?" Sam asks with a tinge of desperation. Everything that went unexplained is brimming in these two words, all the things Sam never got an answer for, all the behaviors and oddities and the ways in which Dean's explanations didn't make sense are catching and igniting.
Like that initial spark of firestarter, something a bit demanding and angry swells underneath their fists, inside Sam's ribcage.
Sam still waits. Silent, simmering.
Dean doesn't escape the hard clench of Sam's fingers, maybe even returns the gesture, and he's watching them tremble, watching them ache and wash white with the strength of it. Sam can see his jaw working, and he has an envious thought to spare, a yearning in his skin, to feel the teeth he knows are grinding.
Just behind those teeth though, there's something integral forming on Dean's tongue. Some kind of explanation that's important, that’s altering.
His pursed lips finally part. Just enough for the flick of that tongue, that nervous gesture.
"About me," he says. "About Purgatory." Even that is forced through his teeth, too harsh. A roughened distortion to his words.
"Sammy, I—" He stops and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in an anxious, shaky breath. Sam's name from his mouth feels less like a plea for his brother and more like a quiet, rallying cry.
Sam gives him the moment he needs to figure out what to say, silently watching Dean edge his fingernail along one of the teeth marks in Sam's hand. The sharp press of it stings, and Sam's heart kicks up under their shared grip.
It's almost distracting, almost a distraction, and Sam wants to jerk Dean by the hand. He wants to force Dean out of his pent up, tense position at Sam's side, and tilt him to pour out whatever's stopping and stuttering inside him. He wants to finally spill the truth past Dean's lips like the blood Sam's tasted on his tongue before.
He feels righteous. Owed. Entitled to this truth and burning with it.
Dean's eyes open again, shining with something wet, and it freezes Sam's fury in the hollow of his chest, holding it there in a vice. Sam doesn't move, and Dean's shoulders rise with huge, steadying breaths.
A blink and finally Dean continues.
"I was always me, Sammy," he says and it's no higher than a whisper, scraping off his tongue and into the winter air with a foggy exhalation. Sam follows it up as it dissipates, taking sense and reason along with it. Straight up into the afternoon sky.
What crawls into its place is icy, a grip on Sam's lungs that has him shivering under their clasped hands. It's a disorienting sensation, confusing, and he doesn't understand, he needs clarification. Some kind of explanation. He stares up at Dean with wide, lost eyes and can't seem to ask for it. He can't say anything, but his mouth is open, lips parted, and he's losing body heat.
Sam can see the bob of Dean's adam's apple under the scruff of his unshaven throat and then Dean's saying more. "Back then, that night, I was gonna tell you—was tryna say I was still me." He shifts on the Impala's hood as he speaks, bringing his boots up on the blanket with raised knees. Almost protective.
The hand in Sam's stays there.
"I was gonna tell you I remembered everything, that it's me, Dean, your brother—" something stops Dean's voice then, stumbling around it, and he bows his head like he's hiding behind his knees.
There's a but that Sam can feel in the heat of Dean's calluses pressing to his own, in the flush of Dean's ears. It stokes that needy, knowledge seeking fire in Sam's chest. The answers Sam had long given up on.
Dean keeps talking. "But then you gave me an out, you figured I couldn't talk, and I knew." His other arm props up on a knee, and he presses his chin into the bend of his elbow, blocking most of his expression from Sam's prying eyes.
Sam wants to grab him by the collar, force his gaze, demand his attention.
But he's scared something fearful and wet-eyed is there, something he can't handle, and he just stays laying on the hood, taut and burning.
"I knew," Dean starts again, words wavering like his chest is filled with water. "I could get away with it all if I kept pretending, acted like I wasn't okay, like I didn't remember, like I couldn't control myself—couldn't understand what I was doing. Like you were mine, and I could bite you and hold you and never let you leave me, Sammy, I'm sorry I'm fucking selfish and stupid and I lied to you and I get it if you're pissed at me, I deserve it, just—"
An anxious flood of words is fumbling out, incoherent and ragged like each one hurts on the way past Dean's lips. He only stops because his voice cracks, dying in the cold air, and he doesn't raise his head from his arm, but Sam can feel him shaking against him. He thinks Dean might be crying again.
Sam flies upright, sliding a little on the Impala's hood in his haste to sit up, and tears himself free from Dean's clinging grip. It elicits a choked off noise, like Dean is scared Sam's leaving, so Sam immediately pushes into Dean's huddle of limbs and warmth.
He wheedles under Dean's arm, sliding palms over his cheeks to cup his face like he's been doing lately, like he likes to do. Sam doesn't miss the soft sigh that escapes Dean's lips that are bitten red with distress. Shiny, anxious tears speckle those ridiculous lashes, green eyes glowing bright in the faded sunlight.
When he looks so beautiful like this, Sam always wants to kiss him.
Vaguely, somewhere off and far away in the back of Sam's head, he knows he should process what Dean's been saying. What it means for Dean, what it means for the both of them, among the bites, the claims, and the sex. And the lies and secrets and deliberate misleading. Sam should be fucking pissed even. He should be shoving Dean with these hands he's holding him with.
Sam doesn't want to though, not with Dean in front of him like this. Vulnerable and wet-eyed, pouting lips and quiet desperation.
Because all of this, every last bit of it, means something vital and important. Almost pivotal as much as it's a mere continuation. The simple and linear progression of Sam and Dean laid out between them, in their clouding shared breaths.
Sam should sit back and take in what Dean's confessed to, the gravity of it, the reality. He should roll those words over his tongue and get the weight of them, the taste of them, so he can understand and reprimand in turn.
Sam should, but Dean's practically shaking and he's got those damn eyes and Sam's hands look huge on his jaw, holding him, keeping him.
In the face of Sam's utter lack of ability to say anything, Dean speaks. With careful, deliberate breaths that still waver as they escape.
"Sammy," he says first, a nervous wisp of sound, but no less filled with that promise, that prayer. Dean's benediction. A tongue runs along his lips and, low and almost timid, Dean makes a request.
"Kiss?"
Sam can't deny him. In spite of the teeth lurking behind those soft lips, Sam can't deny Dean anything. Not when he asks so sweetly.
Tugging him forward, over the Impala's hood, Sam presses their mouths together.
They've kissed like this before. But, to Sam, before was a different version of Dean, a Dean who couldn't be held responsible. Those kisses were a byproduct of something terrible and violent, but they were warm and wanting. Gentle.
That's wrong now.
They've kissed like this before, and Dean's always been Dean. He's always been Sam's brother, roughened and wisecracking, shoot first ask questions later, tough as nails Dean Winchester.
With his teeth and his snarls and his dark, greedy my Sammy, he's always been Dean.
Sam kisses Dean now, with the knowledge that Dean has wanted this for a long time.
Longer, maybe, than Sam.
They crash together a little too hard, a little too rough, and there's teeth against the soft give of lips. It hurts, but Dean deserves it. He's crying and he's afraid and he doesn't want Sam to leave him, but he lied and he hid everything and they did all of this, they got all fucked up and messed around, for what?
Sam wants to say it’s for nothing, but he knows that isn't true.
A whimper of a sound escapes right through Dean's teeth, up against Sam's, and he relishes the weakness of it with an almost deserved sense of pride. Dean's mouth opens for Sam like he can't do anything but, and Sam licks inside because this is his to take. He finally finally gets that taste of Dean's he's been lapping up in bits, like scraps for a starving dog.
It's heated, so much more than the melting snow around them, and when Sam sinks inside, he feels as if Dean's mouth is something he's owed. Something he greedily consumes with the fervor of a man who's earned this by virtue of being wronged.
Maybe Sam does want to fight about it after all, about the fact that Dean's been hiding things from him this whole time. Which he suspected, of course he fucking did.
The whole time he was Dean, and he just let Sam wallow in his guilt, his secret fear that he was the one to take advantage of their situation. That he let Dean do all those things to him instead of stopping him, selfishly taking everything Dean gave and hiding it all away with anxiety and a desperate sense of loneliness.
Dean knew. Dean realized he could take and take and take from Sam if he played this game. He could lick into Sam's mouth, and bite into his skin, and suck him down his throat if he stayed the Dean who didn't know any better. If he lied to Sam.
It burns furiously then, flaring up inside of Sam's skin like tangible anger, like resentment. Sam digs his nails into Dean's hairline, and bites hard into his lower lip, enough that he knows it'll bleed so he can suck it between his own, taste the iron of it. He's vicious, righteous in his abuse, and Dean winces into his mouth and it's vindication.
Hands scramble at Sam's chest, balling into the lapels of his jacket, like Dean is going to push Sam away, like he's going to try and escape this punishment. Sam prepares to fight him, but Dean only pulls Sam closer, tighter as if he's holding him hostage. As if Sam were going anywhere.
Sam could almost laugh. Dean couldn't get away from him if he wanted to.
Not when Sam has things to say and vengeance to reap. When he breaks the kiss, Dean follows after Sam's lips, chasing with that debauched mouth that makes Sam's whole body coil up. Sam keeps him at a distance, grabbing him at the shoulders.
They're breathing hard, hot in the air between their mouths, and Sam knows his lips are just as red as Dean's, just as swollen now. Maybe smeared with the blood he pulled from Dean's.
Sam licks his lip and sees Dean's blown eyes track the movement. "Dean," he says, firm but gravel rough, and Dean frowns like he's trying very hard to come to attention. Sam lays it out as accusatory and furious as he feels. "You lied? All this time, everything, you were just faking it?"
All of it? Sam doesn't say. Everything?
It isn't the first time they've hidden things from each other. There's always been secrets, anxieties and misdeeds tucked away with the hope that they'll never come to light. Sam feels manipulated, used, somewhere in the gamut of being completely betrayed. That whole week then, what was the point of it? Of everything they did, everything that happened to get here?
There was a point, there was an outcome. Sam knows this.
Dean's green eyes are bright and huge under that furrowed brow, and there's his pouting, bitten lips and Sam hates that he just wants to tear into them again.
"Sammy, no," Dean says, emphatic. Those fists in Sam's jacket curl to tug at him, to cling.
Sam's grip is just as tight on Dean's shoulders, pressing in hard enough to wrinkle up his shirt, and he almost hopes it hurts.
The protest from Dean's wet mouth is token. Just a phrase Dean always says when he doesn't want Sam to get mad at him, when he's scared Sam's going to leave him. Sam's skin burns underneath, that righteous, indignant fury of being wronged and desperate and incredibly afraid.
He grits his teeth to keep the things contained, to keep from yelling, but he would rather bite into Dean's flesh to calm down, pierce wounds anew and mark and claim and my Dean.
"No what, Dean?" Sam bites out instead, squeezing into the meat of Dean shoulders until he flinches. "No you didn't trick me? No you didn't act like you were all—all feral just to, to what?"
Sam shoves his hand off Dean, hard enough to knock him back a little, and holds it between them with the palm up. The crescent of wounds are proud and freshly scarred. "To bite me?"
Dean looks down at them and his cheeks flush hot under his freckles like he has no excuse, like he can't come up with one. Like he wants to bite again.
Sam's wounds throb, and he continues. "To kiss me?" It comes out soft when he says it, but the accusation is still fraught in the hiss of the words, tongue ramming the backs of his teeth.
Dean only stares with those wide, pitiful eyes. In desperate need of Sam's reassurance. His hands still clutch at Sam's jacket to keep him close. He won't say anything, maybe he can't, and maybe he just wanted Sam and that's it, but he won't say it. So Sam goes for the throat.
He bites out the last words with a fury he isn't quite feeling, but it's the only name he can give to this thrumming, agitated thing in his bones.
"Was it to touch me? Huh, Dean? To fuck me?" Barbed and meant to hurt, it's almost condemning, and it hits where it was meant to.
Dean's face twists up, lined with something Sam can't name, and it could be heartbreak but Sam's never seen it on Dean. Or maybe he has, and he didn't recognize it. This time though, he can. This time it's pained, it's lacerated, and it hurts Sam even though he caused it. It hurts like Sam's the guilty one, and he's opening his mouth to say something that'll take everything back, to brush it away.
He doesn't get far. Dean jerks him close, hard enough their chests hit, and his lips find Sam's again. Their teeth don't click together because Dean softens on impact, opening his mouth to take Sam in with an immediate, practiced familiarity. Dean's tongue is in Sam's mouth, meeting Sam's and he tastes as he always has. It's easy for them now, natural.
Sam wants to push him back, he does. He wants to wipe his mouth clean and tell Dean to just fucking answer him, just explain everything, but he doesn't.
He lets Dean angle his head so he can taste everywhere, hands grabbing at Sam's hair to always keep him close, keep him trapped. Owned.
Sam's light, as if he's burned up into ash and drifted into the clouds like their intermingling breaths.
It's still cold outside, and it's colder when Dean breaks away for air and Sam just wants him back close, pressed up against him and warm. Dean doesn't give Sam the chance to tug him in, sliding that bitten mouth down along the scratch of Sam's jaw. Searching and finding when he bites down on the phantom of a mark left behind.
Back when Dean first gnawed on Sam's skin in that stuffy motel room, when he didn't realize who Sam was to him. The bite mark isn't there anymore, it wasn't enough to break skin, and now, spread over the Impala, Dean does the same thing. His teeth are sharp points leaving a shallow impression, nothing more, but it sends a shiver wracking through Sam's body all the same.
"Dean," Sam says and it's weak and too breathy coming from his struggling lungs. Dean traces along his jaw to his ear and licks into the shell of it with a moist heat that stutters Sam's thoughts right off course. It's dangerous, it's the start of a spiral Sam isn't good at stopping and he tries to fumble back.
There's one hand firmly rooted in the hair at Sam's nape though, keeping him still, and the other clutches at his waist in a very short tether. Like the night Dean killed those vampires in front of the ship, the night he clung and grabbed at Sam like Sam would disappear. It's like that and Sam's fight stalls, reeling back to the way Dean pushed into him then too, threw him on the bed and slid inside him with his tongue, his fingers.
The teeth at his earlobe are the lightest pressure, the smallest little tug, and Sam's resolve is cratering into pieces under Dean's handiwork. Easy and distracted like he always fucking gets when Dean wants him pliant. He'll twist Sam up tight enough to derail an argument with his tongue, his teeth, his fingers. It's strategic.
A second wave of indignation rushes through that sidetracked heat and Sam has to fix this. He has to keep this from going Dean's way like it always seemed to do before. Because this time is important, this time is true and real and significant.
Sam needs to know this, he needs an answer, he desperately needs that confirmation of everything he hopes could somehow, miraculously, stupidly be true. The question is the question, the one that's stewed in Sam's chest like a boiling, screaming, dying creature since that night in the Impala when they were half asleep and kissing for the first time.
"Back then—" Sam's trying to put things back on track, but his brain statics, freezing up when Dean's hot exhale coats that spot behind his ear. On its own, a preemptive warning, just before disaster strikes and Dean sinks a bite into Sam's throat and Sam's totally fucking lost.
He has to resituate his own tongue like cotton in his mouth, and he has to do it quick.
It falls out into the bend of Dean's shoulder, and Sam wishes he could've bit it into him instead.
"Why'd you kiss me, Dean?"
But it doesn't stop anything, it doesn't even slow Dean down, and Dean sucks his lips to the pulse point in Sam's throat like he hasn't heard a thing. Like he's determined to wreck Sam before he can pry them apart.
A faint, thrilling press of sharp teeth scrapes along Sam's jugular, and Sam falls apart with the promise of it, the things he could have if he just shut up and let Dean have his way. Those teeth sinking in, marking him here too, like Dean's marked so many other parts of him. It's always so heady, so irresistible, and Sam crumples just enough not to stop it. Just enough not to beg Dean for his teeth.
He can't ask for it. Not when he's waiting for an answer he might not even receive.
Dean doesn't pull away. He doesn't go to say words with that mouth he's using to suck something bloody and dark up to the surface of Sam's neck. Marking without teeth for once.
But it's a marking all the same and Sam is weak for it, weak for Dean like he's been since he was born. He's foggy headed with it, distracted so terrible he can't form a coherent plan of action that isn't just letting Dean consume him.
He almost doesn't want to.
Sam lets. He always fucking lets Dean get away with it, and his chest heaves under pumping breaths as Dean works his way down to Sam's collarbones with his warm mouth, warmer tongue. Fabric is forced aside, friction over Sam's skin, and Dean's yanked his t-shirt to expose the plane of Sam's chest, the tattoo. More for Dean to nip at with those teeth Sam knows so well, that faint pain, that delicate ache following closely after.
It's sharp enough to hurt but not enough to break skin and the disappointment in that realization is so jarring, Sam tries again to take back some semblance of control.
"Dean," he says again, in what should be a demanding way, an answer me way, but it just sounds strangled, needy. Nothing that'll make Dean explain, make him use that pretty mouth for something Sam should actually want him to.
However Dean takes it, his hand slides free of Sam's hair, down and down like a heavy, heated iron along the flat of Sam's chest. Intentional, purposeful, like Dean has no interest in any opinion but his own. Which is so Dean and he's always been this way, every time he tore Sam apart it was with the single-minded determination of a Dean Winchester who is no one but himself.
When he works Sam's overly responsive body, attuned to each breath, each flexed muscle, every shiver, it's because he's Dean and he always has been. The implications of that are still echoing furiously in burning points of pressure all over Sam, and he's ignited with it, he thinks it's anger.
Yet he presses into the weight of Dean's hand, chasing like this is all Sam could ever want from him. His touch, his attention, Sam loves it too much, turns to heated flesh under it. He might call it unbearable, but in that, Dean reads him too. That hand pushes up the tail of Sam's shirt to his armpits.
The outside air is cool on Sam's exposed stomach and it's the slightest balm for the overheat in his skin. He shivers because of the cold, under Dean's bright gaze. At least, he wants it to be the cold, the cold is wracking him up into a shaky, unstable mess of a person on the Impala's hood.
But even if he wanted to stop Dean now, he can't. Because he's cold, but Dean is also warm, a furnace, and that's why Sam presses closer. That's why Sam makes a soft noise that can't be anything other than encouragement when Dean comes back over his skin with that hot mouth, that relief.
He circles one nipple, a deliberately drawn out affair that has Sam straining not to say something very bad like fucking get on with it. It doesn't matter anyway, Dean might not bite him, but he sucks at the sensitive skin with a hum on his lips.
Dean's mouth is so warm and that warmth travels straight through Sam, across his flushing chest, and down and down. Sam's powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything when Dean's like this.
Rough fingers fly up to twist at the other nipple, and it pulls a sharp hiss through Sam's teeth, breath harsh enough to be as admonishing as it is whining. Blood is already surging down in a traceable flood under Sam's skin, turning him so pink with where it disappears under the waistband of his sweatpants.
His cock swells against his thigh when Dean uses the barest hint of his teeth and it's so unbelievably easy for him. Dean wrings reactions out of Sam's traitorous body like Sam was molded directly to his specifications. Like Sam's tuned to Dean's touch and Dean's teeth and Dean. Like no one else will ever be able to do this to him.
"My Sammy," Dean whispers, as if tracing the nonsense of Sam's thoughts. As if ensuring Sam does not forget.
Once Sam's chest is thoroughly abused, red and swollen and throbbing, Dean slides off the Impala's hood to situate himself between Sam's thighs. His hands never leave Sam's skin as he does and he's still careful of Sam's cast, even like this, and Sam should take this second to do something. But Dean's fingers are tracking down his abs, past his navel, and Sam's rippling.
This is exactly like last night. Dean teases at the waistband of Sam's sweats just like before, except Dean isn't buzzed, he's not drunk, he's not even feral, he's—
"Dean."
Sam hopes it's some kind of reprimand fighting past clenched teeth, but Dean doesn't hear it that way. He slots in close enough to Sam that they can share body heat again, as if even in this predicament, he wants Sam comfortable and taken care of. Sam can't even recognize the humor of that idea, because at the same time Dean's pressing the heel of his palm over Sam's cock.
He was already half fucking hard, Dean made sure of that, and it's so obvious now under the heft of Dean's hand. It aches like shame, like embarrassment, as if Dean didn't expect this exact outcome. As if this isn't exactly what Dean wanted when he kissed Sam.
The indignity of being played like this is the only thing keeping Sam from angling up into the pressure of Dean's touch. He keeps his hips steadfastly unmoving. It's a willpower Sam didn't know he was capable of, but it's bratty and furious.
Dean levels him with a strange expression like his hand isn't over Sam's dick. Brow furrowed, but swollen wet lips tugging into an almost smirk, like he can't decide if he's satisfied or distraught. He presses his hand harder against Sam and it's a delicious hint of friction, it wracks a tremor up from Sam's core to the ends of his teeth.
When Dean finally speaks, it's like the snow crunching under his boots. "Remember last time we did this, Sammy?"
This.
It's innocuous. Or it could be if Dean wasn't palming Sam's cock through his sweats and looking at him like he could suck every last bit of him down his throat.
This.
Sam scowls and realizes exactly what he's referencing. Here, splayed against the Impala, outside and exposed and at Dean's mercy. It's muggy Louisiana heat crawling in their skin, it's Dean on his knees. It's suddenly all Sam can think about. Dean shoving him into the door and growling out various possessives, before dropping down to suck Sam's cock until he's swallowing everything down with those fucking debauched lips Sam loves so much.
It's clear as day in Sam's mind, Dean made sure it would be, and his cock betrays him so transparently when they're touching like this.
Dean licks his lips, a very intentional move, and his gaze trails down Sam's exposed front so plainly it's like he's touching Sam everywhere.
There's snow melting around them and Sam's still overheating. He's still burning with it, under that attention he always craves after, thrives on. Lives for.
He knows where this is going and he doesn't stop it.
The other hand, the one Dean isn't pressing in between Sam's legs, traces a purposeful path from Sam's shoulder down the length of his arm where it's propped uselessly to his side. At one point, Sam was using them to support himself on the Impala's hood, but now his arms are shaky and untrustworthy under Dean's intentions and when Dean grabs one, he can maneuver Sam like putty.
At first, Sam worries Dean will bite into familiar wounds and have Sam aching and swollen in his boxers, worse than he already is. But Dean doesn't put Sam's hand to his lips. He presses it to his hair, sliding the palm over the top of his skull so that Sam can cup the back of his head.
Sam doesn't grab on and pull like he immediately wants to, fingers sinking into fluffy strands. He doesn't move at all when Dean lets his hand go. He doesn't even breathe when Dean crouches down between Sam's spread thighs and presses a cheek to the divot of Sam's hip, so fucking close.
Through the fan of his lashes, Dean's eyes burn like that crumpling wood in the iron cast stove. Blackened with an unbearable fervency, lit aflame only to fuel Sam's heat, Dean stares up at Sam like he wants to give him everything. Like he always does. It's a promise and it's a claim.
He blinks once, softly, and then there's a grin at the corners of his reddened lips. "M'gonna suck you again, Sammy," he says. "Like my good boy, just like before."
Dean delivers it like Dean delivers any casual comment, a little rough, a little light, and it hits Sam like a physical punch when he jerks Sam's waistband down with expert hands. Sam's cock jumps free, exposed and so hard he's beading up with precome, and it hits Sam
He's never had Dean like this—like he usually is, with all his words and his sultry teasing, and Sam's cock head is beading with precome when Dean grips the base of his cock between hot fingers. His hips stutter up off the Impala of their own accord, into Dean's hand, and it accomplishes next to nothing but Dean's satisfied hum.
Sam's half naked, outside in the open, laying over the Impala's hood with his cock in his brother's hand and it's like being strung up. Displayed and pinned and Sam can't bear it. He's weak with it, he's hard with it.
His hand is still in Dean's hair, there because Dean wanted it to be, and he hadn't noticed the way it's curled into the tightest fist. Strands peaks out between his knuckles like silk threads, and Dean makes the faintest growl when he tugs them just a little. Sam feels Dean's reaction more than hears, the moist heat of his exhaling breath heats over Sam's leaking cock, and Sam wants to do nothing but beg.
He wants Dean to suck him down his throat, he wants to see Dean's lips stretch over his cock like before, tears in his green eyes, and flush on his cheeks. Sam wants to come on his tongue, in his mouth, all over him, inside him. Sam just wants Dean, and he tries to come up with the proper syllables behind teeth that pulse with the thudding of his heart.
Dean beats him to it.
"Want me to blow you, Sammy?" he asks, but it's not really a question. "Wanna come down my throat all clean and good like last time? Fuck my voice to hell again?" The words are so rough, cloying like sticky syrup as his lips hover so close.
Sam's chest is rising and falling in the shallowest of breaths, thighs trembling, and he's absolutely guileless when a pitiable sound escapes his throat. It's weak and wretched and far too pathetic. It's like a begging dog but dignity is the last thing Sam can lay claim to when his brother is seconds from sucking his cock.
Dean grins up at him with teeth.
"Say please, Sammy."
Sam's cock throbs in the heated circle of Dean's fist, and he would have a clear head if not for the way Dean's pink lips are almost touching him, if not for the fact that he knows what it feels like when Dean takes him inside his mouth.
Sam is so sure he wants to be sensible, sure he wants to talk and answer and have a conversation like grown men. It doesn't come out like that. He hiccups a shameless little noise that dies on a whisper.
It sounds like, "Please Dean."
His answer is the heated pump of Dean's rough fingers at the base of his cock, smoothed with nothing and almost painful, but Sam still chokes. It's enough to make his hips fumble under the weight of Dean's forearms and Dean exhales a heavy and self-satisfied thing through his nose, ghosting over Sam's exposed navel.
"Good boy, Sammy, always good for me. My boy," he says it all, high praise and spit shiny lips and that only makes Sam worse. Eager to please, eager to be Dean's. Once Sam nods, a delirious sort of frantic agreement, Dean finally, blessedly, angles forward to drag a flat, scorching tongue all the way up from the bottom of Sam's cock to the very tip.
Something strangled ekes up out of Sam's chest, but then Dean's tongue is swiping up the precome and dipping into the slit. It's just a moment, just the shortest unbearable moment, before Dean goes down with all the gusto of a man whose mouth was made for it. Made to suck cock between those plush lips, pouty and fucked. Made to take Sam's cock down, always for Sam.
Dean's mouth is a boon in the outside air and Sam's whole body is awash with it, as if Dean's taken the whole of him inside, keeping all of him soaked and hot in his mouth. He whines and it stutters into a mess of breathy sound as Dean's tongue works his cock with an attention that has Sam's muscles coiling up into taut little pockets of thinly restrained tension.
He has to fight not to force Dean down by the back of his head where Sam's hand still grips firmly. Like the urge to choke his brother on his cock is too fucking heady, too strong. Sam only resists because he knows Dean would absolutely bite him if he tried. Though that's appealing too, and Sam's flexes his wrist just the slightest bit. Just enough to be encouraging.
His hips bounce in little fraught kicks of need, barely a nuisance under the press of Dean's folded elbow where he's pinned him to the Impala's hood. Sam wants to thrust up into that wet, familiar heat, he wants to feel Dean gag and swallow around him as he does, but he can't.
It's torture, writhing and trapped under the attention—Dean's slow and steady undertaking. Sucking and mouthing and tasting and having, Dean takes his time doing it. A deliberate sort of worship.
When he pulls off with an obscene pop, he works all that spit around with a few pumps of his fingers. The tip of Sam's cock rests against his bottom lip as he does so, and his green eyes, blown wide and glassy, stray back up to Sam's face. He's so ridiculously beautiful, flushed over his cheeks with that abused mouth and Sam fucking yearns.
As if reading it on his face, Dean winks at him.
"So pretty, Sammy," he says against Sam's cock, lips mouthing at it as he forms the words to make Sam tremble under him. It's terrible, absolutely devastating, and Sam wants to shout like a fucking brat, that's not fair! Dean can take him down to nothing but whimpering, begging wreck with his mouth alone and it's not fucking fair.
Sam's pent up and warm and wanting so badly and Dean called him pretty like it's easy, like it's true. He wants to tell Dean that he's the pretty one, shut the fuck up—but it only comes out a garbled, incoherent whine.
Dean flicks the tip of his tongue against the slit and Sam writhes. That easy.
"My pretty Sammy," he murmurs, as if to himself, and he takes Sam back in his mouth with no other warning. Sam could cry because his stomach quivers and his thighs tense up and he's pretty sure his broken leg is aching. None of it because Dean's working his cock like a goddamn pro, but because Dean called him his, called him pretty.
Dean's sober. Dean's awake. Dean's himself.
Dean's mouth is on Sam and all Sam can do is beg and shake and restrain the tight muscles of his abs and his fingers, to keep from tugging and thrusting and claiming and crying, from coming all over Dean's tongue without warning like he did before. It's too close, and it's too hot, and it's more than Sam can take when Dean's rough, spit soaked calluses twist and stroke up to meet Dean's swollen lips.
This isn't the same as that night in Clayton.
This time is so much worse because they're in broad daylight, because Sam can see everything so fucking clearly. Dean's freckles, his ridiculous eyelashes, his mouth stretched wide, and the way the smallest tears appear at the corners of his bright eyes. The way he winces and pulls off when Sam's cock hits the back of his throat, wiping at his mouth with that fucking smirk. The confident, owning smile that hides the teeth Dean's sunk inside Sam.
He doesn't take Sam back on his tongue, bitten hand stroking Sam's cock like he knows exactly how to get Sam off. Like he has something to say.
"Always so good, Sammy. Good boy, my boy," he growls the kind of gentle encouragements he's told Sam his whole life. Always coaxing , always so fond, but like this it's more hoarse than ever, Dean's voice scratched and fucked from sucking Sam down far enough to gag. The tone only makes everything worse.
Sam's hips are bucking up as much as he can into the downturn of Dean's hand and Dean's eyeing him as he does. His other hand is the only thing keeping Sam safely pinned to the Impala.
Until it slides further down the dip of Sam's hips, no longer needing to prevent Sam from thrusting down Dean's throat when he's using the circle of his fingers. Sam barely notices when Dean slips that hand under his waistband, pulling it down further and further to show the tops of Sam's thighs and the curve of his ass.
Sam's far too focused on the way he's nearing the edge, the way his cock is hard and heavy in his brother's grip, and he just wants to come so he can stop being so fucking cloudy headed, so fucking ignorant to anything but Dean's smirking mouth.
A connection isn't made until Dean pinches the meat of Sam's inner thigh between his teeth. He bites down so hard it might break the skin. Sam has no idea because he's lurching up into Dean's mouth with a start. It fucking hurts, yet Sam's cock spurts like he's already coming, like he gets off on it, and he probably does, flinging upright to curl arms around Dean's shoulders, grabbing at his shirt.
Sam's going to pull him off, he's definitely trying to escape the sting of that bite, but all he does is cling close to Dean, and Dean bites harder and there's a roughened, familiar growl and Dean's hand is still on Sam's cock.
Sam doesn't come until Dean pries his teeth away, until Dean licks at the marks he's made and proudly growls, "My Sammy."
When he does, it's syrupy, it's overwarm like it always is, like anything is when it comes to Dean, and Sam's whole body is overturned, raked across hot coals in the most pleasantly searing way. He comes and shivers and Dean presses his burning hand into the give of Sam's stomach to push him back, just a little.
When Sam leans away, he sees his come over Dean's cheek. It's stark along the edge of his mouth and up under his eye, and it's vulgar and gross and embarrassing.
Sam wants lick it off him.
"Mm, that's my boy. Came for me like always," Dean praises like Sam's a very cute pet who's done something good. He's not even looking up at Sam. His gaze is fixed to Sam's lap, not his spent cock, soft and oversensitive in Dean's fingers, but the vibrant red mess of Sam's pale thigh.
Each cut into the skin is familiar in its placement, no different than the mark on Sam's hand and it sends a rush through his humming, post-orgasm like a second wave. Lighting up Sam's skin a hazy pink. His thigh flexes, jumping with Dean's attention, and Dean sucks in a breath like Sam's come isn't on his face, like he hasn't even noticed because he's too distracted by the bite he left.
When Dean presses the pad of his thumb into the imprint of his canine tooth on Sam's leg, more of a soothing gesture than a painful one, it's a reminder. Sam grits his teeth and remembers how they got here. Fingers on lips and the lies behind those.
Rather than the more mature, level headed option, Sam smacks Dean's hand off his dick and kicks him in the side with his good foot. Not too hard, but hard enough to knock Dean from his dazed fixation. Hard enough Sam can slip his pants back on and regain a bit of dignity, a bit of ground.
"Dean," he says, and it's annoying that his voice isn't nearly as furious as it should be. Dean's name slips out like honey, a mellow call, and Sam can hardly gather his soothed muscles up enough to sit straight. He wants to grab at Dean and wipe the fucking come off his face so he can look at him directly without getting that electric heat back in his gut.
Dean stands up fully, but he doesn't step back. He doesn't let Sam maintain that gap between their bodies at all, slipping in as tightly between Sam's thighs as the Impala beneath him will allow. His face is too close, arms coming down to bracket Sam's hips and plant heavy palms on either side.
Like this Sam could kiss him.
"Sammy," Dean says as if they're playing a game. As if they're just going to keep saying each other's names until something makes sense.
He quirks up the corner of his terrible mouth, utterly used and smug with it. That tongue slips out to lick just at the corner, up where one of his angry dimples would be if he was angry at all. Sam's come is there in its stead, and Dean tastes it. Sam's stomach flips, an uncomfortably excitable thing inside.
"Didn't swallow this time," Dean rumbles out with a satisfied little chuff as if he didn't just lick Sam's come off his own face and Sam didn't find it unbelievably distracting.
As if he hadn't admitted to greedily swallowing Sam whole and doing it all on his own. As if every single time they did this before wasn't because Dean just wanted to. Because Dean was always Dean, because Dean lied and pretended he couldn't help himself.
Because Dean couldn't help himself.
Sam swallows and there's a mounting sense of something very large and very scary surging up from the heels of his feet to the top of his skull. He wishes he could just kick Dean a few more times to get rid of it, but they have to keep talking, so Sam only presses a steadying hand to Dean's chest.
Maybe to keep him at bay, maybe to feel the way his heart beats under Sam's bitten palm.
"Y-you didn't answer my question," Sam says after a deep, unsteady breath. He can hardly look Dean in the eye, seeing him all debauched like before is messing with his coherency and it's even worse because this is Dean. His Dean, clear headed and sane.
But then again, it's always been Dean.
Sam pats Dean's chest once, kind of hard. "Why the hell did you kiss me that night?" It's a bit more accusatory than he intends, a little more bite to it, but it's better than the scared, anxious way it could've come out. The way Sam feels underneath all that righteous anger Dean worked very hard to quell.
Under his palm, Dean's heart is faint but strong. Not overly fast. When Sam glances up from his knuckles to see Dean's face, he's not smirking anymore. He isn't crying either. He's just calm, no anxious creases lining his face, no taut pull of overused facial muscles. Relaxed.
Dean pushes forward into Sam's hand, not too hard but enough to press them closer together and the heat that comes off him is as alluring and comforting as it always is. Familiar. Sam wants to crawl inside him and sleep for a while, until everything makes sense and the winter has given way to a more pleasant spring.
Dean licks his bruised lips and his words are like gravel when he speaks.
"Why'd you let me?"
It hangs there between them like a solid thing, and it's as much a question as it is an answer. They both know that. Dean's pulse beats quicker against Sam's hand and Sam's heart kicks up to keep pace with it.
Beyond that, Sam is quiet. He can't face Dean's stare directly, as if Dean will see it all in Sam's face, because Dean will see it all in Sam's face. Dean always does, and Sam would hate how easy they can read each other, but they're always so fucking stupid about it anyway.
Why did Sam let Dean kiss him? Sam knows. He knows why he let Dean lick inside his mouth and rut against him and suck him down. He knows why he let Dean slide his fingers inside of him as much as he knows why he let Dean bite claiming wounds all over his skin. Sam knows all of that now.
He thinks Dean might too.
"You know why," he says.
It's a whisper, barely audible to Sam's ears but Dean was watching for it. His eyes were trained to Sam's lips like they always always are.
The hands on either side of Sam's hips are fists, bunching up the material of the blanket beneath, and Dean's bottom lip pulls into his own mouth. He sucks it just long enough to taste, like he wants that reminder, and when he looks back at Sam his expression is one Sam knows.
The look Sam's seen as long as he can remember, but he could never quite place. Unable to find the words to describe it well, but he always tries to. It's molten warmth, it's sweetened and bright, it's a longing tension.
Having and wanting, in turns.
Dean says, "Yeah? Me too."
It's so fucking insignificant, it's so casual. Almost like they're talking about what to get for dinner, not the truest reality of who they are and what they mean to each other. Not something insane like being in love, like needing each other so much it completely wrecks everything else around them. Not a huge, all consuming, fucking inevitability.
It's barely anything when they say it. But that's who Sam and Dean are.
The real intentions and feelings never quite come out of their mouths right, even if it really should. They mean one thing but they say another. Maybe it's because what they're talking about, what they're feeling and thinking and confirming and realizing isn't something they know how to put into words.
Like apologies, like forgiveness, like loneliness and devotion and love and that clingy, bitey, scared thing.
That's what they have. Both of them.
They've never been able to say it, except with their teeth. They use their mouths for everything but talking.
Sam grabs Dean's hand and it's a forceful, unapologetic violence when he raises it up and bites hard enough that Dean stumbles against him. He wants it all to fill Dean up, slip into his open wounds and tell him the truth of it all, the I love you of it that Sam can't say. That neither of them can say.
Dean makes a pathetic noise, rabbit hearted under Sam's hand, in Sam's mouth, and Sam wants to hear more. Sam wants to eat Dean up, he wants Dean all over him, in him, his.
He pries his teeth away like a bear trap and jerks Dean over by the collar. Sam could kiss him, but he only drags his tongue over the come sticky on his cheekbone and it's salty and Sam wants to do more to Dean than this.
That palm over Dean's chest slides down, deliberate when Sam reaches where he wants. Dean is hard in his jeans, against Sam's fingers. He's shaking with it, and Sam presses into him with his own intentions, like the two of them will be okay after all. And they are, really.
They've always been.
They're just finally on the same page about it.
"Guess you didn't come in your pants?" Sam asks, low against Dean's ear and his tongue tastes the curve of it. A rough, grumble of a noise comes out of Dean's sealed lips, and it could be offense, but it sounds more like pathetic, undignified encouragement.
Sam sighs through a smile and pulls back just enough to press their mouths together, chaste like Sam doesn't want to bite and bite and bite. "It's fucking cold out here. Take me inside so I can return the favor."
The noise Dean makes this time is absolutely feral. Violent and deep in his throat, it rumbles his chest like a beast, the way he was that night Sam found him, and Sam has no idea how he never fucking realized.
Of course, the feral creature that clung and bit and fucked Sam was always Dean. Of course.
Notes:
you might have noticed the total chapter count increased to 31… well the original final chapter ballooned to a whopping 22k!!!!
so i waffled between posting it as one monstrosity vs cutting it in half for readability. after much discussion w my beta i decided to cut it, then i had to figure out where to cut it, then how to mend the new scene break, and then next thing i know i'm late on the update and dammit, sam!! everything's spinnin' outta control!!!
those of you who LOVE long ass chapters and are unhappy with the choice i was convinced to make, don't fret!!! i will plan to post part two on the iconic november 2 because i want that date permanently stamped on my fic (this is our last november 2 with spn still on air everyone, excuse my tears and nostalgia T_T) sorry for the extra long wait, and i'll see you again in a couple days <3
Chapter 31: Drive, Part 2
Notes:
saying one last special thanks to beta skrub who cheerled the hell out of me since day 1 (and also guilted me when i procrastinated til the last second). this wouldn't have happened without their very tired, very dedicated support (*￣▽￣)b
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Inside the cabin, Dean hauls and tosses Sam onto their shared lumpy mattress as if Sam isn't huge and oversized and missing a working leg. It takes all of Sam's coordination not to collapse into a heap, grappling at the sheets when he falls ass first.
His legs hang off the edge and Dean looms over him just like he did outside. Always leaning in too close so he can box Sam in, keeping him near, keeping him caged.
Sam could bite him this close.
So he does. For the first time in maybe his entire life, Sam doesn't have to try and restrain himself. He finally has no reason to.
Inclining up, Sam sinks his teeth in the plush of Dean's lower lip and tugs, just enough to earn another one of those rolling growls. It vibrates right into Sam's mouth, along his itching teeth.
He wants to bite harder, make Dean bleed a little, but he wants even more to wreck him. To return the favor.
Sam lets Dean's lip go free without tearing it and when he leans back, it's all shiny and red and still very much fucked up. He's going to say something, a teasing, annoying something that'll make Dean go all pink and embarrassed. He's going to mess with him like Dean did before.
Dean doesn't let him. He hardly even lets Sam lean away.
Like they're connected by the shortest, tightest string, Dean follows after Sam's mouth and captures him back with a triumphant hum.
Those hands that kept Sam trapped finally give way, but it's not to give Sam room. It never is. They're kissing and Dean clutches at Sam's clothes with practiced hands, pulling and winding the material up into strained fists. As if he always has to maintain that unyielding grip on Sam, that leash.
His tongue is already in Sam's mouth, soft and slick, and he's pressing in so close, like always, and it would be so easy to give in again, to let Dean take and direct and slip inside of Sam like he's become so adept at doing. Like he might have always been adept at doing. It would be too easy to fold, but Sam can't let himself do it. He can't get distracted this time when Dean's still hard and neglected in his jeans.
Huffing a breath through his nose, Sam digs his own fingers in and hauls Dean down on top of him. Limbs flounder everywhere, Dean grunting as he avoids knocking Sam's leg too hard, their teeth clacking together when clambers over Sam.
The mattress dips precariously, blankets all a mess where they've bunched up under Sam's hips and shoulders in odd places. It might be uncomfortable, Sam has no idea, he's too focused on the weight of Dean settling on the bed between his thighs to care.
If his busted leg wasn't in that huge cast he'd insist Dean settle on his thighs, in his lap, over his hips. Just like the time on the ship, when Sam asked his brother to jerk himself off on him, for him. At his command.
Dean's worked his way from Sam's mouth, crossing his jaw, and touching sharp teeth back to that faint imprint he left behind. The third bite Sam's received there, and they only seem to get lighter and lighter with each impression. This one is feather light, but somehow it still leaves a pleasant throb in its wake. Sam exhales a breath that's not quite a sigh.
It isn't just there, Sam's whole body is still lit up molten warm from the inside after coming on Dean's face, after they both admitted everything without completely admitting everything. Finally, Sam doesn't have to overthink, finally it's a face value affection, a real and open and obvious desire fueling his actions.
Now his plan is nothing more than payback. He just wants to get Dean what he's owed after he broke Sam apart with his mouth, after he took charge. It's simple as that now, it's easy, Sam doesn't have to justify himself and his reasoning anymore, he has no one to argue against. The sheer lightness that offers him is a potent relief and Sam chases after it. He won't let it ever escape.
"Hey," Sam says and loosens his grip on Dean's shirt.
Dean only makes the barest grunt of acknowledgement, propped on his elbows over Sam so he can suck what'll soon be a very obvious spot in the hollow of Sam's throat. Blood is definitely pooling up under Dean's mouth, warm in Sam's skin like it always is.
Warmer still when Sam skates his hand down Dean's front to wind fingers in the top of his jeans, hooking in and holding on. Above him, Dean goes tense and still like Sam's caught him in a trap, like something dangerous might happen.
He only breaks when Sam's fingers stretch out to tease at the band of his boxers underneath. The mouth on Sam's throat twists up and Dean's breath washes out in a harsh wave of damp heat alongside it. Sam smiles, he can't help it.
It's a small gesture, nothing but anticipation when his two longest fingers scrape nails along the trail of hair disappearing under Dean's waistband. Very lightly, the faintest of touch, but Dean shivers down to the root and buries his face in the curve of Sam's neck.
He could almost be shy, almost be overwhelmed. It's a far cry from the Dean who took Sam's cock in his mouth and called him a good boy, called him pretty. Praised Sam until he was wound up and coming with it. This Dean, though, curling over him, waiting for Sam to reach lower and lower and start taking, this is just Dean crumpling under Sam's attention like he always does.
Dean can dish it out, but he can hardly take it. A crybaby through and through when it comes to Sam, when it comes to actually taking it all.
Sam stops just short of touching Dean where he aches, where he's stiff and damp with it, and turns his cheek into Dean's. "Remember when you got yourself off for me?" he says, quiet so as not to startle. "You came all over yourself 'cause I was watching you, 'cause I called you mine?"
A noise strangles free from Dean's lips where they're still pressed into Sam's neck. It comes out muffled when he murmurs a whiny, admonishing, "Sammy."
And it's strained, forced up and out like Dean's very close to breaking something very thin. That sound satiates Sam's hunger, whetting the appetite that encourages his fingers to run callused ends down the soft slope of Dean's groin, down and down. He can perfectly picture how fragile Dean is like this, how tenuous he is by the way he's folded around him, like he wants to smother himself in Sam. It's cute, and it's exactly Sam's goal.
Dean's hips flex when Sam keeps going, just shy of giving Dean some relief. He pauses one last time, the tiniest torture, and Dean lets out a strangled noise like he was holding his breath, waiting, eager with it but not quite enough to ask.
Sam speaks into the heat of Dean's cheekbone, "Just like the other night, too. When you were half-asleep and crying for me? Knew exactly how to make you come, remember that?"
They can do it all over again now. In the daylight, wide awake with no excuses, Sam wants to do every single thing again without that guilt stricken sense of blame or those fearful hesitations or some kind of misplaced attempt at selfishly claiming responsibility.
They're finally on the same page and every action is deliberate, every breath is a conscious choice, and Sam's going to take Dean in his hand. He's going to work Dean over until he's wringing out the tears and sobs and begging, quiet Sammy he loves, until Dean's panting and begging Sam to let him come. Because Sam wants to, because Dean wants him to.
The idea of wrecking Dean very thoroughly has been seeping into the cracks of a kinder Sam's resolve ever since Dean looked him in the eye and told him he lied. Ever since he confessed to hiding away so he could get inside of Sam's narrowest spaces for himself. So he could have Sam and keep him. Self-serving and greedy and exactly the same as Sam.
Sam called it payback, returning a favor and returning a behavior, but it's a much more vindictive endeavor in truth. Cruelly, and certainly petulantly, Sam wants to push and fight and reshape Dean's notion of always taking care of Sammy.
It's Sam's turn to take care of Dean. Not because he owes him, but because he really, really wants to.
"C'mon, said I'd help you out," Sam says against the scratch of Dean's unshaven cheek. Finally, after keeping Dean taut like this, on the slimmest edge, Sam carefully grazes seeking fingertips against the head of Dean's cock, smeared with precome.
The touch earns Sam a very soft, very breathy sound, and it's sweet in Sam's ear. It's warm and damp and strangled, and it's earned. Sam wants to eat every single one of those noises and he plans to pull them out touch by careful touch, fingers sliding gently down the length of Dean in his jeans.
Another one of those gasping, stutters of air comes out across Sam's skin and he gets to enjoy the weakness of it for all of one second.
Only because Dean bites into the flesh of Sam's neck so hard, it startles a wince out of him.
"Dean," Sam says it like it's a curse, throat shooting pain signals up through his teeth like fireworks. He's looking for revenge when he takes Dean fully in hand, hot and heavy and familiar against his rough palm.
Not even a single stroke gets in though, nothing for Sam to lay claim to, not even the satisfaction of seeing Dean cry from overstimulation. Sam gets absolutely nothing when Dean grabs him by the wrist to tug his out and away. He pins it down against the mattress, effectively preventing any sort of hostage situation Sam was planning and Sam's at a complete loss.
There's the always-sting of teeth prying free from an open wound and Sam's probably bleeding. Dean pulls back to hover over him with a scowl that could be disapproving, though Sam can't fathom why he would be. His cheeks are all red again in that exerted way he gets, like Dean after a long hunt, and Sam would kiss him if he wasn't so annoyed.
"Dude," is the only thing he can manage that doesn't sound whiny. His eyes are already tracking over Dean's exposed skin, searching for the most sensitive bit of flesh he can use to return the painful bitten favor tenfold.
He locks onto the innocuous end of Dean's earlobe and raises his free hand to pull him back down close enough for a bite. Except Dean intercepts that one too, forcing Sam's hand down to the bed, knuckles first.
Effectively pinned again, and increasingly frustrated, Sam's really starting to think kneeing Dean in the gut with his good leg is a justified course of action.
Dean surely detects Sam's mounting irritation, because something low and unstable hums in his chest, something a bit warning.
The sound draws Sam's attention back to his eyes rather than the vulnerable target his belly makes. Those eyes are two narrowed points of a stark green, in the flush of Dean's face, and darker still under his lashes. The cut of them, the narrowed daggers of the gaze he pins on Sam is harder than the grip he has on Sam's wrists. Not quite accusatory, but certainly condemning.
Dean purses his lips and the clutch of his fingers presses in so rigidly to Sam's skin, they'll surely leave something behind. He definitely intends them to.
Sam is strong enough to fight free if he really wanted to and he does want to, but he's also curious what kind of bruises he'll see later if he doesn't. Gnashing his teeth, Sam glowers up into that condemning stare with not a small amount of only slightly feigned indignation.
"What?" He barks it out like it's a prelude to a fight. Sam wouldn't hate it if it was, but more because he wants an excuse to start handling Dean with more teeth and less tenderness.
His wrist bones start to roll under the force of Dean's strength, not to the point of painful, but the discomfort is as much as warning as the look Dean's giving him, as the sound he's made in the depths of his chest. Sam curls and uncurls his fingers, pulling all the tendons up against Dean's calluses in a tiny, voiceless challenge. In an invitation to do his worst.
Dean only presses harder into the give of Sam's skin like Sam was only preparing to escape. This time it doesn't hurt either, but the blood flow to Sam's hands is weak and his palms tingle with a loss of sensation. The bite in his left one is the only thing Sam can still feel with clarity. Like a boon, like a symbol.
When Dean does open his mouth, his voice is unwavering.
"Stay, Sammy."
Two words—a very clear order—spoken in a whiskey smooth drawl that comes up deep in Dean's throat like the croon of an offkey rock ballad.
Every bit of fight burns right out of Sam's muscles and the smoke it leaves behind is tractable, a wispy spirit of a docile thing that only promises Sam the best of things. An intent to worship Sam can't deny.
He acquiesces, softening under Dean like prey with a vital bone snapped. The scowl stays though, Sam's chin tilted up in the barest bit of challenge he can still wilfully muster.
Dean sees right through it. When it comes to them, body language is nothing but a traitorous informant for the other side. Secrets are hard to keep.
All Dean needs to see is the give of Sam's shoulders and the sinking of his chest to know Sam's fight has been bastardized into some kind of reluctant deference. (And maybe not as reluctant as Sam's trying to play at.)
So Dean gets his way, and he knows it, but he isn't cocky with the victory like Sam might've expected. He's still eyeing Sam with that dangerous, dark eyed stare and he's already pinned Sam down and sucked him off with those bruised lips. He's already given and taken and won, but he wants even more and Sam doesn't know what, he only knows he'll be chewed up and swallowed whole. He can see it in those eyes like a vow forged from the heat of Dean's stare alone.
That white-knuckled grip eases on Sam's wrists, a silent trust Sam will do as told, and Sam does as told, staying like Dean ordered him to despite everything he intended to do. It wasn't supposed to go back this way, Sam wasn't supposed to give in again, he was going to take Dean apart one bit at a time, with his fingers, with his mouth. Despite all of that, Sam stays as he was told.
The choice is laced with a certain umbrage, the quiet mortification of giving in so easily, but Sam's too attentive to the way Dean's tongue licks his lower lip to bother acknowledging it. He's always too distracted by Dean, and now it's only further augmented by that constant, steaming sense of wanting and finally fucking having.
No longer holding Sam down, Dean is free to grab the end of Sam's shirt again. As he carefully works it up Sam's body, those narrowed eyes glaze every bit of skin as it's revealed inch by inch. Agonizingly slow, so much slower than the first time, it's like being peeled open. It's an undoing.
The air isn't nearly as cool inside the cabin as outside, but Sam shivers all the same. His shirt is hiked up past his chest, nipples and tattoo exposed, and Sam expects a touch, a taste, some kind of physical reverence to match with that look on Dean's face. Expects and anticipates. The longer Dean doesn't come to him, the worse those unmet expectations throw Sam’s heart up against his sternum, pounding loud like a protest.
Dean only takes Sam in with that heavy eyed gaze and it scalds where it sees. He doesn't falter, whatever his intentions.
"Lift up, Sammy."
Another order, in that same low drawl that makes Sam's insides resonate like a struck drum, vibrations oscillating out through to his fingertips and taking any bit of defiance with them.
Sam raises his shoulders obediently and Dean removes his shirt, pulling it off and tossing it away. When Sam falls back to the mattress, Dean doesn't crowd in to claim all of that skin he's uncovered. He doesn't sink in with that wet heat mouth and fill the echo chamber of Sam's drumming body like he usually has.
Dean only licks his lip again, sucking it between his teeth in that absent way, watching Sam with the same look that Sam is trying to make sense of. It clings where it rests like a thin sheet of sweat, shining over Sam's naked skin, and it's as deliberate as it is pointed. Sam might even call it assessing.
Before he can bother to parse the meaning of that, Dean's scooting off the bed.
His hands find the tops of Sam's sweatpants quick enough and it's the only thing that keeps Sam from chasing up after him with grabbing hands. When Dean's fingers are slipping into his underwear, Sam does as he was told and stays.
Dean doesn't touch him though, not more than he must in order to shuck both sweats and boxers off. As he goes, his warm knuckles press into Sam's navel, his hips, his thighs, and when he skirts around to slip the material over Sam's ass, it's a measured and unfaltering task. Focused.
Dean shouldn't have to lean so far down to get Sam's clothes off, but at this angle, his face is level with Sam's navel, close again. He palms Sam's ass in callus rough hands too, like it's a necessity, and Sam kicks his hips up, more startled than anything.
The quick stutter of movement slips him completely free of his pants, utterly naked to the thighs. His cock is free and he's raised up off the mattress in Dean's hot hands, presented right in front of Dean's mouth like some kind of offering.
Those fingers squeeze into the meat of Sam's ass in tandem with the smirk that quirks up the corner of Dean's lips. Sam's cock twitches as if he didn't come all over them not fifteen minutes ago, as if he's utterly shameless, and Sam struggles in Dean's hands like a fish on a hook.
"Dean—" it could be a protest or not. Sam just knows he needs to make some kind of noise, being caught like this, but as always the name comes out a bit weaker when it escapes, a bit more encouraging. It always fucking does.
Dean squeezes fingers hard into Sam's flesh and it's just as hard as he gripped Sam's wrist, just as likely to leave a mark. A sharp breath sucks into Sam's aching lungs when the force of Dean's grip pulls his cheeks apart, just the slightest, and Dean's fingers are close.
Close and heated like that time on the ship, like that time they fought and Dean tossed him to bed, and Sam's suddenly there all over again.
Back on his stomach on that duvet with Dean's mouth on his rim and his fingers inside him and he remembers the feeling of it, remembers the sensations so distinctly, so longingly, and he makes the weakest, whiniest noise because he wants that again. He wants Dean in him, as much as he can get, and his hole flutters and he's half hard right there, presented as he is, held up off the bed as he is, and he could probably beg.
"Easy tiger," Dean says and it's nearly a laugh. When Sam looks at him, he sees that smirk has kicked up into a toothy grin. It glows on Dean's face nearly awed, shiny in his eyes and deep in the crows feet that crease there. Clearly not as tortured as Sam feels, not as spread open and left revealed.
Sam wants to kick him, he wants to call Dean a jerk and then order him around. He wants to tell Dean to prep him with his tongue like before, his fingers, he might want Dean to fuck him even. Maybe. But it's an overheated, milky thing that aches for it and Sam's delirious if he thinks he'll say all that. If he thinks he can utter those words without boiling alive in his own feverish, embarrassingly desperate craving.
He's saved from having to make sense of what he wants, from accidentally blurting out something crazy, something he can't take back but he knows he really fucking wants. He's saved by virtue of Dean's absolute dedication to undressing Sam like pulling the tape off the seams of a wrapped gift.
He lowers Sam by his hips back to the mattress, sweatpants and boxers now bunched around Sam's thighs. Getting the material over the cast and leaving Sam utterly naked is a task which apparently requires Dean's utmost attention. Sam tries very hard not to voice any protests.
Once the last of the clothing slips free of Sam's foot and drops to the cabin floor, that eagerness Sam's been trying to suppress surges back up and burns through any bit of indignity that bothered to hang around.
He's finally naked, laid out on the bed they share, hard and stayed, just as he was told to be. Dean is still very much dressed, jeans and black t-shirt woefully intact, and if Sam wasn't being good, he would sit up and start tearing it all off.
But he is being good, dutiful and obedient like he almost never is. He lays there with a surprising amount of control and simply waits for Dean to come to him like he always does.
Dean climbs back over Sam after a moment of watching him, a long moment of those green eyes raking over every bare inch of Sam as if it's something new, something memorable. Maybe it is. But then Dean's tongue flicks out to wet his lips and he's crawling over Sam, palms on the mattress in gradual movements that feel purposeful.
Their skin doesn't touch as he comes near, every potential point of contact somehow avoided without visible effort. Sam resolutely doesn't rise up to meet Dean's chest, or better yet, yank him down and bite him, punishing with a mouth as they've done. Sam doesn't because he was told to stay still.
The closest thing to proximity Sam gets is the press of Dean's cock through his jeans when he settles between Sam's thighs again, just left of actually giving Sam some much needed pressure, of giving either of them any kind of relief. Sam has no idea what he's playing at, getting close but not close enough, and he wants to ask, maybe demand.
He only stops because Dean grabs his left hand up from the bed.
Dean's damp breath is overly hot, almost pyretic, when he parts his lips at the heel of Sam's palm. The bite burns, still fresh and shiny from last night's abuse, and Dean rests his teeth over it like a threat, like an affirmation. He's staring at Sam as he does, and his eyes are blown, pupils wide like they've consumed his green irises and painted them with a dark, bottomless intent.
Sam can only squirm in the face of it.
"M'gonna bite you, Sammy," Dean murmurs and his upper lip brushes the bite as he does. "Not just here."
He sinks his teeth in, just like last night, just like all the times before, but this time is as different as it isn't. Dean is Dean, clear-headed and himself, and he's biting into Sam's palm with those deep pit eyes, because he's always been Dean. It's always been him and it's exactly the same as every bite before it, filled with the intentions and meanings and promises they can't say out loud. It's the same but now Sam knows.
Everything they've been communicating with the curve of their bites, has been everything they've been trying to tell their whole lives. It isn't some new development, some consequence of a monstrous place, it's always been there. The both of them always intended this, when they tore into each other, they meant the same thing and they were themselves. It's always been like this.
They're just being honest about it now.
The cut of Dean's teeth is nearly as comforting as the sound of Sam's name on his lips, soothes as much as it wounds, just like always. And Sam loves it like always, presses into the pain of it like always. Like he wants Dean to break more than skin, break bone, break the exterior of everything that makes up Sam and crawl inside of him, claim all of it for himself and never leave.
It's an assurance, a sick and strange and confusing assurance, but Sam's assured.
Just as much as he's thrilled, just as much as he's worked over like an animal on the spit, over the flame to burn until Dean can completely take him in. Sam wants that, wants whatever Dean's willing to give him, every bite he can get.
When Dean lets up, releasing the pressure, Sam's cock jumps against his thigh. He whimpers, softly like he's dying, and Dean licks a wet trail from his bite to the tip of Sam's pinky finger.
And he bites that too, not overly hard. It feels like that warning again, as much as it does a comfort. Each fingertip on Sam's left hand gets the treatment, calluses at the mercy of Dean's canines, and when he's done, he presses almost-kisses to Sam's pulse point under the slope of his wrist.
There, the skin is still pink from Dean's grip, still sore, and Dean bites it too. Adding mark on top of mark. Claim on top of claim.
Sam's whole arm trembles and his breath comes a little more shallow, hiccuping for a second when Dean's tongue laves over the thudding of Sam's heartbeat. When he pulls off, Sam's wrist is a much angrier red, and the skin is broken the tiniest bit, just enough to mimic the line of Dean's mouth. Just enough to leave evidence. To make him Sam's.
Against the soft, nearly translucent skin of Sam's forearm, the palest spot just over a blue hued vein, Dean rests his mouth. His lips form words, and Sam feels them as much as he hears.
"My Sammy," comes softly, and then again with a hint of pride. "My Sammy."
No question, no hesitation. Sam nods anyway and when Dean bites into the overly sensitive crook of Sam's elbow, it's sure. It's final.
Sam doesn't even have to confirm it anymore.
Dean continues like that, murmuring his litany of possessives and Sammy while he bites painful little marks into Sam's skin as he likes. From the muscle just under Sam's upper arm, to the thin skin stretched tight over his collarbone, to the solid hunk of the other shoulder, Dean bites.
All the while Sam's blood is rushing, flooding up under each press of teeth, following after Dean's mouth like he's magnetic, like Sam's body knows home. At the same time Sam throbs between his legs, fully hard again and angling his hips like he can come again, like he can get off to the Dean bites and nothing else.
There's the slightest hesitation when Dean reaches the tattoo they share. He ghosts his lips over the ink, warm and soft, and whispers a very gentle, very light, "My Sammy." Like it's private, like it's between him and Sam's heart thudding up underneath that mark. The bite he leaves there is more of a pinch than anything else, skin intact. He won't break the protective sigil.
Traveling down over Sam's chest, his ribs and his sternum and both of his nipples, Dean leaves his impression on it all. Every bit of Sam's skin is a dull, throbbing ache of afterpain, each a reminder of Dean's constant, humming litany of "My Sammy."
As if Sam could ever forget.
He wants to return the favor, to cover Dean too, taste and bite and mark him. Call him his. He always wants to give as good as he gets with Dean. Their whole lives have been nothing but an endless game of back and forth, of payback and vengeance, Sam all but made sure of it. If Dean yelled, Sam yelled back. If Dean played a prank, Sam dealt it back. If Dean punched him, Sam would make him cry.
Same principle, different game.
When Dean bit, Sam bit back. He never even thought about a biting kink before this, he never even bit anyone as a kid. Yet here under the tender, smarting sting of Dean's jaws, Sam shakes and yearns and loves it. Loves the way it makes his cock hard up against his belly, the way it makes him hurt and shake and grind his molars. It feels good and it means more than just feeling good and Sam wants to return the favor.
But Dean's too quiet as he moves from the jut of a rib to bite at the muscle of Sam's chest where it slopes into his abs. The steady, purposeful way he moves along Sam's body is almost worshipful, a kind of consummation. A focused devotion that can't be broken. It's something Sam doesn't want to interrupt.
He keeps his teeth to himself, for now, if only because this feels untouchable. Important in a way Sam, who hasn't experienced Purgatory, could never quite grasp. It's too intrusive, too selfish, to stop Dean when he's biting and marking and claiming like this. When he's staking every part of Sam for himself.
Each time Dean abuses Sam's skin red and angry with his teeth, it's followed by the roughest, most sincere whispers.
"My Sammy," is as much a proclamation as it is a simple translation. For the bite Dean leaves behind, for the intent he buries in Sam's flesh like a possessive road map, every point is one Dean refuses to share. He says it into the wounds he makes as if that'll make it stay. An edict as much as it is an oath.
"My Sammy," disappears into the hollow of Sam's hip, right beside the bone there, where he's left another bite that's broken skin, and there's bites all over Sam now. He's riddled with them, torn and savaged by them, and the closer they get to Sam's hips, the worse they look. Dean's breath is fire curling over his teeth and it ghosts just shy of Sam's cock, where he's still so hard, aching more with each touch of Dean bruised into him.
Dean doesn't take him into his mouth again, lips still so abused, so red. He merely slips past, farther down, like there's a much more important task to attend to. Sam's hips cant up after him anyway, a silent plea that he only expects Dean to ignore in favor of marking him up. For once, Dean doesn't. Presented with Sam swollen and red as he is, Dean bows to nip the tiniest impression of teeth at the base of Sam's cock.
Sam's thighs jerk and he kicks up off the bed in a little jolt of sensation, startled into an uncontrolled thrust of his hips. Nothing to be said about the way precome seeps out in a throbbing upsurge, smearing against his navel, into the fuzz of hair there. Even just that smallest hint of attention paid is enough to have Sam's hips roll, practically writhing up into the air, perching on his ass to beg for some kind of relief, for whatever Dean's willing to give.
He gets it, but only in the form of Dean's callused palms digging into his hip, pushing Sam down into the blankets with a force that's just the right side of painful. He squeezes hard into Sam's hip bones, yet another way to mark the flesh there, and there's a gruff, reprimanding, "My Sammy…"
It exhales against Sam's groin, an agonizing bit of promise. The tone of it sounds like an order, like another command for obedience. A request for Sam to let Dean do as he pleases.
Easy for Dean to call the shots when he isn't the one spread out naked and hard on the mattress with a warm, familiar mouth nearby. Sam wiggles just enough to be a bit petulant in Dean's hands and resists the strongest urge to take himself in his hand and get it over with on his own.
The notion is probably plain on his face because Dean tilts his head and plants a very deliberate bite into the thick of Sam's thigh. Just inside where the skin is softest, palest, and Sam can see this one so clearly from their angle. The way his flesh pulls into the cut of Dean's teeth, how it flushes with the strain of it, blood rushing up to meet Dean's red lips.
It aches, but it's a delicious kind of ache, one Sam's become so familiar with, an exhilaration that floods his limbs with a jumpy, flighty tension. Unsure whether to flee the pain or press in harder. A muscle in Dean's jaw pulses, the bite breaks skin, and Sam's thigh trembles like he's run far and fast and he's exhausted from it.
Once Dean releases Sam, he glances up at him with that sharpened gaze. Dark and intent and blown huge.
He growls, "My Sammy."
It's still not a question, not like the time on the boat, but he blinks those long eyelashes and waits. He wants something in return.
What Sam wants to give him is in his mouth. Teeth and tongue and a bite. Sam wants his piece just as much as Dean's gotten his. He wants to meet Dean's claim with a claim of his own, his my Dean that had Dean squirming and coming all over himself.
He doesn't think that's what Dean is looking for right now.
"Yours," is what he scrapes out in a voice that's wispy and drawn. Too overwhelmed with all the marks marring his body, distracting his functions into nothing but a bitten up, mauled mess of a person.
Dean smiles then, or maybe it's a smirk, something very satisfied, and Sam feels as if the word he gave to Dean was not an agreement, but permission.
When Dean lowers his head, Sam only manages to tighten fists in the blanket before he bites him again. Teeth cut right where Sam's thigh meets his ass, and Sam only knows from the sharp, startling pain of it.
His traitorous hips try and thrust up again, escaping the bite as much as searching for some kind of pressure, because it's too hot and damp and stinging and Sam is going fucking crazy. He's too keyed up, every mark like another outlet for electricity to zip through, lighting his nervous system up in a power grid of shaky, sensation seeking stutters of movements.
He's trembling under it, shocked clean through, and Dean should be naked too. He wants Dean as naked as him, wants Dean bitten back and crying with it, but just as much, he wants Dean's mouth on him, his tongue, his fingers. He wants Dean in him better yet, and he rambles it out loud with a confidence he only half feels.
"You know I'm yours, Dean, always been," he pants and it's way too breathy, light and feathery like an appeal, a bargain. Like he's begging for something.
Sam knows exactly what he's begging for, that heated pressure, that intrusion that swells inside him and hits the one spot that'll offer some relief. That'll make him shake and gasp and come all over the sheets, because it's too much, because it feel so fucking good, because it's Dean.
"Want you in me," Sam says, straining with the reality of the words, the weight of them scratching free out his closing throat. "Mark me there too."
The heat of a punched out exhale warms Sam's thigh, his cock, and Dean shoots up to standing at the foot of the bed, still between Sam's knees. There's a flurry of movement where Dean pulls off his own clothing, throwing everything to the floor like trash. Sam has a bleary eyed moment to wish he'd been the one to do it, eyes drinking in every bit of naked skin like he always does. Every freckle and every scar that mars the pale skin just the way Sam wants to with his teeth.
A hand plants over Sam's thigh for leverage, just off the bite, as Dean dips around the edge of the bed. He's clearly reaching for something, in the rickety little nightstand maybe, and when he pulls back up he's got a small tube in hand.
Sam recognizes lube when he sees it and the sight of it just sets off a barrage of questions, not the least of which is was this planned?
A few more like: when did that get there? Why did Dean buy it at all? That morning, when Sam woke up after sleeping and Dean wasn't there. He hadn't just left for groceries but also fucking lube? Sam had slept so well that night too despite not having Dean near. Dean slept well too, though Sam didn't know where.
Now, Sam's starting to suspect.
Had Dean merely crawled into Sam's bed as soon as he passed out? And back in the Impala when Sam got off just thinking about Dean on him, Dean laying in the front seat, did Dean hear him then? When he refused to get Sam his crutches to keep him close and touching? Was he always working toward this?
Was he ever really going to let Sam make them normal again?
The flurry of rapid fire questions are no longer lined with a biting anger when they flit through Sam's head as Dean avoids his curious stare. The sensation budding up under these realizations is not righteous indignation searing into Dean and burning up his revealing secrets like before. It's much calmer, a resigned sort of feeling, that frustration bleeding away into something almost grateful.
Dean slips back between Sam's thighs like he was made for it, his hips slotting into place so smoothly Sam doesn't even have to move to accommodate him. When he catches Sam skeptically eyeing the tube in his hand, he bites his lip and pops the cap up. "Jus' in case, Sammy."
As if that's an explanation at all.
Sam would be purposely annoying and ask for clarification, but he knows he would only be doing it to make Dean squirm. It's obvious why it exists and why Dean has it. Everything about them is obvious right now.
The idea of Dean still wanting very much to fuck Sam, even before, even when he was acting like himself and they were pretending to be normal again, it's enough to make Sam burn. Under each of his new bites, each fresh print of Dean's teeth, Sam's flushed a furious, darkening red and he would blame it on the Dean's onslaught, but it's really just Dean.
Fingers coated in a sop of lube, Dean lowers his hand and Sam's whole frame is wracked with an anticipation that sears through him. Each imprint of Dean's tooth is an outlet for that steam, the smoke of Sam's insides being burned to nothing, and it's spectacular relief when Dean brushes a finger against Sam's hole.
His knee is bent, hiked up to plant his foot at Dean's side and when Dean circles his rim, Sam's whole leg collapses in. He's curling up, not quite escaping the sensation because he knows this, he's done this. It feels foreign, but it feels good. Good enough to turn Sam's limbs to wet paper, but when he curls in he curls around Dean to keep him close, keep him touching there.
Dean leans into Sam's thigh, tilts his head to press his lips to the bend of Sam's knee and Sam feels the familiar bite before it even comes.
It's a warning again, or maybe a gentle reminder, and Sam's cock jerks, still so hard up against his belly. Dean sees it, smirking into the bite like it's amusing that Sam's being tortured like this. He bites even harder.
Hard enough to make Sam's whole body lurch and at the same time, almost planned, Dean slips a single, slick finger past the muscle. Slowly, carefully, and not at all like the rough treatment he's giving Sam's poor skin.
That dichotomy only makes it worse, upscales the pain and the softness on either ends and Sam's breath chokes in his throat when Dean's finger sinks deep enough his knuckles press against Sam.
It's just like that last time, except not at all. There's more to it, Sam's on his back with Dean between his thighs, he can see him so much better this way and he's watching him with those blown wide pupils and he's Dean. He's always been Dean, every bite and every kiss and every time Sam came, it was for this Dean. His Dean. The whole time.
Sam's vision goes a little blurry and he blinks hard to clear it, only then realizing it's because of the tiniest well of tears. He is absolutely not crying, but the warm, full sensation of Dean's thick finger burying inside him is overwhelming. As much as the fact that they wasted so much of their stupid lives not doing this.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice is concerned, maybe he's trying to help, or trying to make sure Sam's good. It would probably be nondescript in any other circumstance, but he has a finger hooked in Sam's ass and he says Sam's name so roughly, so low, it goes straight between Sam's legs and makes him twist his hips.
"Dean, c'mon," Sam says as much as he can bring himself to request. He wants more, he can handle more than just this, and he's needy with it. Almost shameless because he's perfectly fine, and his cock is perfectly neglected and the only relief he's going to get is Dean fingering him open until he really is crying with it.
It's all the encouragement Dean really wanted. His teeth still rest over the bite he made in Sam's thigh, like a placeholder for his mouth, as he works a second lubed finger past Sam's rim. The aching burn of it is just like all those bites before it. A sinking, filling stretch of flesh.
Once he's in to his knuckles again, Dean hooks his fingers, and Sam's breath stammers uneven in his chest, his whole lower half flexing and shaking with each slide of Dean's hand.
Despite the bite of everything Dean does, he still preps Sam with a careful attention, gentle the way he always is when he's taking care of Sam. It's torture, too soft for everything they've done to each other, and Sam protests with a shove of his leg.
"Q-quit being, ah, quit being all carefu—!" The request comes out muddled and drawn in Sam's mouth, tapering into a thin gasp of air when Dean finds the exact spot to press his fingers to.
It floods up in a rush of tingling heat straight from the base of Sam's spine and he winds back up, nearly twisting onto his side to escape, because it feels like being burned, it feels like sticking a limb into an electric socket, touching a live wire and going abuzz with it. It's fervent and thrumming and way too much all at once.
Sam doesn't get far, hips kicking up and only working himself harder onto Dean's fingers with the fumbling movements. Effortlessly, Dean wrings a groan from the bottom of Sam's chest, it comes up pained and begging and very much like it's not a request to stop.
"Feel good, Sammy?" Dean doesn't have to ask, Sam knows he can see the precome coating the head of his cock, making Sam's belly sticky with it, shiny with it. Sam's hiccuping short little breaths and trying to regulate his own body from shivering and stuttering itself right into an orgasm, untouched.
Now that he has the spot down, Dean's merciless. He angles his fingers exactly where he should to break Sam into a sputtering, panting mess on the bed. Sam's arms are folded over his face, bent at the elbows, and he wants to sink his teeth into something so bad he almost bites his own bicep to keep from making too much embarrassing noise.
There's already tears damp on his eyelashes and he's murmuring a quiet, pleading, familiar line of, "Dean, Dean, Dean."
Maybe it's that he isn't looking at Dean. He can't bring himself to when Dean's seconds from making him come again, massaging into his prostate like a goddamn professional. Maybe Dean's just annoyed Sam's covering his face from him, but teeth return to Sam's thigh.
Another hard bite sinks in deep, nearly a threat. It wracks a sweeping wave of heated, soupy awareness straight along Sam's skeleton, a call for immediate attention that has Sam startling to look from under his arms.
He meets those green eyes like always, magnetized polars connecting by nature, and the only thing keeping Sam from spurting come all over himself is Dean's stilled fingers. When Dean has Sam's full attention, he pries his teeth off and there's definitely blood. Not overly so but enough to look stark in several crescent shaped slits against the pale of Sam's thigh.
It occurs to Sam, in a very foggy, very horny, and very vacant way, that the place Dean's been pressing his mouth to hides Sam's femoral artery. That if Dean bit and tore hard enough he could bleed Sam out right there beneath him. If he pressed in close enough with his teeth, Dean could feel how hard Sam's heart is beating, there, in his mouth.
Dean blinks and his eyelashes look soft. It contrasts so beautifully with the sharp point of his gaze, pinning Sam again like only he can do.
As he runs tongue over the bites he's made, soothing and tasting, Dean slides his fingers free. The tips catch on the edge of Sam's hole in a conscious move that has Sam's neglected cock dripping further with precome in a feeble twitch for attention. Attention Sam doesn't think he can actually handle without losing it.
Spit pools heavily on his tongue and his throat's too dry to swallow anything, breaths wracking up out of him like they're being wrung from something dripping and weak.
The barest hint of restraint Sam still has is sitting on the very edge of an extremely delicate balance. The same one they've been teetering on for their entire lives, the plunge deep into something unknown and scary but safe and promising. Sam wants it. Sam wants all of it, and Sam just wants to come.
He licks his lips and all that spit is gauzy on his tongue. Dean is waiting for Sam to say it, to ask for it. Those green eyes are dark, but they still catch the lights in the cabin and shine like pools as they watch Sam with rapt attention.
The two of them have done a lot to each other, but they've never done this.
Sam heaves a wet breath that cloys in the hollow of his chest and his sternum trembles when he exhales. Those arms he's rested over his face, as much protection as distraction, are so heavy and heavier still when he raises them. They stretch out for Dean, as always, as they've been doing Sam's whole life, but it's not quite far enough to actually touch.
Sam flutters the fingers on one hand, a beckoning, and Dean bends at the waist to acquiesce. Pitched forward between Sam's legs as he is, Dean has to get up on his heels so he can lean in enough to press himself against Sam's open palms. Like this, their hips are molded so close Sam feels how hard Dean is against the bend of his thigh, hot and insistent and just as untouched as Sam's.
He never takes his eyes off Sam when he settles his face into Sam's outstretched hands, nuzzling into the palm of one like a puppy. His scruffy cheek bristles against Sam's bite when Sam cups his jaw for a good grip.
Dean's dark lit eyes don't so much as falter, even when Sam angles his wrist to press a thumb hard into the plus of those lips he loves. They give easily, parting along with Dean's sharp teeth so that Sam can slip that thumb into Dean's mouth and press the smooth, wet of his tongue down hard.
A groan mumbles over Sam's hand and Dean breathes out through his nose when Sam pushes the pad of his thumb into the edges of his molars. The dulled, gnashing cut of them is pleasant on Sam's skin—as much as the knowledge that Dean could bite down so easily.
Sam's forced his way inside Dean's mouth, between the very teeth Dean uses to tear Sam apart, and Dean could make him bleed. But Dean hovers over him, pliant and hard and flushed pink. Like he's a feral beast trained, like he's domesticated just for Sam.
His freckles are warm beneath Sam's fingers, and his lips are stretched around Sam's hand, and he's absolutely beautiful like this.
Sam's never wanted Dean more, but he's always wanted him. Saying so is surprisingly easy.
"Want you in me, Dean," he says. His voice is so hoarse and he doesn't like saying words either, but a bite won't cut it. "Want you to fuck me, just you, Dean." He keeps going because Dean growls around his thumb, clenching his teeth just enough to ache nicely. Sam smiles and pokes the tip of his tongue through the corner of it.
"Want my Dean."
It's enough and it's easy. Dean sucks hard at Sam's thumb once, a relish as his hot tongue runs along the pad of it, and then he's reclining back onto his haunches.
Like this, Sam can drink Dean in entirely, from the hooded heat of his eyes to the scars decorating his ribcage and further down to the thick swell of his cock, heavy in his bitten hand.
His fingers are slick and wet with lube, nearly dripping with it, and the sight of it brings back that taste to Sam's tongue. When he sucked Dean down and swallowed his come, licking over the salty head and savoring the way Dean cried with it.
Sam misses it and misses Dean's mouth even more.
Between Sam's legs, back on his heels and stroking his cock, Dean stares down at Sam from above like a predatory creature about to feast, and he looks powerful. Sam can imagine him in Purgatory, naked and victorious and coated in the blood of monsters, and he wants nothing but for Dean to tear him to pieces. With his hands, his cock, his teeth, Sam wants to be utterly consumed by the beast Dean became. The feral thing they are without each other.
Dean's panting, his chest is heaving and the anti-possession tattoo ripples with it, and Sam absolutely thrums, a wire pulled so taut he'll snap at the slightest provocation. He doesn't so much as breathe when Dean clambers in close, hovering over him with a hand beside Sam's shoulder for support.
He's level with Sam's mouth like this and his eyes track the run of Sam's tongue when it slips out to pull Sam's lip between his teeth. It's the only thing that stifles the reediest, weak little noise from escaping when the head of Dean's cock presses up against Sam's entrance.
It's overly hot when Dean just barely pushes in, the slightest intrusion, and it's finally fucking real and huge and Sam wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders. He clings to him like he always does, and his eyes are screwed shut, and he's a ball of nerves if those nerves had been ignited and left to burn.
Sweat beads up on his skin, too salty and stinging when it meets those bitten wounds riddled all over, lighting them up sharp and painful like signals spread across Sam's skin. Like Sam's own body is reminding him who he belongs to. The my before his name.
"Okay, Sammy?" Dean's voice is like gravel against Sam's ear, strained as it comes out, and Dean's barely inside but Sam's already been filled with too much, bites overflowing.
"My Sammy," is a steady and indulgent growl into Sam's hairline, just behind the jut of his jaw. It's a honey balm on the pulled up strain of Sam's overwrought muscles, the way Dean always can. The only one who can consistently smooth Sam out when he's worked himself up into a tense, jittery creature.
Dean eases in slow, making sure every bit of Sam has room for Dean, and it aches dully up from Sam's spine, that foreign sense of being so full, so stretched open. When Dean's hips meet Sam's and Dean can go no deeper, it's painstaking and gradual and Sam shakes under him with the strain of it. With the sensation of breaking open, but in a welcoming way, in an anxious way that refuses to let him pull back.
He wants to tug Dean even closer to him, he wants their chests to touch too, their mouths, every last bit of skin they have should touch. As close as they can ever be. As close as they've ever been, this is as close as they've ever been, and Sam wants to bite.
"Sammy?" Dean says his name like a bow string drawn to the point of snapping. It's a thinning restraint, the breathy, voiced whisper of a man wrecked, and Sam's cock is so fucking hard between their stomachs.
He wants Dean to move. He's stuffed full, utterly devoured, and his bites are aching and his hole is aching and his arms even ache, wrapped around Dean's shoulders and holding on tight. But Dean should move, he should fuck Sam, and Sam knows just the way to do it.
His teeth finally finally sink into the muscle of Dean's shoulder, hard enough to get some relief in the force of his jaw, and Dean whimpers, under Sam's teeth, inside Sam and in Sam's arms and Sam's.
When Sam releases the bite, he puts his lips to Dean's ear and says, "My Dean."
If they talk in nothing but each other's name, they'll understand.
The groaning rumble that escapes Dean's chest is nothing more than a feral promise. Bracing both hands flat on either of Sam's sides, Dean's hips pull back and the hollow it leaves Sam with is unforgiving.
Even worse when Dean slams back inside Sam with a ruthless rhythm that has Sam's hips sliding up the blankets they're propped over. It hurts, it hurts like everything they do to each other, and so it's a welcome thing. Just like the bites littering their bodies.
Dean stays close, despite the ferocity of his thrusts, and Sam chases one deep, teeth-clacking kiss just to make sure he won't lose Dean's taste before Dean burrows into the give of Sam's body and refuses to resurface. His cock is tearing Sam wide open just like Sam hoped he would, fucking him into a weak-limbed disarray of aching, burning, throbbing pain that feels a lot like pleasure anyway.
Dean fucks like he hunts, and Sam's stupidly pleased that he knows this from experience now. It's a rough and tumble, headfirst, sort of aggression that's tampered only by just how precise and coordinated each move is. He only needs two tries before he's hitting Sam's sweet spot on each thrust, getting Sam pushed right up to the edge of overwhelmed, of too much too much too much before he reels it in and shifts the angle.
Sam could almost laugh at how good it is, how good Dean is but he isn't about to say it and feed Dean's ego even if he's in love with him and wants nothing more than this for the rest of their fucking lives. It's sappy, absolutely gross, Sam's cock is starting to hurt it's throbbing so hard, and he thinks he might be getting teary again, just a little bit.
His hand darts down, ready to fucking work himself to completion before Dean overdoes it and Sam really actually does cry—on top of coming hard enough to black out. But he doesn't get far, Dean knows exactly what Sam's planning, not unusual, and he rears back to sit up straighter.
Free of Sam's octopus hold, Dean smacks that wayward hand away and grabs Sam's cock for himself. Just the familiar calluses of his two forefingers is enough to have Sam's frame tightening up, abs flexing, and thighs twitching. His cock is wet with it, leaking all over both of them and purple with the strain.
"Wanna come already, Sammy?" Dean says through pursed lips, and there's the faintest, barest undertone of teasing. It has Sam's hackles rising because yeah he wants to fucking come and if Dean hits his prostate like that again, Sam's gonna come with or without a hand on his cock. So Dean should drop the tough act before Sam bites him.
Rather than say all that and risk losing the smallest ounce of control keeping Sam from tipping right on over that precarious plunge alone, Sam just pushes Dean's support arm out from under him.
Dean collapses over Sam with an oof of a sound, and the hand he's got on Sam's cock strokes up as he goes. It's fucking agony trying not to come from that alone, even worse when Dean's forward momentum slams him right into the one spot Sam hoped he wouldn't.
For the second time that day, Sam comes by himself with Dean's name on his lips, painting both their stomachs sticky and jerking with oversensitivity as his prostate makes his whole lower half go nearly numb. The most pathetic whine of a sound escapes his throat when he breathes, half complaint and half overstimulated pleasure wreaking havoc on his insides.
Sam's whole body is glowing with a sheen of shared sweat, twitching with aftershocks that roil through him like the eddy of a tide, awash with the most cottony headed, heated satisfaction. Blissed out like he's on the softest duvet, Sam's gone to putty and he could pass out right now, flop back all pulpy and pliable.
But there's Dean.
Dean who's draped over Sam like the heaviest, sweatiest, loveliest blanket with his face shoved into the space where Sam's arm meets his chest. Dean's sucking in breaths by the lungfuls, his ribs expanding against Sam's with each one, and he's shaking just the slightest amount, straining with it.
His cock is hard and full and deep inside Sam still, but he isn't moving. He's very still at the hips, hands clinging to Sam's sides with scrabbling fingers like he can't get purchase and Sam's still overwhelmed, still tingling like his blood is finally flowing again after years. Alight with a cloudy, indistinct buzz. He could even laugh, because it almost tickles against his skin.
"Dean?" he manages through the quaking in his voice, but it still cracks out all fucked anyways. Dean tenses at the sound of his name and cages Sam in tighter with his upper body. He's always caging Sam in.
There's no immediate answer, merely the breathy noises of heavy inhales. Muddled, post-orgasm, and possibly a little delirious, Sam remembers the times Dean pressed his nose to his skin and breathed deep.
What was it that vampirate called it?
Scenting?
Sam sniffs and immediately feels stupid, and laughably high, but all he smells is sex and come and sweat. And Dean. Always Dean with his leather, gun oil, and whiskey burn. Smooth and heady and Sam's favorite.
It makes sense. Sam likes Dean's scents too. Even more when they smell the same.
Dean's always just been himself, even when he was scenting and licking and biting Sam, he's just Dean. Sam's always loved these little things.
A chuff of a laugh escapes through Sam's nose and he raises a sloppy hand to pat the back of Dean's head like he's an unruly puppy. The gesture has Dean easing into Sam's body, liquefying over him with significantly less tension than before. Into the dip of Sam's armpit, Dean murmurs a very concerned and very careful, "Good, Sammy?"
It's delicate, even muffled as it is, and Dean must've worried he was too rough, worried he fucked Sam too hard and now Sam's all tingly and uncomfortable and pained and Dean's the worst. Sam could laugh again, he could keep laughing off this buzz for a while, but he doesn't. He slides his hand up over Dean's hair to grip the strands and tug a bit, more gentle than he might've done if he had more strength in him.
Dean growls, much more satisfaction than anger in the way it peters out into a pleased little sigh.
"Real good," Sam finally says when he thinks his voice won't break apart again and he isn't lying. There's something so new and strange about falling down into that milky fuzz, afterglow with a cock still warm inside, still so huge and full. Sam, sated and more than a little sore, finds it almost comforting to be filled like this, by Dean, with Dean.
Sam's fine, more than fine, and Dean still hasn't gotten to come today. When Sam speaks, it comes out scratched and deep, but stable.
"So move, Dean."
It's an order, just like Dean's, and Sam loves that he can feel the effect it has. The way Dean jerks and his hips stutter back then up in an indecisive, stutter of a reaction. Sam's still too over touched, his insides are still pulsing with that flood of rushing blood, and when Dean moves as told, it's like touching a surface so hot it's painless.
His hand is still grasping at Dean's hair and he feels rather than sees Dean bite into his bicep where it joins the shoulder. A tight, tugging pinch of teeth that Sam almost doesn't even register anymore, among the myriad others decorating his skin. It's another mark all the same, another claim.
With that last bite, Dean untangles himself from Sam's body to prop himself up, stretched over Sam with his pink lips and pinker chest. With every overstimulating thrust, he's panting out a quiet, short series of words that sound mostly like Sammy and fuck.
All pliant and used, Sam physically can't come again and if he comes dry he actually will end up crying during sex, so he focuses all his attention on coaxing Dean along.
It's easy enough to tell when he's close, all flushed cute like he is with those shiny eyes that get glassy when they're wet, eyelashes grouping in the damp of the tiniest tears.
If Sam could have it his way, he would make Dean cry all pretty, torture him slow like he did Sam, but Sam can hardly get his limbs to cooperate. Easier to talk, easier to pull him back up against Sam with greedy hands, while he fucks inside with a mindless lack of rhythm.
"Y'gonna come in me?" Sam asks in a syrupy voice, but he doesn't understand it until the words drip thick off his tongue. Dean, coming inside and filling Sam up even more with that salty, bitter heat that Sam's swallowed down his own throat before. It makes Sam reel where he's clutching at Dean's arms and his poor spent cock gives one pathetic pulse that actually hurts.
"Fuck, Dean, you're gonna come in me." Sam's talking more to himself, scrambling to get a hold on Dean that brings him close enough to kiss, close enough to spill the reality from Sam's mouth to Dean's. He bites at his lips, because he wants them fucked to hell by the end of this, swollen and torn up, and he whispers against Dean's teeth.
"My Dean," comes out like a hiss, nearly vitriolic, when Sam makes Dean's mouth bleed and Dean slams his hips forward so hard Sam bounces.
There's a noise, a soft and weak little thing, the soft and weak little thing that Dean really is when Sam's this close to him, and Sam bites just like Dean. He follows along Dean's jaw to his ear and down to his shoulder, leaving the best marks he can while being so thoroughly fucked, manhandled like he's weightless.
Dean leverages Sam's good leg up, slipping his hand to grab the swell of Sam's ass cheek in fingers that'll definitely bruise. It hurts in that way Sam loves, and he's just left the nastiest mark on Dean's collarbone when Dean uses his grip to raise Sam's hips so high he has to fall back, shoulders to mattress and ass in the air. This angle is hell on Sam's fucking fried nerves and his cock is twitching like he's really going to come dry and his prostate is shooting unbearable sparks up his numbing spine—Sam could really cry like this.
"Dean," he mumbles, maybe cries. He's not too sure if he's encouraging or not when he comes again in the barest, roughest sense of the word, but Dean gentles on him after one sharp thrust that molds their hips flush together. Like a puppet with cut strings, Dean pitches forward over Sam, but he catches on his elbows before their chests hit.
Buried deep like this, close like this, Dean sighs and on that breath, he murmurs a courteous, "Close, Sammy. My Sammy."
It's nearly absent, an automatic move, when Dean catches Sam's lips and runs his tongue over Sam's teeth. He pulls back up, pink all over from his ears to his cheeks to his chest, his eyes so bright under a heavy lidded gaze, and Sam wants to take and take and take.
Dean comes inside him with the quietest, wavering little murmur of, "S'mmy," and Sam realizes, more than taking, he wants to keep.
Sam doesn't move and Dean's cock softens inside him and it's absolutely unreal. It's always unreal how fucking beautiful Dean is, Sam really can't stand it, but like this it's so much worse.
Staring down at him, Dean looks at him and it's the look Sam understands now. The one he couldn't pinpoint, the one Dean's leveled at him his whole life. But now he's fucked Sam, and he's flushed with coming in Sam's ass, and he looks at him with that small, private smile that's almost indulgent. Almost in love.
Whatever expression Sam meets that with, Sam isn't sure if he's just as transparent, whatever Dean sees there, he grabs for Sam's bitten hand slowly, like one of them will startle otherwise. He doesn't look away, pupils all big and dark, when that palm presses back home against his teeth. The smile doesn't leave when he bites into those scars and assures Sam, like always.
This is real. They're real.
Sam's assured. Sam wants to kiss him.
But Dean's got other ideas, shifting his weight, still inside Sam as he releases that mangled, scarred up hand to offer his own.
When he raises his palm to Sam's lips, the bite is worn and familiar and it fits to the seam of Sam's mouth just like it should. Dean's face is tinged, glowing under those freckles like always, but his eyes are getting shinier, bigger. Expectant.
He orders Sam again, but it's softer this time. A gentle request. "Bite, Sammy. Please."
The please is a whisper and it stirs that creature inside of Sam's ribcage, just beneath the tattoo. It's the thing that's in love with his brother, the thing that wants to hold and protect and give Dean whatever he asks for.
Sam parts his lips, lowers his jaw and takes Dean into his mouth the way one might hold something fragile in sharp claws. He licks along the bite like Dean did with all of Sam's, now that Sam has so many. It's a soothing gesture. Sam's own silent assurance.
He bites down with enough force to spill a whine out of Dean's roughened throat, wrought and coarse as it is. There's blood and the thrill Sam always gets when he's sinking in, when he's claiming.
He grinds his teeth just enough to keep those scars fresh. Fresher than all the others carved into Dean's skin, fresher than the ones Benny left him with. These are Sam's scars, his mark. They won't heal away like everything else inevitably will. Sam won't let them.
The hand in his mouth shakes under the pressure of Sam's jaw and Dean makes another weak noise, breath sharper through his nose.
Hovering over Sam, in his mouth, inside him completely, Dean finally collapses and it's not a tired one. There's not a heavy weight bearing him down on Sam, but the sheer, unabashed relief of it melting away, and Dean crumbles into Sam as his elbow gives out.
Slipping his cock free with a gentle effort, Dean curls into Sam's body like something small. As if Sam's bite in his hand is the key turning in the locked frame of his body that keeps him tense, predatory and dangerous. Like Sam's bite is a solace, a comfort.
When Sam pries off Dean's hand, he stares down at the way it's permanently marred. All torn skin. It's not necessarily irreparable, but it doesn't need to be when Sam is here to keep it open. And he'll keep it open, keep it wounded and scarred and his.
He can't let it fade, when it represents every bit of reciprocity Sam ever gave Dean, even when he didn't know why he was doing it. Back when he hadn't quite understood that what he felt for Dean was something else entirely. Something bigger.
He should've known. He should've known a lot of things.
Like this, Dean draped over him and mush in his bones, Sam understands these matching bites more than he ever has. It's more than mating bites, more than some rougarou ritual, it's the one thing Dean had for himself.
When he was pretending, when he was playing at feral and pushing Sam's boundaries, this bite returned in Dean's hand was a permission. The it's okay if it's us. The my Dean to meet my Sammy.
It was Sam's requite.
When Sam returned that feral, claiming bite, Dean knew he wasn't alone in love with his brother.
After all, Sam could never be alone in anything when he has Dean.
And he has Dean, soft and naked and warm over him, not asleep but exhausted. Sam can hear it in the cadence of his breath, the press of his chest meeting Sam's, and they can't just not talk about anything. They've laid so much out already, they've fucked out the last bit of their frustrations and now all that's left is something a bit too gooey, a bit too hard to give voice to.
They're not the kind of people to say I love you I love you I love you even if it's written all over their faces, and Sam isn't going to say that now, as he carefully lets Dean's hand fall to the bed beside them. Sam isn't going to get sappy and gross, but Sam is sappy and gross inside and they still haven't had a real conversation that doesn't involve coming on each other—in each other.
Sam swallows. His throat is dry so it kind of hurts going down and Dean probably hears it because he shifts over Sam, wrapping limbs around him like an octopus.
There's everything to say but Sam says what they say best.
"Hey."
It's curt and he punctuates the word with a slap to Dean's broad back. Not too hard, but the sound it makes is a satisfyingly sharp one. Dean only hums, apparently too lazy and fucked out to vocalize.
Which only means Sam will have to be the one to speak about what has to be spoken about. Like he usually is.
"We gotta talk now, Dean," he says, and it's not hesitating but it sounds a little frothy at the edge of his lips. A little reluctant.
"Oh, great," Dean groans every bit of distaste he feels into Sam's chest, apparently capable of some vocalizations if they're complaints. Fortunately, Sam is more than used to this.
"Dude, seriously. Do you think I didn't notice the way you always fuck up actual conversation with sex? Every time we even get close to getting somewhere, you attack me and get me all distracted." Sam's thoroughly ashamed of this fact, but it's true and it's at least a little satisfying when he feels Dean scowl, clearly caught.
Sam continues, a little less accusingly, "Not talking is what got us into this mess in the first place."
"This mess? You mean fucked out with your come drying on my stomach, that mess? Ain't a bad mess to be in, if you ask me." It's all muffled against Sam, but it's clear enough, and Sam slaps him again to mete out the heat that pinks up in his skin again. He absolutely does not have the libido for this.
"Please shut up."
Dean snorts and raises his head. On his face is an expression that's way too pleased. "Shut up or talk, Sammy? I can't do both."
Sam grabs either side of his face and squeezes hard enough to pout his pretty lips out like a fish and then shoves his head to the side. Only because he nearly gave in to the urge to kiss him.
He's smiling despite himself when Dean just flops back over his chest with an even tighter grip. "Ask away then, little brother."
There's probably a million things Sam could ask. He's had questions since the beginning, about Purgatory, about Benny, about what Dean did and why he did it. They could spend a month laying in bed like this and Sam still wouldn't have the time to come up with a question to explain each and every thing he doesn't know.
But he supposes that isn't really important now. Not when they're like this, orgasmed into complacency and finally on the same page.
There is one thing though.
Sam asks it simply. "Since when?"
There's the shortest beat of hesitation, but Dean doesn't bother asking clarification. "Told you. I always remembered," he starts, gruffly speaking directly into the hollow of Sam's shoulder. "For the most part, I was full me once we left that motel room. I call it Baby's effect." He clicks his tongue, always eager to praise the Impala at any given opportunity.
It doesn't lighten Sam's sunk mood though.
Sam should've known about Dean. How could he not know? Dean was always just himself, of course he was. He's Dean. Sam's Dean. Even feral and biting and scared, he's always Dean. Even more so, maybe.
In a way, Sam might have suspected something was off from the beginning. But that?
Dean's fingers curling up under Sam's jaw in a sightless attempt to pat his face is exactly as distracting as Dean intended. It's the simplest remedy to bring Sam's spiralling thoughts to an immediate halt, Dean's touch.
"Quit it, Sammy," he says without raising his head. Sam grabs his wrist and pries his hand away with a grimace.
"Quit what?"
"Thinking too hard." Dean sighs and it escapes across Sam's chest in a warm wave. It's comfort. "You asked me when and I answered, nothing more to it."
It is more, though. To Sam it's more.
It's all the times Sam told Dean he was trying to fix him, it was the looks Dean gave him when Sam pushed him away, it was Sam refusing to give in at every turn for the sake of his brother who was right there in front him the whole fucking time. And he didn't realize.
So now, it's just guilt quelling oddly in Sam's stomach like most things do. Luckily, Dean's body heat is enough to keep it from solidifying into something painful.
"You're right," Sam says after a moment, sliding his hand up Dean's wrist to hold the palm of it. His thumb presses too hard into the impression of his own canine tooth there and Dean's only reaction is to cling a little closer into Sam's side.
"But that's not what I was asking." Sam wraps his fingers tightly into Dean's loosely extended ones, winding them tight enough neither of them can let go. Dean squeezes back, propping his chin on Sam's chest to eye him curiously. The furrow in his brow says he's also a bit wary.
Sam smiles at him. "I meant, since when were you in love with me?"
It comes out so smoothly, Sam couldn't have said it better if he planned it. The words roll right off his tongue and they're light and frothy as they go, a pleased sense of rightness. Of home.
Dean's cheeks are still flushed from before, hair a mussed up fluff on top of his head, and unshaved jawline scratchy. He doesn't look caught off guard like he was the other times Sam presented him with his own affections outright. Like he was at that gas station in Dallas when the sight of Sam's bitten hand has his ears going red.
No, this time, he looks exhausted but with soft edges and shiny eyes, faintest crows feet at the corners. It's a fondness Sam's seen his entire life.
"Oh, that?" It's entirely sarcastic and Dean rolls his eyes with a scoff of a noise. Like the answer's obvious, like it's natural.
In that brief moment, Sam realizes he worded his question wrong. What he really should've asked was when had Dean realized he was in love with Sam. If, like Sam, it was the same kind of sudden, inevitable conclusion on a quiet morning. Or if it came to Dean slowly over time, in gradual bits and pieces, as they grew up at each other's side.
Sam meant to ask Dean when he knew the truth of them.
He already knows the answer to what he did ask.
Since when have you loved me?
Laid over Sam's chest, Dean grins that dorky grin that shows his teeth, and when he answers, it's a shared secret.
Dean says, "Always." And Sam thinks the same.
When their mouths press together, it's as familiar as everything else is between them. They only have each other, they only know each other, and when they kiss it's just each other. Just two dumb brothers kissing like they've known how to do this their whole lives. Sam tastes Dean on his tongue, feels him over his chest—against his heart—and that is the realest thing he's ever had. It's taking and letting, having and getting.
It's Sam and Dean. Like always.
There wasn't really anything to talk about, after all.
It doesn't seem strange to think Dean would lose himself before he lost Sammy.
Everything that made Dean who he was, everything he claimed as his, that sense of existence, all of it was hacked away by the bleached forests of Purgatory. Those long months washed him clean of the layers he's been pulling over his shoulders since he was born, and what was left behind was a naked thing. A monstrous thing with teeth and intent.
Dean became what he did because he had to survive, but he only had to survive because he had to get back to Sammy.
It's only ever been for Sammy.
Dean has his Sammy now. Up against him, skin to skin, warm and safe and all Dean's. To touch, to kiss and to bite and to have. When Sammy's in his arms, Dean could stay forever. In this cabin, in the mountains, alone with just the two of them.
Inside Sammy's warm chest, Dean's taken residence and he won't ever pull free. He exists right beside that beating thing that thrums just for him, the telling heart Dean possesses. That tattoo can stop all the others from touching inside of Sammy's ribcage, from calling him home, but it cannot stop Dean.
Because Sammy belongs to Dean and Dean belongs to Sammy.
These two facts make up them.
It's easy to forget about the world when they have each other. It's easy to forget about the world when Dean has his right here with him.
The world doesn't forget them though.
Once the six week window passed, Sammy's leg healed up nice and his cast needed to be removed. Much to Dean's chagrin, Sammy vehemently refused to let him use Bobby's cast saw to cut the leg free. Something about professionals and Dean, no offense, but I don't trust your saw skills, okay?
Dean was agitated and twitchy the entire drive to the local hospital, but he kept himself in check like Sammy asked. Because Sammy asked very sweetly, with his dimples and his pink lips that tasted like Lucky Charms' little clover marshmallows. For the most part, Dean reigned his displeasure in well, but there were so many people at the hospital and Dean hates crowds, Sammy knows this.
Everything was only made worse by the attending physician who was not ugly enough and kept touching Sammy every two seconds. Significantly more than the hippocratic oath would call for. Sammy's shoulders and Sammy's toes and Sammy's thigh, all under that stupid, greedy little doctor's hands like it was necessary, like Dean couldn't have done all of this and more.
He didn't growl at the guy. He didn't. His throat was just itchy from all the seasonal allergies, Sammy knows this. The doc figured as much too. Dean also didn't jerk Sammy around the hospital and refuse to let anyone get within spitting distance, he was very cordial and very human. Very normal Dean.
All he did was keep himself firmly supplanted between Sammy and everyone else. Like Dean should be. Like Sammy knows he should be. He even let them use the cast saw and get Sammy's leg out without biting anything. Dean was very good.
Sammy still bitched him out the entire drive back to the cabin. Dean was much too preoccupied with enjoying the view to take it personally though, shooting covert little glances to see Sammy finally back in the passenger seat. No annoying cast around to keep him far and out of reach anymore.
Sammy was all long limbed and not quite cramped and close enough for Dean to touch and to kiss and to bite—
Sammy was mad and Dean just wanted to pull over and throw him nice and rough against the passenger door. Kiss him hard until he shut up about all that bad behavior and take some responsibility for yourself, Dean.
Dean didn't though. Pin Sammy to the door and tongue fuck him, not the responsibility thing. Dean always takes responsibility, but that wasn't his fault. Sammy loves him, so Sammy definitely understood.
Sammy understood something anyway.
Once they pulled up to the cabin, Sammy and his two good, working legs hauled Dean by his jacket straight through the front door to shove him against the dining table. To say Dean was thrilled was an understatement.
Sammy was rough, rougher than he had any right to be given his freshly removed cast, but he shoved Dean hard and he bit his lips and maybe he made Dean cry a little. Maybe he bit Dean's nipples red and swollen until Dean was whining.
It only got worse—or better, when Sammy forced Dean's button open and got down on his knees to worship Dean's cock like a goddamn champ. That cute mouth Dean stared at too much, the mouth that always had Dean's answers, the mouth that worked Dean over with the prettiest smirk, was easy enough to come all over. Sammy swallowed everything and it was so fucking pretty and Dean wanted to tell him that.
He wanted to to make Sammy get all pink like he does, but Sammy spun him around so hard, pushed him half naked into the table with a hand on his ass, and Dean definitely would've gotten fucking destroyed. But the table slid under the force and knocked a drawer loose. It clattered open and junk went flying all across the floor. And Sammy probably didn't care about the mess, he was too focused on making Dean suck his fingers so he could shove them inside him.
Dean though, post-orgasmic and buzzing with all of Sammy's manhandling, was leant over the edge of the table like this. His ass was exposed and he was sucking on Sammy's longest finger and he could see eight familiar cell phones scattered around the wood floor beneath them.
Of course, it wasn't until after Sammy fucked Dean hard enough his legs gave out, just for a second (and not because they're bowed), that Dean brought those phones up. Later, when Dean felt human again, when Dean was capable of thinking anything that wasn't just fuck Sammy, he waddled his way over to those dead phones. He didn't ask why Sammy abandoned them, he already knew.
That night, Dean charged all of them up and together they checked each phone's messages, splayed out over each other like two floppy limbed giants on the couch. Dean was draped over Sammy's giant, cozy chest with his nose half in Sammy's armpit when they heard it.
An SOS call from Kevin. He needed their help.
They're about to leave, just two days later, and Dean's half bent over to take stock of Baby's trunk when he nearly brains himself at the sound of Sammy's voice so close. "You got your bag of clothes right?" Sammy asks from behind and when Dean whips around, Sammy's looming over him with an amused little dimple. Like the oversized brat he is.
"Dude, I miss when you couldn't walk." Dean rubs the back of his busted head, scowling up at Sammy for being so sneaky. Sammy only snorts at him, leaning around Dean to drop a duffel and a freshly cleaned shotgun in the trunk. The gun lands slightly off its usual place and Dean quickly goes to right it.
Beside him, close enough he can smell Sammy's familiar, sleepy woods smell, Sammy keeps talking. "If I couldn't walk, you'd still be carrying my ass everywhere. You wanna do that?"
When Dean glances over, he pulls on his most salacious smirk and offers a wink. Sammy already knows the answer, Sammy already knows Dean would gladly lug Sammy everywhere if it meant getting to keep him all close and puppy warm against him. Sammy knows Dean loves it.
Still Sammy's rolling his eyes like Dean's gross, like they always do.
Dean has to dodge an unimpressed swipe at the back of his knee by Sammy's freshly healed leg, stepping easily to the left. The action immediately puts a distance between them so they're no longer nearly touching at the elbow, and Dean swiftly comes back to bump Sammy so hard he wobbles a little.
Not that Sammy's at risk of falling over from it, but Dean still grabs a fist into his jacket collar to keep him from tilting away. Just to be safe. His fingers wind under the canvas, brushing Sammy's heated neck, the bruises Dean's sucked there so many times, and Dean should kiss Sammy really hard.
With his grip, Dean can easily force Sammy close, pull Sammy in so Dean can see the pink of his cheeks up close, so Dean can taste them. Their faces are only breaths apart, and Sammy's faux annoyance slips away into an expression Dean really likes. The smile that makes his favorite dimples crease really deep into the soft of his cheeks. Dean wants to bite into them like he always does. Instead he licks his bottom lip, and yanks Sammy close, angling for a kiss.
Sammy stops short of meeting him halfway. Pulling against Dean's grip so he can attack him with a smile that's grown even bigger now, showing his white teeth and glowing with an amusement Dean melts before. Sammy's so self satisfied, Dean can't even act frustrated.
"Did you get your bag already or not?" Sammy asks through that cute grin Dean wants to eat and he says it like he absolutely knows he owns Dean. Like he can push and Dean can pull and they can play the tug of war, but all Sammy has to do to win is flash his dimples. All Sammy has to do is soak Dean in that puppy-eyed attention and Dean gives and gives and loves to give it.
Sammy knows how to play him too well.
They're close enough Dean could headbutt him for his insolence, but he just twists a half snarl with a very exaggerated but very real roll of his eyes.
"Yes, I got it, Sammy, now quit being a bitch and c'mere," he growls, already determining how quick he can turn a kiss into a bite before Sammy wiggles away.
As usual, Sammy indulges him. It's still cold as balls outside and Dean pools hot in his boots when Sammy's warm little mouth takes his lip in, tongue even warmer still.
When they break apart, Sammy's dimples look even deeper. Dean can't stop staring at them, he might look a little vacant. The words come out before he can think about them, as they do maybe too much of the time.
"Sure we don't got time for a quickie before we go back to saving people and hunting things, Sammy?" There's a very real flicker of hope in the lilting way he says his Sammy's name at the end.
Sammy shakes his head without missing a beat, which Dean would be bummed about, except there's two thousand miles between them and the Advanced Placement student who needs them. Plenty of time for Dean to tackle Sammy at a truck stop and shove his hand down his pants.
Probably, Dean's wearing his thoughts on his face, because Sammy slams the trunk shut almost too harshly. It still groans and squeals with old metal like always, music to Dean's ears.
"Don't even think about it," Sammy says, in all seriousness. "We got work to do."
It's certainly not a good enough excuse to Dean, but he lets Sammy escape with only the lightest press of teeth at his pink bottom lip. He's much too satisfied to see it leave a mark behind, the slightest red of a tiny cut. Another mark Dean's left on his Sammy, his little brother, his.
When they pile into Baby, heater on full blast and rickety with lost legos, it's just the same as always. They sit a distance they can bridge, and they follow the maps towards someone who needs their help, and it's what they do. It's who they are.
They drive out towards the open road like always, and the sky is brighter than it's been all winter.
Dean only notices because Sammy points it out.
Notes:
welcome to the end! we finally made it after half a year of biting, growling, dumbass brothers. i've never written anything this long in my whole life, but if i was gonna pull that kind of dedication out for anyone it would be sam/dean :^)
i wanna leave this with a very heartfelt thank you to everyone who managed to read all the way to the end. i appreciate you for sticking out this wild ride with me. it's a long winded one, but you still sent love and comments and kudos my way the whole time. makes all those late night, over-editing sessions really worth it in the end ><
i loved sharing this with y'all and i'm gonna miss it <3 everybody stay strong for spn's series finale and hopefully, we'll all meet again for my next wincest epic (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ
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