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Two minutes pass on the ground. The back of Sam’s mind ticks them away with a counter, the rest of his attention devoted to straining his ears as best as he can in his current predicament.
His finger stings just a little, still, and he wonders if Dean will notice the prick, the dot of blood. He might never live this one down.
Footsteps now and Sam’s heart kicks up in his chest, relief and anxiety. Then it’s Dean’s panicked voice shouting his name and all the anxiety – the possibility of it being someone else, the possibility Dean too was hurt – washes away and it’s just relief.
“SAM!”
Dean must see him, the footsteps suddenly thunder load, approaching fast, the shlick and thump of him sliding on the last step into a kneel. Then the warmth of him – the sensation of his jacket where it brushes over Sam’s chest, the slight press of his thigh against Sam’s side, his torso, just noticeable through layers of flannel and canvas jacket, just enough to push the handle of one of Sam’s concealed knives up against his ribs, point of salient contact.
Predictable: his hands. Warm where one lands on his chest, over his heart and immediately sliding up, confident in the rise and fall and steady beat of Sam’s heart. It lands on his neck, other one already there, calloused and comforting as it cradles the other side of his face, fingers fanning into his hair. Gooseflesh ripples down his spine on an unrealized shiver. Dean’s thumb swipes his cheek, presses in with worry, and if Sam could move he might lean in, might shy away.
It’s intimate, the way they hold each other when they’re injured. And he knows the shape of that intimacy but Dean’s hands didn’t used to feel so electric on his skin. Back when they touched other humans more—when he touched other humans more—it didn’t make him shiver to his toes when his brother looked him over. Now it’s him and Dean and little else and the touch of Dean’s skin to his, each little callous on the pads of his fingers as they drag worried along his face, his neck, his hair – pushing it from his face, done checking now for blood on his neck and the back of his head, moved already to soothing – each touch is honey is mead is addictive.
“C’mon, Sammy, wake up, man. Sam.”
He should feel bad, empathy enough to overwhelm with the concern laced in Dean’s strained repetition of his name. The way he’s moving now, tilting his ear to catch Sam’s breathing – double checking, triple checking – moving his hand back over Sam’s heart and keeping it there this time, counting beats. He should feel bad for Dean’s concern, a deep squirming guilt at least at the fact that he doesn’t feel bad, but even that, he can’t. He’s too focused on the sensations.
“Okay, let’s get you out of here, Sasquatch. Gonna figure this out. Giant clutz, I swear if you hit your head on the doorframe…” the threat trails off and Sam’s mouth threatens to twitch around a smile, muscles revolt by remaining unmoving.
The movement is jolting, a little shocking because he’s never been like this, immobile and unseeing. For a second his eyes flutter, not by his volition but from the way he’s lifted, and the room is a half-slit blur, the spinning wheel right there.
Like he said, Dean’s never going to let him live this down when he figures it out.
He’d have expected to be hauled one arm over Dean’s shoulder if he’d thought about it, standard way Dean supports him when Sam’s injured, so it takes him by surprise when his body his hoisted, manipulated, and he finds himself a dead weight draped over Dean. Piggyback rides from their childhood and it’s funny, for a second. Dean should have thrown Sam over his shoulder, kept one hand free for his gun, but instead he’s got Sam on his back, arms dragged over Dean’s shoulders, head slumping forward, both thighs supported by Dean’s arms. He sincerely hopes Dean doesn’t have to drop him at any point because his head will smack the ground like a brick if that happens.
“Like a bag of bricks, you big lug.”
Another smile threatens and Sam’s head lolls against Dean’s neck as they take the stairs down out of the ramshackle house. Outside the dirt and earth of the morning’s rain springs up around him, infects his nostrils where the blend of sweat and aftershave has clogged them up. They pass the lilac tree they parked nearby, floral wave washing over them, and then the familiar creak of the impala’s door. He expects the backseat but finds Dean – turning them, setting Sam down with a comment about his head and his too-long legs – putting him unmistakably in the front. Huh.
Each leg is carefully folded, Dean’s fingers sure as they grip him and maneuver his ankles, bend his knee, and his arms are arranged in his lap. His head lolls back and he hears Dean snort, probably because his mouth is hanging open. Is he going to drool? He wonders if his mouth can produce excess saliva right now, if his eyes can produce tears? Will his body functions be normal – will his stomach growl soon? He’s pretty sure that won’t happen. This isn’t medical, it’s magic.
When he read the original lore on Sleeping Beauty, he’d never found any accounts that the spell kept the victim awake inside their body though. Sam’s really not sure how to feel about that part.
Phone camera shutter sound. “Oh yeah, that’s definitely going in the blackmail folder.”
Goddammit, Dean.
The door closes and Sam’s body tips just a bit at the force. Dean slides in from the other side, familiar sound, and Sam finds his head being shifted. Warm fingers cradling, again, surprising and unexpected this time. Gentle, contrapoint to his glib jokes, the way Dean keeps himself calm in a crisis. The fingers retreat and Sam finds himself missing them, a weird ache in his chest, and there’s a shifting sound. Dean hasn’t started the car yet and there’s a face scrunching – if only he could – confusion mounting as he tries to figure out the rustle, the way the bench is shifting under Dean’s weight, and then. Oh. Dean’s jacket is padded up, the fabric warm and scratchy-soft against the side of Sam’s face where Dean pushes him against it, held between Sam’s head and the door. A pillow. Hair falls in his face, tickles his nose, and Dean’s fingers brush it back, tuck it behind his ear.
Sam’s throat catches unexpectedly, little burn behind his eyes. He could swear his breathing catches, deepens, and maybe it does because Dean’s fingers still for just a second, then brush down, two pressed against his neck. Sam’s heartbeat kicks up, he’s sure of it. Autonomic reactions intact, maybe. He doesn’t know what to make of that and isn’t sure if Dean figures it out, pulls his fingers back not long after.
“Let’s get you back to the bunker, huh?”
-
Dean’s mostly silent on the three-hour drive except for a call to Cas to meet them at the bunker, rule out anything medical, heal Sam if he’s able. Dean puts on a soft rock station and Sam’s at least eighty percent sure it’s so he can pretend that Sam’s just passed out. Him being in the front seat starts to make more sense. The gentle tap of Dean’s fingers on the wheel is soothing, drumbeat to Stairway to Heaven a familiar lullaby, and Sam zones out into a not-quite-doze with nothing else to do.
Another piggyback ride back at the bunker, his own thighs and the curl of his body all sorts of uncomfortable with how weighed down his jacket is with weapons, with the press of his gun along the seat of his pants, threatening but failing to fall out as Dean takes the stairs down and winds them through the echoing space.
Has it always smelled faintly of lamp oil and spice down here?
Sam finds himself inexplicably being placed on a – this is the library table, isn’t it? Whole body laid out on the hard wood surface, face tilted up at the lights. Turn that off, he urges Dean, the brightness behind his eyelids unpleasant. His jacket’s still on and it’s too warm for it in the bunker. Can he sweat? Dean gives his face a pat, two.
“There we go, Sammy. Nothing to it. Now, let’s figure out what the hell got you, huh?”
For the first time since this started, Sam finds his chest start to tighten up, muscles tensing through his body. Dean’s pulling down books and Sam can’t scrunch his face against the light, can’t move his hips to offset the press of his Taurus against his tailbone, can’t move his ankle where his boot has pulled his foot too far just by a hair. His neck itches. His shirts have ridden up just enough that he can feel a sliver of skin along his belly exposed to the air that’s cooler than the rest of him.
How long until Cas gets here? How long until Dean figures out what’s wrong with him?
“Witch’s house we were casing… powders, spells, hex – ” a pause and a swear and footsteps. Sam would swallow if he could, some weird hesitation because he doesn’t know what Dean’s line of thinking is, but a shadow drops over his face and that’s a relief, anyway, Dean leaning over him.
“If I find a hexbag in these pockets, Sam, I swear – ”
Ah. Okay. That’s something, at least. And Sam was wrong, before, he realizes suddenly. Dean’s hands looking him over for head injuries, checking his breathing – that was intimate, but it has nothing on this. Dean’s movements are sure and practiced in a way Sam doesn’t want to examine, pulling his jacket wide and off his shoulders, shimmying it from him, hoisting Sam up to pull it properly from under him.
“Forgot all about this,” Dean mutters next to his ear where Sam’s head is resting on his shoulder as he pulls the jacket from Sam’s arms behind his back. He’s not sure what Dean means until his Taurus is slipped from his waistband and there’s a – something. Something tightening somewhere he wouldn’t expect from the slide of the smooth metal along his skin, the way it’s Dean’s fingers pulling it out instead of his own, setting it aside with a quiet thunk against the wood of the table.
Dean’s hand cradles his head and neck like a newborn infant as he lowers him back down the table and Sam wishes, stupid, that it were practical for Dean to sort all this out with Sam pressed against his chest like an infant, Dean supporting all his weight.
Hand smooths over his hair before it retreats and Sam might seriously need to reconsider how much he touches other people, make some sort of quota for physical contact because Dean’s soft affection should not be making his heart ache quite this much for more.
Sounds for a minute then, Dean mumbling to himself along with them as he empties Sam’s jacket pockets and pats down the lining for any hex bags and turns up empty. His running commentary on the pens, lint, balled up receipts he finds is at least a distraction, a bit of an internal laugh at his,
“A flask, Sammy? My my – ” and then takes a sip and splutters – “is that holy water? You goddamn nerd.”
He really, really wants to throw Dean a look for going through his things, the kind of heatless banter. Missing all his cues, today, but Dean’s keeping it up well enough one-sided.
“Alright, Mr. Goody toe-shoes, what else you got?”
He says this while unlacing Sam’s boots, and Sam isn’t sure if he’s still checking for hex bags or injuries or if this is something else. Both boots come off, are thrown aside after the briefest of inspections, and Dean makes a joke about the smell of his feet but his hands grip each ankle carefully, rolling them. He removes the blade Sam keeps along his right, unstraps its holster, and Sam feels a moment of reprieve as his muscles unbunch under the sure touches, his brother’s hands.
“Anything else, Boy Scout?”
He wonders if he should be counting the number of nicknames Dean is using, making an algorithm to account for Dean’s concern by how many different ones he drops into conversation in the space of a certain timeframe. Sam’s phone is liberated from his pocket, a cursory check before Dean tosses it aside. His hips are lifted, and “promise I’m not getting frisky, Sammy,” an inappropriate joke is uttered as Dean pulls his wallet from his back pocket, pats down the other side and comes up empty. Sam could swear his cheeks burn a little, uncontrolled as the rest of his body right now, from the way he’s manhandled and not quite groped.
Dean’s hands circle back around his front and his thumb – his thumb swipes that exposed sliver of skin and Sam’s heart races in his chest and he can’t really say why. This is Dean, and this is – this isn’t scary except in the basest sense of his immobility. This isn’t dangerous, this isn’t – this is Dean. And it’s not electrifying except that it is, that each touch is magnified a thousand times by the fact that he can’t move, can’t see, can’t predict where Dean’s callouses might catch along his skin next.
“You’re awake, aren’t you?”
It startles him, not that he can show it. Dean’s hand is gone from his hip and back on his neck and his voice is entirely different – not soft and for himself and mostly mumbling for something to hear to break up the quiet.
“Blushing like a virgin at prom, Sammy.”
Oh for the love of –
“Yeah, you can feel that. Heart racing like you wanna punch me,” it’s said with an attempt at humor but too serious, focused hunter. Dean working a job. “You been listening this whole time? Because I’m pretty sure I made a few choice comments about your princess hair back in that house when it was tickling my neck and I don’t want to be held accountable to your bitchiness after all this.”
Sam would snort, wants to, and Dean’s got the hand that’s not on his neck against his chest where Sam’s heartbeat and breathing are soothing, now.
“Okay. Bet you know exactly what this is, don’t you? What did you get yourself into, Sammy?” A pause. “Yeah yeah, I know. No talking. This is some real bullshit, little brother.” His hands retreat, then. “Too bad you can’t control your heartbeat, could work out some morse code. Maybe we’ll do a dreamroot thing, huh? Get in that noggin’ and have a chat, sort this one out. Can you sleep, like this?”
The scrape of a chair on the floor, the sound of books. Sam wishes once again that he’d move him away from the light, put something over his eyes at least to mute it, but he appreciates how much more comfortable Dean made him, even if it was on accident. And Dean’s there next to him, probably about a foot away based on the sound of his breathing, reading through books and mumbling about it just enough for Sam not to feel alone.
-
Dean disappears intermittently, bathroom breaks and food runs, never gone for more than a few minutes at a time. He grumbles about Cas not making it there till morning, grumbles about books full of spells and none of them this one, drinks beer and makes an offhand comment about whether Sam needs food, water.
“If you end up pissing yourself, don’t think for one second I’m cleaning it up.”
Sam would roll his eyes if he could. He’s grateful though that his body is in stasis, no hunger or thirst or anything else that implies his metabolism is working. As far as he would guess, he’s only responding to outside influences. He can blush but not feel hunger. He can’t move but can’t ache or become unwell from that immobility. He’s got some questions about what else works, what would happen if he did this or that, but there’s no way to test and –
“Here, let’s try this.”
Well. Dean can experiment. Which is not always a good thing. Sam’s vividly reminded of another time fairytales came to life and Dean took a toy buzzer and roasted a whole ham with it (then proceeded to eat it for the next day and – )
What the –
There is – a finger. In his mouth. Why the –
Oh he would roll his eyes if he could.
“Like when you were teething,” there’s a laugh in Dean’s voice and Sam is not amused as Dean dabs more whiskey – since when did he have whiskey? Sam thought he was just sipping beer – onto his finger and slides it again against Sam’s gums. It’s inside his upper lip, against his cheek, pressing along both sides of his mouth, above his molars. It’s –
Invasive. That’s the word he’s going to go with.
“Pretty sure you’d choke if I tipped any down your throat, sorry bro. This is the best I’ve got.”
Yes, thank you, Sam can see that. Not entirely sure why Dean felt the need to provide this for him, even if a suppressed shiver is going up and down his spine. His mouth hadn’t tasted of much before, but now it tastes like whiskey and Dean’s skin.
“Think you could get drunk from this?”
No, he really doesn’t. He also doesn’t especially need to be treated like a science experi –
“Wait it’s supposed to be under the tongue, right? Like a tab of acid?”
He’s not really about to –
Dean’s finger pulls out of his mouth. There’s no pop of sound because Sam doesn’t have the ability to create a pucker or suction, but it feels a little obscene anyway. He’s sure there’s dribble at the corner of his lips, and then Dean has a hand on his lower jaw, holding it open with a warm thumb and forefinger, and two fingers from his other hand slide into Sam’s mouth, massaging his tongue and –
And he’s pretty sure he’s blushing again.
“Ha! Totally working, isn’t it?” Dean’s maneuvered the digits sublingual now where they’re supposed to be, right along the mucous membrane where things can be absorbed altogether too quickly and directly into the bloodstream.
Sam’s starting to hope his metabolism isn’t actually working, but the ‘external influences’ bit might override that. Getting drunk while he can’t move seems like a recipe for disaster and that’s not even considering what other shenanigans Dean might come up with in the meantime, never mind that he’s showing no signs of slowing.
“How’s that?”
On the third fingerful of fresh whiskey under his tongue, Sam wonders if he might start to actually feel something if this keeps up. He thinks his breathing might have changed at some point, hard to say if it’s because his mouth is open, because his heart is hammering in his chest, or because of the alcohol. Dean goes for another, and another, massaging too much whiskey from his fingers under Sam’s tongue again, careful not to let it tip back so Sam doesn’t choke on it. His mouth is producing more saliva, now, in response to what Dean’s doing, and that isn’t a great sign on the whole ‘no metabolism’ thing.
He’s almost glad he can’t shudder when Dean pulls his fingers free, swipes at the saliva that’s tipped out with his thumb.
“’S not supposed to take much, right? Like butt-chugging?”
Now that is an idea he really doesn’t want Dean to pursue, not in the slightest. Dean laughs and pats his cheek twice, fond and a little too hard. “Haha, I can tell you’re giving me that bitchface, even if you can’t move. Don’t worry Sammy, your butt’s safe with me, there’s some things I really don’t want to see.”
He’d breathe easier if he could, but now he definitely is feeling it a bit. It’s not enough to make him drunk, not enough for him to be entirely sure it’s where the flush in his skin is coming from, but his body isn’t metabolizing anything else and all he can focus on now is the taste and the memory of how Dean’s fingers felt exploring his mouth.
He might murder Dean, just a little, when this is over.
A rustle and Sam waits, expecting him to walk off but a second later he hears the sound and feels it, the movement of Dean sitting up on the table with him, back (butt) pressed to Sam’s arm, feet no doubt dangling off the edge.
“C’mon, what am I supposed to do till Cas gets here? I’ve been through a dozen of these books, man.” A pause while Dean sips his own drink, clink as the ice tips around in it. “Can’t even have a drink with my little brother while we get some research done. Hell, maybe I should cut your hair while you can’t fight back, finally get it under control?”
Sam would believe the easy tone of voice if he weren’t leaning too heavy into the ‘little brother’ stuff. Dean’s come up empty in his research so far and he’s distracting himself. Probably didn’t eat dinner and probably feeling it himself if he switched to whiskey over beer on his last time leaving the room over an hour ago. Sam’s chest and shoulders ache around the sigh that doesn’t come.
“Y’know I’m gonna feel like a real asshole if I find out you weren’t actually awake for any of this.”
God he wishes he could snort in response. Dean’s hand pats his chest twice, heavy only because Sam couldn’t see it coming, almost oofs the air out of him.
“Yeah yeah, I got it. Y’know if a creature did this and I should be out there ganking it while you’re losing your lifeforce or something, I’m gonna be pissed.”
Sam’s at least glad for that, that Dean’s not wasting time, that he’s not sitting here screaming inside his head against a clock ticking down. If there’s one thing the lore on Sleeping Beauty spells is clear on, it’s that time is the one thing Sam’s body does have.
“You know I…”
Sam waits for more, ears straining to catch it. It doesn’t come. Another sip, he can hear, and Dean shifts, heat moving along his arm, and sets the glass down.
“It’s late, my eyes are blurring on the pages. Cas’ll be a few more and I don’t know - ” A sigh. “This can’t be comfy. You want I should drop you in your room and keep watch there, or are you thinking mine? Memory foam might feel good on a body that ain’t moving if a spring gets stuck in the wrong place, right?”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Sam almost expects the lurch this time, Dean grabbing his far arm and hoisting him up and over his back, locking both arms over his shoulders then grabbing his thighs. “Just like old times, eh Sammy?”
His feet are still just socked, no gun along his waistline, and if it was reminiscent of their childhood before then it’s tenfold now. The urge to smile is there, quelled but the warmth in his chest isn’t, the sort of soothing of his features he can swear is real. That, and the light is no longer in his eyes. He’s got a mild headache from it but the lights in Dean’s room are dim and not overhead and there’s a sort of relief in all of it, in the fact that Dean’s not leaving him alone in his own room out of a misplaced sense of propriety. (As if shoving his fingers in Sam’s mouth could be normal but sharing a bed might be a line too far).
The bed is soft, when he’s lowered onto it, legs stretched and then – pause, and Sam wonders for a moment why, before – he's being rolled onto his side. He really doesn’t need to be put in the recovery position, but after a moment he realizes that’s not exactly what Dean’s doing. The manhandling is a step too far, too precise – an arm being bent at the elbow, sliding up under a pillow, ribs and then – he might blush again – hips being rotated a bit into a comfortable position, his other arm resting in front of him. Almost exactly how he likes to sleep most nights.
“Don’t wanna hear you bitch about this when we wake you up,” Dean mutters self-consciously from too close to Sam’s head and he feels fingers tuck his hair back. “Even with that princess hair, ‘m not putting you in a glass case like you’re Snow White.”
So close, Dean. So close.
Dean’s fingers still by his ear. Sam’s heartrate speeds up.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispers, almost loud in the quiet room. Unceremoniously, Sam is pushed onto his back, body flopping, and Dean is grabbing up his hands. First the left, then the right, and there it is. “Bullshit.”
Little dried drop of blood, probably almost invisible prick.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean’s halfway to laughing now, both unfunny and funny, angry and relieved. “Sammy I swear to God if you pricked your finger on a spindle I am never letting you live that shit down.”
He knows, and he has resigned himself to that, and his ears might be burning because Dean actually does start laughing then.
“Holy shit. Okay. One sec, I’m just gonna - ” Sam’s hand is dropped and then a chair is scraping and Sam hears the telltale sounds of a laptop, typing, and he’d smile if he could. Shouldn’t be too long now.
-
Four hours later (he assumes, based on his body’s internal clock) and Sam allows himself some frustration. Dean has clicked away, has disappeared down the hall for books and flipped through them, has made aggravated little noises and tossed them aside, and Sam has no idea what the hold-up is here.
“Dean?” Cas’s voice calls from somewhere else in the bunker, entrance, the squeak and slam of the door reverberates down the hall and he hears Dean hop to his feet, the thud of another discarded book, Dean’s voice and feet echoing down the hall.
“Cas! Over here!”
There’s a minute of greetings he can’t quite hear, the cadence of their voices familiar and their footsteps – Dean's impatient, booted, Cas’s as sure and quiet as ever, Sam’s ears straining to hear – and then their words are crystal.
“And I’m pretty sure it’s a sleeping beauty curse but there’s like 15 varieties – ” ah, that would be it – “and I can’t just leave him here while I go and test a few of them.”
Go?
“Test?” Cas asks, swish of fabric. Sam wonders if that’s his coat.
“If the spindle’s a cursed object he should wake up if I burn it. If it’s just spelled then he’ll still be like this, and then we move on to the next couple things.”
“You want me to watch Sam while you go and burn furniture?”
If Sam were able to move, he’d be shaking Dean right now. “Yeah.”
“Have you slept?”
“I’m fine.”
Heavy sigh, “Dean.”
“Jesus, Cas, it’s Sam. What do you expect me to do?”
“What other avenues do we have?”
Quiet, for a moment, and oh. Seriously? Is that what Dean is having a conniption about? Never mind, of course it is. Which Sam knew, absently, in his hours of frustration. But really he was hoping Dean was gonna be a little more mature about the whole thing than -
“We’d have to find some chick to kiss him.”
There’s a sort of record scratch in Sam’s brain. He’s glad he’s on his back, not laid perfectly comfortably on his side like Dean had so delicately posed him before getting distracted by the realization of the magic’s source. If he was comfy it might be odd to feel so goddamn annoyed with the one-track Dean’s brain is on.
“... I don’t follow.”
A movement, a sigh from Dean, sound of skin and Sam suspects he’s run a hand down his face or jaw, maybe over his hair. He’s probably looking tired by now, that sort of crazy look in his eyes he gets when he runs on no sleep.
“Sleeping Beauty, been reading the lore half the night. There’s old fairytales and different versions of the spell and a few cursed objects in history that’ve taken on the same kinda curse but it’s all – if burning the object doesn’t work, you gotta make sure the victim doesn’t have a piece of it in them. Like Snow White with the apple in her throat, or the original Sleeping Beauty story where the chick had a sliver in her finger that got sucked out. And if that doesn’t work, then it’s - then it’s a true-love's-kiss kind of deal.”
“True love’s kiss?” Cas’s voice is all coarse monotonic gravel, almost soothing after Dean’s agitated, almost annoyed spiel.
“Yeah. Prince Charming comes along and locks lips with the princess.” His voice drops dark on the following murmur, “had better be only a goddamn liplock.”
Goosebumps ripple up Sam’s spine. There is always that possibility, one he’d rather not investigate, some of the lore on the topic a little less savory, fairtytales seldom as kid-friendly in their original forms as the mass-market Disney versions.
“I don’t understand the issue then, or why you need to drive a total of – six? - additional hours there and back if burning the object is less effective than kissing Sam.”
A splutter, which is deeply satisfying for Sam and he’s happy imagining Dean’s looking all sorts of scandalized when he gets out, “I’m not kissing Sam.”
“Why not?”
“For one – despite the hair he’s not actually a princess, dude, and I’m sure as hell not Prince Charming. Two – what part of “true love” are you missing in true love’s kiss here?”
“Don’t you love your brother?”
“That’s not the point!”
There’s a beat. Sam tries to picture their expressions. Is Cas cocking his head, or just staring placidly at Dean. Maybe looking annoyed? Confused? Dean is easier to picture, probably red in the face and shoulders bunched like some kind of righteous, angry cat rearing up to hiss. Indignant.
A pissed-off sigh, movement he can’t see. “Dude, he’s my brother. I’m not – it’s not the same.”
“But you think that, uh, ‘some chick’” Sam can hear the air quotes “is adequate to awaken him.”
“Well not... I don’t know. Not just any chick, maybe, but...”
And here, finally, Sam feels some of his frustration with Dean’s immaturity about the whole thing ebb. Because of course that’s part of it, of course it is. Of course he was probably sitting there reading about love and kisses and thinking he might have to track down one of Sam’s exes, one of his crushes, someone he’d been flirtatious with and uncover if she was actually Sam’s true love and therefore about to whisk Sam away into suburban bliss once awoken from this curse by her lips. He’d roll his eyes if he could, would clock Dean, would reassure him. He can’t do any of the above though, so he lays there with one hand at his side where it was dropped loosely, the other on his stomach, breathing quietly.
“Look can you just – can you just try to heal him? Maybe this whole conversation is pointless.”
There’s no response from Cas but Sam can hear him move. His heartrate speeds up, can feel it in his throat, and he’s just never truly going to be comfortable with an angel coming near when he can’t move, no matter how close he is with that angel. But Cas’s hand is warm where it hovers over his forehead and he can feel the heat of his healing powers, see the faint light near his closed eyes. He tries, aches to move. Can’t.
Cas pulls his hand away.
“I’m sorry.”
Dean sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”
“Why don’t we check for slivers?” Cas is being gentler now, accommodating, like he too can read between the lines of what Dean is afraid of here. Sam makes a note to thank him for that, later, in some tacit sort of way that won’t leave himself feeling embarrassed, that wouldn’t make Dean feel too vulnerable or easy to read if he were to overhear.
“Already found the spot.” Dean’s footsteps approach then and the bed dips a little under his weight, Sam's right hand lifted, fingers curled except his forefinger which Dean holds aloft.
“I see no sliver.” He feels a finger and a thumb – Cas's – grasp the digit, and then hot light as he tries to heal it. “Hmm. It won’t close.”
“Is there anything under the skin?”
“Not that I can sense.”
Dean hums, and then – because why not, really? Because Dean’s perspective on boundaries really is set by an internal list of rules that make sense only to him – Dean licks the tip of Sam’s finger, and a second later his lips close around the tip, gentle suction that turns into a proper suck. Jesus, Dean.
His lips come off with an actual pop and Sam’s face is hot, his heart is hammering hard. What the honest fuck, dude?
“Nothing. Doesn’t even bleed. Definitely magic and - hah - should see your face right now, Sammy.” He drops the hand on a laugh and Sam would scowl. Why is he the one being made fun of when Dean’s the one who just sucked his brother’s goddamn finger? He can still feel the saliva cooling on the tip.
“Can he sense you?”
“Sense, hear, the whole thing I’m pretty sure.”
Cas makes a considering note and then there are fingers on Sam’s face and – jesus christ he didn’t prepare himself for this – an eyelid being pried open right into looking on Cas’s face.
“I wonder if he can see us.”
He can. He really can. And it’s deeply disarming to not be able to blink and to suddenly see and for Cas’s face to be so uncomfortably close. Sam’s heart is hammering and this time not from embarrassment, just the sheer shock and discomfort of it. It’s somehow not at all the same as when Dean pokes and prods at him.
Dean slaps Cas’s arm out of the way and Sam’s eye closes. Relief swallows him even with Dean’s pissed off, “dude.”
“What?”
He feels and hears Dean maneuver Cas, pushing him out of the way, fabric swishing against Sam’s hand where it flopped off the side of the bed just a little, and then – naturally. Dean is there, opening up his eyelids – both of them – just the same as Cas did.
“Heya Sammy.”
He definitely has that crazy no-sleep look in his eyes. Sam tries and fails to scowl at him. His lids are gently closed. He refuses to acknowledge the comfortable, easy pace of his heart.
“Okay!” Dean says too close but he’s stepping back. “Enough of that. I’ve got some furniture to burn.”
Cas sighs. “If you must. In the meantime I’ll continue here trying to cure him.”
A squeak on the floor as Dean’s boot stops mid-step. Sam’s heart skips a bit, willing him not to punch Cas. “Come again?”
“I’ll continue trying to cure Sam.” Confused at Dean’s response, it comes out halfway to a question.
“You mean you’ll feel him up while I’m shagging ass across the countryside?”
“Of course not, Dean!”
“Don’t think I don’t know you two get up to crazy mumbo-jumbo when I’m not around, touching his soul and all that. You better not think just because I’m not here to supervise that you have Sam’s permission to - ”
“That’s not what I meant to imply, Dean.” Annoyed now and Sam’s cheeks might be burning. He’s not sure which of them he’s embarrassed for. Himself, mostly, partially because he has a lot more control over his autonomic reactions when he can move his body, and he’s really tired of his cheeks reflecting his emotions in a way he was sure he grew out of half a lifetime ago.
“You wanna kiss my brother, Cas?”
No, he’s embarrassed for Dean, who is making an ass of himself with his overprotective macho bullshit.
“I’m not romantically or sexually interested in either you or your brother, Dean, but.” Oh, there’s a but? Sam feels a little shiver, “if a kiss from someone who loves him is enough to wake him from his slumber, I’m more than adequate to provide that much, if permitted.”
And okay, he’s a little – he’s a little touched by that. Privately, and while wishing he wasn’t on his back on Dean’s bed, laying eyes closed toward the ceiling with his whole face exposed and his belly and all those soft organs and squishy bits so vulnerably open. Because there’s part of him that has the urge to just hide his face, himself, from such easy admissions of love, even compatriot love. But there is no hiding, only breathing, resting. Waiting.
“Fine.”
Fine?
“Fine?”
“Get it over with. Kiss Sam, and when that doesn’t work - ”
Oh. Okay. Sam steels himself as best as he can to be kissed, hears the footfalls and swish as Cas gets closer, feels the air move as he squats a bit next to the bed and would hold his breath if he could but -
“Wait!”
There’s an aggravated noise in Cas’s throat that Sam wants to echo.
“What, Dean?” Turns his head away to ask it.
“Not - s’too weird in here, man. You kissing Sam in my bed.”
Oh for the love of god, Dean.
“Lemme bring him back out to the library.”
Cas for whatever goddamn reason acquiesces and steps back and Sam laments that he was seconds from almost certainly being able to move again but then Dean is there, hands cradling his face unexpectedly, giving his cheek a couple of gentle pats.
“Sorry Sammy, can’t have you getting felt up in my bed. One of us has gotta sleep here, y’know?”
He’s hoisted bridal-style by Dean, head tucked against his shoulder and carefully maneuvered through doorways and down the hall so his head and feet don’t bump or scrape the walls. No piggy-back and he wonders if that is somehow more intimate in Dean’s mind. Their child-selves too much their own to show even to Cas.
He’s very gently settled onto the library table again and that damn light right overhead and then -
“Okay?” Cas’s voice is somewhere to his right and Dean doesn’t answer with words but Sam can feel him step back. A shadow blocks the light and his heartbeat kicks up and -
“Wait!”
Sam could scream.
“Dean.” Cas, long-suffering.
“Just - ”
There’s movement, the shadow disappears and the relative warmth of Cas’s body retreats. If there’s silent conversation Sam can only imagine how it goes, and then there is an aggravated noise from Dean.
“Fine. Fine,” snapped out angry.
And then – oh – he can hear Dean’s boots, feels Dean hop up next to him on the table all over again, butt against his arm.
“You mind?”
He hears Cas’s sigh, him wander away, down the hall. A moment, and then,
“Can’t believe he thinks this is gonna cure you,” Dean mutters for Sam’s benefit. “Not gonna let someone else kiss you though, Sammy, not without your permission.” Sam can't decide if that's chivalrous or messed up, all things considered, but his chest feels hot anyway, not entirely unpleasantly. “And hey, after this doesn’t work, I get to go burn some shit. Glass half-full, amirite?”
A shadow blocks out the light. A warm hand lands on his cheek, cups it like Dean has a thousand times before, except then it trails back just a little, fingers sliding along beyond his ear, thumb swiping his cheekbone. He’s not sure if his cheeks heat or not but his breathing does pick up, probably noticeable this close.
“Yeah yeah, I know,” Dean’s voice is quiet, just for them. “Gonna make fun of me for a week over this. Well joke’s on you because I'm not the one who turned into Sleeping Beauty, so don’t even try it.” He might be stalling, but he’s getting closer, can feel him an inch from his skin, so Sam thinks he’s psyching himself up. A thumb lands on his lips and his heart jumps, settles in his chest. The thumb traces both lips, brushes over and away, settles on his cheek. “Okay. Here we go Sammy.”
Dean’s lips are warm, moist like he was licking them in nervousness, soft where they land on his. Sam’s heartbeat is booming loud and fast enough in his chest it almost blocks that out but doesn’t, it doesn’t. Their lips slot together easy and perfect, more than a peck but less than anything torrid.
When he pulls away Sam’s inhale is deep and sharp, eyes lifting open into Dean’s.
Finally.
Dean, whose own eyes go wide and whose jaw drops in shock. He is halfway to bolting back but Sam’s hands snap up and catch his arms around the biceps, Dean’s hands on the table and on Sam’s face still.
“Sammy.”
It was mostly to stop him from moving out of the shadow and that light shining in his eyes, but Sam’s glad for his instincts because Dean looks stricken and this is as good a place to have this conversation as any. So he smiles, lazy, relieved he can pull the muscles in his face in the directions that he wants.
“You’re an idiot.” His voice could not be more fond.
“I’m not the one who - ”
“Sleeping Beauty, I know.” He moves, shifts, gently headbutts Dean’s forehead with his own as he sits up on the table, keeps Dean there and a little tangled up together for a moment longer, his arm still across Sam and leaning into his space. They’re too close but that’s fine, and he moves to cup Dean’s neck, wonders if he’s half as touch-starved as Sam, thinks he must be when he catches the faint whimper in Dean’s throat.
“Thank you, Dean.” He clears his throat, rough from disuse. “But you’re definitely an idiot if you think there’s any chick in the world who could play Prince Charming for me better than you can.”
Dean pulls back, ducks away from his hand on his neck, embarrassment scrunching up his features. He doesn’t go red, control of his expressions, but the tinges of it in the movement are just as obvious as if he were. “C’mon man. That’s just – it's not...”
Sam laughs, shakes his head. “Yeah, I know. But it was nice, you giving me piggy-back rides and making conversation.”
“Can’t believe you heard all that,” muttering, embarrassed all over again.
“Can’t believe you stuck your fingers under my tongue. What the hell was that, anyway?”
“What?” Dean splutters, pulls away and hops off the table. “I was sharing the whiskey!”
Sam’s laughter echoes around the library.
“Did it work?”
“Yeah, it worked you jackass.”
Dean whoops and Sam shakes his head and then, once more for good measure, because he’s feeling loose-limbed and easy, he butts his head against Dean, this time his back, the space between his shoulders just under his neck. Sam makes himself small to do it, curls a hand around him in a loose hug. Dean makes a startled noise in his throat and Sam’s lips tug up at the corners. He's still just wearing his socks.
“Hey Dean?”
“Yeah?”
He shakes his head, smiles, pats his brother’s chest. “Nothing.”
A moment, and then. “Yeah. Me too, Sammy.”
Cas interrupts the moment then and they step back, Sam smiles and loops him in for a hug and thanks him for coming by, offers him his room and Netflix if Cas wants to stick around, since he and Dean have a spelled or cursed or otherwise unsafe object to go burn. Not so much as a spindle as a 1920s sewing machine but either way it's gotta go. He slides his boots back on, his Taurus to the seat of his pants, wrestles the keys from Dean since his brother hasn’t slept a wink.
“What if you didn’t make the Snow White connection?” he asks after Dean has taken up a grumbling seat on the passenger’s side, started to slouch in his seat. “Were you gonna lay down and catch some z’s with me?”
Dean manages to pout, mutinous and glaring at Sam’s hands on the wheel. “Was gonna sleep in the chair.”
Sam shakes the hair out of his eyes, smiles.
“What’s got you so damn smiley, anyway?”
“Oh come on, this one was an easy win.” He doesn’t say there’s a certain warm sort of feeling that comes with confirming how much he’s loved by his brother. Dean doesn’t really need any more ammunition to tease him. “What’s not to be happy about?”
“You, being immobile for 16 hours and freaking me the hell out.”
Sam hums, taps his fingers on the steering wheel. It’s early morning, not quite dawn yet but the sky is getting lighter, the horizon bright. His voice is quiet when he responds,
“I knew you’d get there.”
He glances to the side, to Dean’s pout, his tired eyes. He smiles, reaches over and pats him. Unnecessary contact, the kind they both need more of. “Now, get some beauty sleep, princess.”
Dean snorts, eyes drooping closed, a lazy middle finger as Sam flips on a soft rock station for him, turns the volume low. They’ve got three hours of driving, a sewing machine to dismantle and burn, and then maybe, if he can figure out how to get away with it without scandalizing his brother or subjecting himself to more experiences like being finger-fed whiskey, he’s got designs on crashing on the opposite side of a motel bed or memory foam mattress from Dean, on finding ways to reclaim all the casual affection both of them have got too good at denying themselves over the past few years.
After all, he muses while Dean’s breathing turns to quiet snores, makes him fond all over again – what’s a fairytale if not a lesson, a kiss if not a promise?
~The End~