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“If it’s broken, I don’t get why you don’t just throw it out,” Dean says.
He paces past the table, and a couple of tiny screws roll off the edge. One of them bounces away and disappears beneath the fridge. Great.
“It’s not like we need a camcorder anyway,” he continues. He loops around the kitchenette and starts making his way back to the other side of the room. “Unless you got inspired and want to start shooting your own Werewolf Diaries.”
Sam just rolls his eyes. No use explaining.
“Fine, be that way.” Something in Dean’s voice makes it sound like he could be joking, but it’s hard to tell these days.
Oh well. Sam pushes back his chair, hunkers under the table to look for the screw. It’s black, and his eyes pass over it two or three times before he finally sees it in the filthy tile grout. He picks it up as carefully as he can, wipes his fingers on his jeans, and gets back to work. No way he’s going after the other one.
The innards of the dead kids’s—Brian, his name was Brian—camera are strewn across the table, weird jagged metal pieces with circuit boards and wires coming off them and more tiny screws that roll away every time Sam’s knee bumps the table leg. So many little pieces. He’s never going to figure out which is the problem. Hell, he isn’t even going to be able to figure out how to put them back together, fixed or not.
Why is he even trying?
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. One two three. When he looks at the table again, there are just as many pieces.
—
The desk lamp casts a harsh cone of light over the table, glints off the edges of the camera components. The rest of the room is dark. Occasionally, headlights will pass through the window and cast moving stripes of light over Dean’s body. He’s conked out on top of the covers, fully clothed.
So it really shouldn’t matter that he still isn’t talking to Sam.
It doesn’t even make sense. If anyone, it’s Dean who deserves the cold shoulder. Buddying up with a vampire is one thing, but lying about it? Why? Sam’s done his own share of fucking up, but at least he’s honest about it.
Anyway.
At least the camera parts will be more organized now. Sam has a little bag for screws, another for wires and cables, one for each big metal piece. It looks like they’ll all fit in the styrofoam takeout box he nabbed from the diner where they ate lunch two or three states ago. He fell asleep pretty much right after that, didn’t wake up until Dean parked in front of the motel room. Now they’re in Crescent, Iowa, according to an auto shop ad Sam found on the table when he cleared it. Who knows where they’re going, or if Dean even has a destination in mind.
Sam zips the last component into its bag and checks his watch. 2:47. Dean’ll probably sleep for about four more hours, and they’ll be on the road before eight. Plenty of time for Sam to figure out what he’s going to say when they start talking again.
—
This motel room is bigger, or maybe it just feels bigger. Dean’s gone, who knows where. Maybe drinking. Maybe having another secret rendezvous with his new brother. Whatever.
Point is, Sam’s alone, and it’s taking some getting used to, but it’s a little like riding a bike. Enough practice and he’ll be able to saddle up and pedal away. Just like he said. He’d rather not, but it’s something he could do. If he had to.
Of course, he wouldn’t even have to worry about it if Dean decided to stop being such an asshole and, god forbid, talk about what the hell happened to his head in Purgatory. Because, yes, Sam fucked up, he knows, thank you very much, but there is no way that’s the only thing going on here. And if Dean would just trust Sam enough to—
Ouch.
Sam drops the knife, brings his thumb to his lips. Just a tiny drop of blood, a small cut. No big deal. But the screw he was working on is gouged, a jagged circle where the cross used to be. Hopefully he can get away with leaving it in there.
His teeth dig into his lip as he fits the tip of the knife into the next screwhead, twists the body of the camera slowly, gently, making sure to apply only downward pressure with the blade. Can’t strip this head too, or he’s going to have a serious shortage on his hands.
A few turns and the screw is loose enough that he can do the rest with his fingers, and he drops it in the bag once it’s free. Looks like the other screw didn’t matter after all, because now he can pry the last circuit board away from the plastic body of the camera and finally get at the power button. That better be the problem, because as far as he can tell the other components are in perfect condition. Or at least they were before he took them out and got them all dusty and shaken around in the car.
And that’s the thing about taking apart complicated shit like this, isn’t it? Sam has about as good a chance of fixing it as he does fucking it up beyond repair. But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try. Right? After all, the only way to fix something like this is to take it apart. And Brian’s camera is something he can fix, so he should. Right? Just like the fan in that motel room, just like the car, just like Riot. Better to spend his time working on things he can fix than waste it dwelling on the things he can’t.
Right?
—
“All right,” Dean says from the other side of the room.
It’s sudden, and Sam jumps. He doesn’t drop anything, but it’s a close call.
“I’ve had just about enough of the MacGyver bullshit,” Dean goes on. He gets up, walks over. “You gotta at least use a real screwdriver.”
Sam shrugs, sets his knife down on the coffee table in front of him. “Don’t have one.”
Dean pushes his eyebrows together in a look so patronizing it makes Sam feel fourteen again. Then he turns and walks out the door to the parking lot. Moments later he’s back, holding the tiniest screwdriver Sam has ever seen. He hands it over with a gruff, “Here.” It’s warm from his fingers.
“Thanks,” Sam says, makes sure to smile a little. The past few days have been civil, maybe even normal, and he’s going to do his part to keep things that way.
Dean’s still standing there, looking down at the array of camera parts on the coffee table. “Did you figure out what’s wrong with it?”
Sam laughs. Awkward. “No,” he admits, and pushes a hand through his hair.
Dean frowns, considering. “You said it wouldn’t turn on, right?”
“Yeah.”
Dean steps around the table, seats himself on the couch right next to Sam. He reaches across and grabs one of the parts, bumping Sam’s arm on the way back. Maybe on purpose, maybe not.
Anyway, he’s holding one of the plastic casing pieces. “This the battery door?”
“Yep.” Sam’s gotten pretty intimate with these pieces over the last few weeks.
Dean nods slowly, rotating and examining the piece of plastic like it’s a delicate marvel of engineering. “Get me the part it attaches to.”
Sam knows exactly which one that is. He hands it over and their shoulders bump again. Sam’s skin tingles through his two shirts.
Dean barely looks at the second piece. “Thought so. Found your problem.”
What? “No way.”
“Yes way,” Dean says back, and smiles. He shifts around to face Sam as much as the tiny space behind the coffee table will allow, which means their knees are pressed together almost painfully. He puts the second piece back in Sam’s hand and points at something near the corner. “You see this little switch right here?”
It’s tiny, and black like the rest of the piece. Almost unnoticeable, which is probably why Sam hadn’t noticed it before. He nods, feeling stupid.
“Good. It’s for the door,” Dean explains. He grabs Sam’s wrist with his warm fingers, uses it to hold Sam’s hand steady between them. The door piece is in Dean’s free hand, and he fits it into the air above Sam’s piece. “When it closes,” he says, moving the piece to mimic the motion, “there’s supposed to be a little piece sticking out that hits the switch.”
“Like the light switch in a fridge,” Sam says, because wow, that’s obvious. He even fixed one of those.
“Exactly. It’s to make sure the camera doesn’t try to turn on when the battery could fall out.” Dean pauses, breaks into a grin. “Or, well, it was before you broke it.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “It was broken when I found it,” he points out, but it’s hard to keep a straight face when Dean’s looking at him like that.
Dean breathes a small laugh and takes both pieces back. “Whatever you say, buddy.”
—
Kermit is one of those places that never feels quite real. Everything happens more slowly here. The air is always warm. The sun is too bright. Even when it’s dark, everything seems kind of washed out.
Sam takes another sip of his beer and stares at the plaid wallpaper. Too bad the camera is fixed. It’d be nice to have something to do with his hands. Taking it apart, trying to put it back together, failing, taking it apart again, trying to put it back together a little differently. Failing. It made downtime a little more bearable.
Even working on it with Dean was surprisingly…fun. Dean went all in, using super glue and a can of compressed air that he went out and bought, all the while making digs at Sam for fucking up the screws and being generally incompetent. It actually felt pretty good to take the hits; for a change, they didn’t have any heat behind them. And Dean’s good moods have always been contagious, at least to Sam, who has no immunity at all where his brother is concerned. Never has. And even after all this, looks like he never will.
Sam sets his bottle down and rubs his hand over his face. It was pretty stupid of him to think that meant they were good again. But then again, he never would have thought Dean could pull something like this, something so needlessly cruel as that fucking text message.
This was supposed to be over. Amelia and Riot and everything else in Kermit were supposed to stay there, and Sam was supposed to stay away. The memories were harder to leave behind, but they’d eventually fade too, just like all the other memories he does his best not to let himself remember anymore. He’s gotten pretty good at that.
But Dean had to come and kick the box over, spill it all over the floor, and leave Sam to pick up all the pieces. Just when things were getting better. And somehow, it’s even worse that there’s no way Dean could have known Sam would actually see her there, see them. It was just coincidence. Just fate, punching Sam in the stomach like everyone else.
And then there’s the rest of it. The Benny thing, still. Dean’s new Sam-specific trust issues. Martin. Jesus, Martin. Somehow it all ends up being Sam’s fault, even when he’s the only one trying to fix it. He’d be better off not trying, not doing anything at all.
He picks up the bottle again.
—
Sam presses the shutter button again. Click.
“Would you cut it out?” Dean groans, but it’s halfhearted.
“Sure.” Sam swings the camera around until he finds Dean’s face in the frame. Click.
Dean scowls, scoots away. But it’s a small couch, so he can’t go too far.
“Spent long enough fixing this thing,” Sam says. “Might as well get some use out of it.” He tilts the camera up to the ceiling, but it won’t focus on the lamp or whatever it is he’s trying to look at. He takes the picture anyway.
“I think you mean I spent long enough fixing it.” Dean’s tapping his fingers against the side of the bottle he’s holding. It’s empty. “Which I only did to put you out of your misery, by the way. I wouldn’t’ve done it if I knew you’d use it take hipster pictures of the ceiling and shit.” A pause. “You aren’t even supposed to take regular pictures with it anyway.”
“I’m just making sure it works.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dean tilts his chin toward Sam’s collection of empty beer bottles, which are all lined up on the coffee table. He took a picture of them earlier. “How much of that did you buy?”
Sam shrugs. He stopped a while ago because he ran out, but why does it matter? He’s here, isn’t he? Not in Kermit. Not dead. Dean should be glad.
Dean breathes out in a sudden, short huff. “All right,” he says. Stands. “I’m going to bed.”
Sam shrugs.
—
Sam flops back onto his bed, wet hair and all. Dean’s in the shower now, so there’s a few minutes to kill before they grab breakfast. They passed a sign on the way back to the room last night—something about pancakes with bacon cooked into them—and the only reason Dean didn’t stop right then and there was because the place was closed.
So Dean dragged Sam out of bed at seven this morning and all but threw him in the shower, chattering excitedly about his pancakes the entire time. Hopefully they live up to expectations. Dean’s been in a pretty decent mood lately, and the last thing Sam needs is for some disappointing bacon pancakes to ruin all their progress.
But no, it’ll be fine. Dean’ll get his pancakes, and they’ll be good. Sam will get whatever and that’ll be fine too, even though Dean will make fun of it no matter what it is. Sam’ll act a little annoyed about it, like he always does, and Dean’ll smile to himself in what he thinks looks like smug satisfaction but is actually pretty obviously affection. And Sam will roll his eyes, and they’ll be fine.
Or at least they will be when Dean gets out of the freaking shower.
Sam sighs, even though Dean obviously can’t hear him. The camera is on the nightstand and he grabs it, turns it on. The gallery hasn’t changed since the last time he looked through it, but it’s better than staring at the ceiling, so he looks through it again.
One minute and seventeen seconds of the pigeon that landed on their outdoor table at lunch yesterday. Five minutes of himself reciting exorcisms he knows by heart before he realized how awkward it was and stopped. A series of short videos he caught in secret before Dean washed off the war paint and got rid of the wig. Thirty two seconds of a tattered plastic bag rolling around in the wind next to the highway. (Dean gave him an especially hard time about that one.) The least shitty of the drunk hipster photos, including the one of Dean.
Definitely still the best thing on here. Dean’s slumped into the couch so he has kind of a double chin thing going on, and his expression is absolutely murderous. Altogether it’s just unflattering enough to be entirely charming, and Sam has a few copies buried in the program files of his laptop just in case.
He clicks back over to the exorcisms video, presses ‘delete,’ hesitates over ‘are you sure?’ The idea itself wasn’t really bad. After all, he and Dean don’t really take detailed notes about that kind of thing—or anything, actually—and it was pretty smart of those werewolf kids to record everything, even if they were idiots in every other sense.
It’s just that Sam’s execution is awful. Even if he knew the first thing about filming, which he doesn’t, it’s too impractical to film himself. That’s why he needs Dean. But Dean’s made it pretty clear he won’t participate in Sam’s new hobby.
At least not willingly.
The shower shuts off. Dean walks out of the bathroom moments later, wearing one of the motel’s ugly green-gold towels and raking his fingers through his wet hair. Drops of water splatter on the carpet behind him as he comes over to his bed, starts shuffling through his bag. There are beads of water all over his back, slipping down the dip of his spine. Jesus.
Sam’s fingers tremble a little as he quickly flicks to camera mode, presses ‘record.’ Click.
Dean turns his head to the side, but not far enough to make eye contact. “Dude, are you filming me? That’s sexual harassment.”
Sam snorts. Zooms in a little. Whirr. “It’s not harassment when you’re cool with it,” he points out.
Dean pauses, shrugs his shoulders the tiniest bit. Then he goes back to his bag.
—
“Hey,” Dean says as he stomps into the kitchen.
“Hey.” Sam doesn’t look up. He’s crouched on the floor, trying to figure out how to hide this extension cord behind the shelf.
“Oh, awesome.” Dean must have noticed the coffee maker. “Should’ve got one of those as soon as we found the place. You get my stuff?”
Here goes. “Yep. Sears bag.” Sam hastily shoves the bundle of cord behind the shelf and stands, leans back against it. Gotta look casual. He shoots a glance at the camera, propped on top of the fridge. Hopefully he’s zoomed in enough.
Dean grabs the bag off the table, holds it open, tilts his head to look inside. His eyebrows lower in confusion. Sam presses his mouth into a hard line to keep from smiling as Dean sticks his hand in the bag. Watches Dean’s eyes snap open wide, his chin pull back.
With two fingers, Dean gingerly draws a pair of red satin panties from the bag.
“You said to get the cheapest underwear they had,” Sam reminds him, laughter bubbling dangerously at the back of his throat. “And those were on sale.”
Dean looks him straight in the eye. “Are you sure you didn’t just forget you weren’t shopping for yourself?”
Shit. Sam didn’t see that one coming. He flounders, opening his mouth and dumbly closing it again when no good comeback comes out.
Dean reaches back into the bag, pulls out the black pair, and gives Sam a pointed eyebrow raise. “Do these ones go under your,” he starts, and stops. “Little black dress?” he manages to squeeze out before dropping his head and bursting into laughter.
Sam claps his hands and his ass lands on the shelf, his stomach shaking as he laughs and laughs.
“What the hell, Sam?” Dean’s voice tumbles with laughter as he pulls the other two pairs from the bag. “You have white and pink dresses, too? Maybe some lacy pink bras?”
It’s so stupid, and Sam has to give himself a few seconds to catch his breath. Then he says, “I’m telling you, I was just walking through the store and I saw those and they made me think of you!” He puts a hand on his stomach, but it still hurts. “You just look so pretty in pink!”
Dean’s still smiling, maybe a little too wide. “You can project all you want, but I know your nasty little secret!” he exclaims, shrill. “So if I were you, I’d. I’d delete that weird picture you took of me last month.”
Sam starts laughing all over again. “Nope, not gonna happen. A picture like that happens once in a lifetime.” And jeez, it isn’t even that bad!
Dean shoves all four pairs of panties back in the bag. “Then I’m holding onto these, so you”—he points his finger forcefully at Sam in a way that’s probably supposed to look threatening, but is really just hilarious—“can’t practice your sick fetish under this, this. In this Batcave!”
Then he stomps away.
It’s only a few seconds before Sam’s laughing all over again.
—
Dean snaps the slide of his Colt back into place, sets it on the table next to the rods and brushes. Looks straight at Sam. “If I told you I knew you’d been recording me this whole time, would it ruin your whole voyeurism thing?”
Shit. Sam lowers the camera, but doesn’t turn it off. Steps out from behind the library entrance. “It’s not a voyeurism thing!” He’s self-aware enough to know he’s, okay, kind of a voyeur, but this is different. This is documentation.
Dean snorts. “Tell that to the three videos you have of me coming out of the shower,” he says, and how did he find out about the other two?
“Um.” Sam fiddles with the camera viewscreen, rotating it back and forth. “I’m trying to find the best way to embarrass you on camera?” he attempts, and it comes out sounding pretty pathetic.
Dean narrows his eyes—‘really?’—and uses his foot to pull out the chair next to him. “All right, sit.”
“What?”
“Sit here, and.” Dean pulls another face. “Talk about it.”
What?
“This is a one-time offer, so hurry up.”
Oh. Okay. Sam shuffles over to the big wooden table.
“And you have to turn the camera off.”
So Sam does, sighing and making a big show out of it. He puts the camera on the table, swings the chair around. Sits. “So.”
“So.” Dean looks at the camera on the table. “What’s up with the, ah.”
“Cloverfield?” Sam suggests.
“I was thinking Blair Witch Project, but that works too. Anyway.” Dean clears his throat. “Talk. Before I change my mind.”
And really, Dean’s the one who should be doing the talking, because he still hasn’t spilled what he did about Benny or what exactly fucked him up so bad in Purgatory. But Sam can talk instead, if that’s what it takes. It’s just.
“There isn’t really much to say?” Especially when he doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself. “I just. Don’t want to forget anything, you know?”
“Uh. No?” Dean’s ankles are near Sam’s feet and he uncrosses them, crosses them again.
Sam makes himself look at Dean’s face. “Like the Men of Letters. They made this library so they wouldn’t forget anything, right? So they could come back later and look at it. So people like us could come back later and look at it too.”
Dean’s face scrunches up in confusion. “You want to make sure people however many years from now get to see me in a towel?”
“No! Jesus, let me finish.” Sam runs his fingers through his hair, looks up at the ceiling for a moment. “Well, there’s more to life than hunting, and maybe. Maybe you aren’t a big fan of the other stuff, the normal stuff, but I like it. And I don’t get much of it, so I want to hold onto it as long as I can. Okay?” It all kind of rushes out, and huh. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to explain after all.
Dean isn’t saying anything. He’s gazing vaguely off to the side, his lower lip poking out a little, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Sam’s fingers itch for his camera.
—
Sam sighs again, hits ‘stop.’ Again. Lowers the camera. “Look, it’s not…‘exorzeamus.’” Or whatever it was Dean just said. “It’s ‘exorcizamus.’”
Dean crosses his arms and levels Sam a mild death glare across the table. They’re in the library again, because it has the best lighting and the bookshelves make a nice backdrop. It’s also the least creepy place Sam could think to film an exorcism, even one without actual demons present.
“That’s what I said,” Dean insists. “‘Exorsizamus.’”
It totally isn’t, and anyway, it’s still wrong. “‘Exorcizamus,’” Sam corrects. “But you know, the ch sound is ecclesiastical Latin, which is actually kind of a bastardization in itself. It’s probably supposed to be a kk sound. But ecclesiastical is what the Church used, and of course they’re the ones who wrote—”
“Okay,” Dean cuts in. “Didn’t ask for a history lesson.”
Fair enough. Sam tilts his head in acquiescence.
“Besides.” Dean rocks his chair back on two feet. “I’ve been saying it my way forever and it still works, so why’s it even matter?”
“I guess it doesn’t,” Sam relents, even though it doesn’t sit well. But Dean won’t cooperate forever, and Sam can’t be too picky. “Still, it doesn’t hurt to be correct. Anyway, let’s just try it again.” He doesn’t wait for acknowledgement before raising the camera to his eye again, placing Dean in the frame, hitting ‘record.’
Dean makes an annoyed face, tips his weight forward so his chair hits the floor with a resounding crack. “Exorcizamus te,” he says loudly, correctly. “Omnis immundus spiritus,” and he’s overemphasizing each word. “Omnis satanica…potestas.” Now his voice is low, facetiously seductive. It sounds ridiculous. But not hot at all, though. Definitely not.
Well, okay, maybe it kind of is, just a little, and why the hell did Sam think this would be a good idea?
Dean winks at the camera. “Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,” he continues, and somehow he manages to make it sound like ‘hey there, let me buy you a drink.’ He puts his elbow on the table, leans forward. Keeps reciting the exorcism.
Sam scowls, ’cause it’ll egg Dean on. This isn’t what Sam wanted at all, but. It’s so much better. Dean messing around just for the hell of it, like he used to, immortalized forever.
Now Dean’s pushing away from the table. Standing up. Sam twists in his chair, follows Dean with the camera as he comes around the table, dragging his fingers over the surface. He’s at ‘ecclesiam’ now, and he cocks an eyebrow at Sam as he says it. Sleazy. Ridiculous. He’s so close that Sam has to crane his head up to keep Dean’s face in the frame.
Dean grabs the camera out of Sam’s hands and turns it on him. “Te rogamus.”
Oh god. Sam huffs in annoyance and stretches for the camera, but Dean lifts it out of his reach. What is he, twelve?
Dean turns the camera back around and grins into it, victorious. He makes sure to catch Sam’s eye as he concludes, “Adios!”
What a jerk. “Give me that,” Sam grumbles, and grabs for the camera again.
Dean lets him take it. “That was educational,” he says. “Maybe next time you can film me digging up a corpse.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” As much as Sam enjoyed this, that definitely sounds like a bad idea.
“You have to admit it fits, though. Dead guy.” Dean jerks his chin at the camera in Sam’s hands. “Dead guy camera.”
Well, shit. Sam looks down at it, a little guilty. He keeps forgetting it isn’t really his.
Dean sits down on the edge of the table. He’s silent for a moment. Then he coughs. “Anyway, uh. What you said the other day.”
Sam looks up.
“About the ‘normal’ stuff,” Dean goes on. He’s staring at his socks. “Exorcisms aren’t really what I’d call normal, you know?”
Huh. He’s right, and it probably explains his little stunt just now. But that wasn’t Sam’s plan at all, and.
Huh. Maybe. Maybe it isn’t really ‘normal’ he’s after. Maybe it’s just…this.
Dean knocks his foot against Sam’s. “I’m gonna go make dinner.”
—
Soon enough, Sam has to buy a new memory card. He’s been saving everything on his computer—sometimes in multiple places—so space isn’t technically an issue. But there’s something about scrolling through the videos in the gallery, watching them on the tiny screen, hearing them through the tinny speaker. It feels more authentic.
And, okay, less creepy. Thing is, it’s an HD camera. Which is great, most of the time. And Sam’s laptop has crazy good resolution. Which is also great, most of the time. But when he puts the two together, it’s, well. A little much.
Like now. The surprise panties video has just made its permanent home on Sam’s computer, because it’s too long to keep around if he also wants to hold onto shower videos 1, 2, 3, and 4. So now if he wants to watch it, he’s forced to do so in all its 1080p glory.
Watching himself is the worst part. Sometimes it’s more or less okay, but sometimes seeing himself just existing on the screen is way too weird, so he zooms in on Dean instead. Watching Dean is a little weird too, but in a different way. A better way.
Sam’s watched him open this Sears bag plenty of times. He even has this part memorized.
‘Maybe some lacy pink bras?’ tiny Dean is asking. The angle isn’t great, shot from too high so his height is awkwardly foreshortened. But he’s in frame almost the whole time, which is what really counts.
Now tiny Sam is laughing like an idiot somewhere offscreen, and.
Wait.
Sam jiggles his cursor back to life, tugs the video slider back a little. There it is again.
He hits ‘pause,’ exhales through his teeth as he zooms in further, goes down to half speed because this is important, dammit.
And it’s unmistakable. Dean’s looking down at his hand, holding the pink pair of panties and he’s rubbing the fabric between his fingers, back and forth. Just for a second or two.
Sam’s heart kicks up, tripping noisily in his chest as he slams his laptop shut, rests his shaky fingers against the cool metal lid. There’s really no reason to think it means anything. Except he doesn’t even need to think about whether it does, because it makes too much sense and it’s Dean, and he just knows.
—
Sam doesn’t bring it up.
He isn’t planning to, of course. Even though there are times when it seems like it might slide off the tip of his tongue. Usually when they’re driving, and they’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Driving to talk to Kevin in Missouri, driving all the way to Idaho for hellhounds, driving back to Kansas. Granted, he slept through most of that trip. He slept a lot after that, too. But he’s fine. Just a little run down.
Dean seems to get it. He’s quiet, and he gives it a couple weeks before finding them another hunt, this time in Colorado.
They get to the motel just before sundown. Sam shuffles into the room, drops his bag on the floor, and crashes on the nearest bed. When he wakes up, Dean is sitting on the other one, silently using his laptop in the dark.
Sam jams his knuckles into his eyes, lifts his head just enough to read the clock on the nightstand between them. 9:38. “Shit, ’m sorry,” he groans.
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Dean says. “Checked the news a few hours ago. Turns out our guy was jailed last night for doing coke.”
“Oh.” So probably not their kind of thing. “Then why are we still here?”
Dean twitches his shoulders. “Thought you could use the rest.”
“What? I’m fine.” Sam pulls himself into a sitting position to prove it. He is feeling better now. Usually a few hours of sleep is all he needs.
“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit.” Dean closes his laptop and stands, reaches for something on the nightstand between them. “You left this in the car.”
It’s the camera. Dean comes over, gives it to Sam. It feels warm in his hands.
“And you took my bed,” Dean says. “Scoot.”
“Huh?” But Sam scoots over anyway.
Dean thunks down right next to him, moves in close, so Sam has to keep moving away, until Dean finally reaches over him.
“I get the bed with the cool lava lamp,” he says, and turns it on.
Oh. Cool.
Dean breathes a little laugh, settles back against the headboard. Their sides are touching all the way down, shoulders to feet. Dean’s so warm, and Sam’s head is still a little fuzzy. The wax at the bottom of the lamp stretches and pulls away, bobbles languidly to the top. It’s pretty.
Sam fumbles his sleep-numb fingers against the tiny power button until the camera turns on, then he trains it on the lamp. But the angle is too small to really catch the way it glows against the wall, so he turns the camera off again.
Dean reaches over, slides the camera out of Sam’s hands. Turns it over and over in his own. What is he doing?
“You, uh,” he says finally. “Find the best way to embarrass me yet?”
Sam’s eyes fly to Dean’s face, get stuck there. No way. He pinches the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
The edges of Dean’s profile are lit in the eerie blue of the lamp. His eyes are on his hands. He purses his lips, opens them, closes them again. “What if I told you,” he says, and stops.
The deafening thud of Sam’s heart fills the silence that follows. Two beats, four, eight. “Told me what?” he croaks. He can hardly hear it.
Dean’s fingers tighten around the camera. “Told you how.”
He’s sweating. Smells like salt. Sam’s sweating too, prickly wet under his arms and where his jeans are bunched behind his knees. It’s too close between them, too hot.
“I guess,” Sam manages. His tongue is dry, tacky. “I mean, if you wanted to.”
Dean chuckles, nervous and shaky. “Just the kind of enthusiasm I’m looking for, Sammy.”
Fuck. Sam squeezes his eyes shut. He can do this. “Tell me,” he says, as clearly as he can.
Dean inhales, a deep shuddery breath. He shoves the camera back into Sam’s hands. Gets up.
Sam’s eyes snap wide. Shit, shit, shit. “Dean—”
“Shut up,” Dean growls. He’s at the foot of the bed, shuffling around in his bag. “Just. For a minute. Please.”
Sam shuts up, but his brain doesn’t, because jesus, this. This cannot actually be happening. Dean has to know, right? What he’s doing? What this is doing to Sam? It’s not like they’ve ever acknowledged Sam’s, fuck, his fucking crush, but no way it’s because Dean isn’t actually aware. He had to know when Sam was young and stupid and couldn’t keep his mouth shut, had to know when Sam tried to kiss him that one time, and the time after that, and the time after that, had to know when Sam came back, again, even when Dean didn’t trust—
Something hits Sam in the face. Four things.
One pair lands in his lap, the others somewhere next to him, and this is really happening. He was expecting it but he still wasn’t expecting it, and now it’s really happening and he’s looking at his lap, at the pink satin panties with little black bows and pinstripes that he bought his brother as a joke but which now lay crumpled over the huge, embarrassing bulge in his jeans.
“Say something,” Dean pleads.
He’s still at the foot of the bed, and Sam is still staring at his lap. Say something, shut up, say something. It’s a lot to keep up with, and lately Sam’s been one step behind. Even now, even though…
He knew, he wants to say. But that isn’t what Dean wants to hear. Not how this is supposed to go. Sam picks up the panties—and oh god, his fingertips graze his dick—and his arm feels like stone as he extends it, offers them to his brother.
“Do it,” Sam says, hoarse, and drags his eyes up.
Dean’s entire body is stiff, fists tight, eyes locked on what’s in Sam’s hand.
The camera is still in Sam’s other hand and he puts it down, swings up onto his knees. He’s eye-to-eye with Dean now, less than an arm’s length away, and he pushes the panties into Dean’s chest. Feels Dean’s heart pounding through them, maybe even harder than his own.
“Put them on.” The words fall out of Sam’s mouth, but who knows where they came from.
Dean’s face is hard to see in the dark. He’s still looking down, and he puffs a silent laugh over Sam’s hand. “You know,” he says, quiet, “there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ve jizzed in those.”
Sam’s stomach feels punched. Dean’s trying to kill him, has to be, and what is he supposed to say?
Dean’s sweaty hand slides over Sam’s as he tugs the panties out from under it. He takes a step back, crosses his wrists over the hem of his t-shirt. Pauses. “Uh. This doesn’t really work if you don’t have the camera.”
Right. Sam shuffles back up the bed, fumbles around at his side because he can't look away from Dean. His hand slides on one of the extra pairs of panties before it finds the camera, turns it on. And night vision, gotta turn on night vision.
“Okay.” Sam’s thumb slips past the viewscreen twice before catching, pulling it open. “How do you, uh. How do you want to do this?”
Dean laughs once, sharp and too loud. “You tell me.” The panties are crunched in his fist, pink fabric poking out the sides. “Your idea, remember?”
Definitely not. But if Dean needs Sam to be in charge, needs him to take responsibility for this, well.
Here goes.
Sam gets up. Walks over to Dean. Raises the camera. Hits ‘record,’ and holy shit. He’s going to have video evidence of this.
His voice is softer than he intends when he says, “All right. Clothes off.”
And Dean’s pulling his shirt over his head, dropping it, yanking his belt open, unzipping his jeans, fuck. Sam’s picture is a little grainy but there’s no missing Dean’s cock—his cock, Dean’s, Dean’s cock—pushing out the front of his boxers. And then Dean’s tugging those down too, bending over so it’s hard to see his cock but it’s still right there, and there’s saliva pooling under Sam’s tongue.
Dean’s pulling on the panties now and Sam steps closer to follow them up, pulls the camera from Dean’s bare feet to his unsteady knees to his hard cock, visible for just a second as he pulls the panties over his ass. He slides his thumbs around and lifts the fabric over his cock, nudging it to one side so it fits. Lets go. The waistband hits his skin with a light snap.
God. “Turn around,” Sam murmurs, more to himself than anything. But Dean does it, and christ.
They fit. Unbelievably well. Perfect, crisp little ruches down the back where they’re pulled snug over his ass, and there’s somehow just enough room for his cock in the front and it’s almost like Sam knew, knew Dean was gonna wear them, knew just what size they needed to be for when he did. But Sam didn’t, of course he didn’t. They weren’t even supposed to actually be sexy—he bought them from Sears, for fuck’s sake, and he’s never cared much about lingerie anyway—but. Dean has those huge biceps and shoulders and his back is covered with silvery scars and cinnamon freckles, he’s big and tough, he’s Sam’s big brother, and who knew that ribbons and stitches and stripes would make him look so much bigger?
Sam undoes his own jeans, darts his hand inside to fix his cock so it’s no longer crushed against his thigh. He’s quick, efficient. It’s one thing to film his brother in panties and another to jack off while he does it, and who knows what rules they’re playing by here. Much less what game.
Dean looks over his shoulder, finds the camera with his eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks like he has no idea what to do with himself. And Sam can fix that.
He jerks his head toward the bed.
Dean’s eyes flash wide but he does it. Turns. Puts his hands on the end of the mattress, then one knee, then the other. Then his ass is in the air and he’s crawling up the bed, fucking crawling to where Sam was just sitting, just sleeping not too long ago.
The camera bounces when Sam’s knees hit the bed, but it’s hard to give a damn at this point. The velour blanket bunches up under him as he shuffles forward, follows Dean’s ass up the bed. The panties are riding up his crack and Sam wants to put his hands all over the swell of his ass where it peeks out under the black-trimmed edge of the fabric.
But he can’t, and it’s fine, he can deal with it. Really. He’s getting way too much already.
Like the eyeful of Dean’s balls he’s getting because the crotch of the panties is too narrow to cover them. There are too many shadows there to really see anything with the camera, but if Sam looks with his eyes he can see everything and burn it into his brain forever: the dark curls of Dean’s pubic hair poking out around the edges of the pink, the blond hairs all down his thighs, the sweat caught in the backs of his knees. It’s so warm in here. Sam’s shirt is soaked, and every breath he takes smells like his own sweat.
He swallows. “Turn over.”
Dean does, leans back against the headboard, and fuck. There’s a wet spot, a wet spot on the front of the panties because Dean’s so hard he’s leaking, and what did Sam do to deserve to see this? It’s too much, Dean’s too hot, he’s too hot.
“Take it,” he says, and shoves the camera at Dean.
Dean’s eyebrows fly together but he takes it, looks at the lens like he’s sharing his confusion with a live TV audience. Then he looks at Sam and flips the camera around, just in time to catch him tugging off his wet shirt, dropping it off the edge of the bed.
“Dammit,” Dean says. “This whole time, I should’ve been getting back at you for those shower videos.” It’s the first thing he’s said since…well, since, and it loosens the fist around Sam’s stomach, makes everything feel that little bit more real.
Sam smiles. “Too late.” He takes the camera back.
Dean scowls, exaggeratedly affronted, then pouts. Which is, yeah, a really good look on him. Sam leans closer to get a better shot of his face. Pink blooms on his cheeks, a warm contrast to the chemical blue of the lamp, and it means he’s blushing. Oh god.
Dean lowers his eyelids. “You gonna watch this later?” he asks, voice low.
Sam’s breath catches in his chest.
The edges of Dean’s mouth curl up. “‘Normal stuff,’ my ass. Your voyeurism fetish is anything but normal.” He rearranges his legs, tucks one under himself so his crotch is on display and fuck, the wet spot. His other foot skids along the blanket, stops just between Sam’s spread knees. Holy shit.
“Yeah, well,” Sam chokes out, because Dean wasn’t supposed to talk about this. “So’s your exhibitionism.”
Dean laughs, bows his back to puff out his chest. Then his face screws up and he gasps, sudden and sharp. The sound tugs at Sam’s mouth, at his lungs, starts him breathing again in quick, noisy huffs as he tilts the camera down to see.
And it’s obscene. The panties must have shifted because now they’re barely hanging on to the darker pink head of Dean’s cock. A bare sliver of it is visible behind the stretched fabric so if Sam leaned forward he could see it, and just the thought makes his own cock twitch against the sticky front of his own underwear. There’s no way he’s going to make it through this.
“Fuck,” he says out loud, because what if it’s that kind of kink for Dean, the kind that has him ready to lose it before he even starts? What if he’s been ready to blow this entire time, since before he put them on, since before Sam woke up? How long has he been thinking about this?
Dean’s breathing hard and fast through his mouth. He leans back again, inches his hand over his stomach like he can’t make up his mind about it. His eyes are still closed but Sam’s leaning so close that he can’t get Dean’s face and hand on camera at the same time. He isn’t about to move away so he goes for the hand, holds his own hand as steady as he can while Dean dips his fingers into the gap behind the panties. The satin stretches around the wet head of his cock as he drags it to one side, trying to cover it up again, all the way over to the bow at his hip.
He lets go, and his cock bounces right back to where it was. A frustrated, hurt little noise falls from his mouth.
Sam’s entire body itches to touch, to drop this fucking camera and just go for it. He claws into the blanket under his empty hand.
Dean’s trying again, from the outside this time, nudging his cock through the thin fabric. It must feel so warm, so smooth, a little moist from his precome and the sweat between his thighs. And he moves his hand away and his cock pops right back up again, jesus christ, must be rock hard. He drops his hand and groans.
Sam groans too, can’t help it, can’t imagine a life in which he doesn’t have his hands, his mouth on Dean in the next five seconds. But he stays where he is. “Come on, keep going,” he says instead.
Dean shakes his head and Sam slides the camera up to his face, looks at it on the tiny screen. His eyes are still closed, like he can’t bear to look, and the pink is seeping down his neck, over his chest. “Turn it off,” he says.
What?
“The camera, turn it off.”
There’s a ball of ice in Sam’s stomach. Too much. Of course. Now he’s really fucked it up. He should have known. “Okay.” His hands shake as he hits ‘stop,’ digs his finger into the tiny power button, snaps the screen shut. “It’s off,” he says, leans over and puts it on the floor next to the bed because he needs it out of his sight. “It’s gone, shit, I’m sorry—”
“It’s fine.” Dean flings his arm over his face and Sam can see in full color now, like the world has opened up, can see every armpit hair, every bead of sweat, every freckle, the way the bubbles in the lava lamp cast spotted shadows over Dean’s chest as he breathes in, deep. The blanket fibers whisper as his foot slides across them, further between Sam’s knees, all the way to the undone fly of his jeans.
“Dean.” No, no no no, no way is he—
“Fuck, I knew it,” Dean says, sizing up Sam’s dick with the ball of his foot. “Knew you were getting off on this, all of it, your own big brother. Such a perv.” He pushes harder, his whole foot covering Sam from balls to tip, and what the fuck is going on? Sam wraps his sweaty hands around his knees and looks at Dean’s face but doesn’t get any answers. It’s still covered.
“Been waiting for you to break,” Dean goes on, “this whole time, can’t believe you’re still just sitting there—”
It’s an invitation, oh god, has to be. Sam goes for it, darts his hand over the top of Dean’s foot, slides his fingers and thumb into place just behind Dean’s ankle. Dean laughs, breathless; he wants this, and Sam keeps going, slides his palm up Dean’s calf. The hairs tickle his skin, Dean’s hairs on Dean’s leg on Dean’s body, and there’s no way Sam will forget a single detail of this, not ever.
Dean’s foot falls away from Sam’s crotch as Sam gets up on his knees, bringing his other hand into the action and he’s up to Dean’s thighs now, where the hairs are thinner and his skin is softer. Nothing has ever been more real than this, more present or more immediate than the muscles moving under Sam’s hands as Dean swings his legs out, hooking them over Sam’s elbows and opening the way to his crotch, his panties. Dear jesus god, wherever he may be.
And now Dean’s smell is there, fuck, everywhere, and Sam hunkers down, ducks his head and fill his sinuses with it, the sweat and the, the semen and the barest hint of department store smell still clinging to the fabric. Sam drops his head lower, scrapes the tip of his nose on the underside of Dean’s cock.
Dean makes a high, shaky sound like he can’t believe what’s happening and holy shit, Sam can’t either. Dean’s hands are scrabbling at Sam’s shoulders, fingers slipping on his sweat, it’s so hot in here. Sam slides his fingers under the skimpy sides of the panties, drags the tip of his nose down the length of Dean’s cock through the satin, back up again, down, up, over and over until it tingles. His own breath shudders back against his face.
Dean’s heels rub against the blanket, looking for something to push against and he’s making more of those sounds now, broken up by rough breaths. He touches the back of Sam’s head, tentative, then twists his fingers into Sam’s hair when he turns his head, rubs his whole cheek against the front of the panties. So warm. His stubble catches and pulls against the fabric, almost inaudible little popping sounds and Dean’s cock is almost touching his face, all over. Dean everywhere. Sam could die like this.
He’s picking up speed and he can’t stop, he’s careening down the side of a hill, shoving his hands up under Dean’s ass, slipping his fingertips under the legs of the panties so he can dig in, feels so good, fuck. He turns his head again so he can run his lips over the satin, feel the way it scratches a little against them when he goes against the weave of the fabric, the way the texture changes when he opens his mouth and gets at it with his tongue.
“Fuck,” Dean pants, “you love this, holy shit.” He tugs a little on Sam’s hair, right at the roots.
Sam moans, can’t help it. It’s true, he loves it, loves his brother, loves every little part of him, every secret place he lets Sam see and the ones he doesn’t, too. Loves the pride in his voice like this, hates the anger from before but loves it all the same, it’s all part of him, all Dean and Sam loves him, loves him, always has, always will. Love, so much of it, puffing up in Sam’s chest and suffocating him, spilling out of his mouth as it finally gets to the head of Dean’s cock, as he presses his tongue into that wet spot over and over and over, sucks it through the spit-soaked fabric.
Dean’s whining, scratching his nails against Sam’s scalp, so far gone. He’s been waiting for who knows how long and so has Sam, god, so has Sam, he’s been waiting for years to get his mouth on Dean and he’s so close, fuck. He pulls off, pushes Dean’s cock against his belly with his cheek—can’t use his hands because his pinkies are dipping into Dean’s crack and Dean’s letting them, jesus, Sam probably could have gone for rimming if he’d thought of it earlier—and the panties finally pull free, slipping off the head of Dean’s cock and fluttering loose against Sam’s face.
Dean gasps. His thighs are shaking, tiny little tremors against Sam’s arms as Sam finally does it, finally, closes his mouth around the bare head of his brother’s cock.
“Oh god,” Dean babbles, “oh fuck, fuck,” and he’s pulling Sam’s hair again. Static dances over his scalp.
It’s too much, he’s already getting his mouth on Dean’s skin for the first time, tasting the salt, dragging his tongue over the slit, pushing the precome around in his mouth. Dean’s in his mouth, his mouth, and if Sam could get a hand on his own dick he’d be gone first.
But his hands are busy, tugging Dean’s cheeks apart, mostly to see if Dean’ll let him do it, touch his asshole, touch him inside, touch him everywhere. Maybe someday there won’t be a single place Sam hasn’t touched him, won’t be a single thing about him Sam doesn’t know, won’t be anything, not even a camera lens or a pair of underwear between them. And Sam will have all of Dean, his trust, his love, his everything, the whole world.
Sam’s fingernail grazes the edge of Dean’s hole—god, god—and he presses the pad of his finger against it—so hot, oh fuck—presses the tip of his tongue under the ridge of Dean’s cockhead and sucks, and Dean’s muscles tense up and he’s coming, digging his fingers into Sam’s skull, shooting inside his mouth. Of course it was going to happen but Sam makes a noise anyway, squeezes his eyes tighter as Dean finishes, hot and slippery on the back of his tongue, inside him and then he slips off, closes his lips. His stomach jumps as he swallows.
Dean’s still breathing hard. His fingers slide out of Sam’s hair, trip over his forehead, eyelids, nose, mouth. “Shit,” he breathes as he realizes what happened.
Sam moans, rubs his face into Dean’s stomach. His fingers are still clenched in Dean’s ass and he unlocks them, slides them out of the panties and out from under his legs, up his chest, touching all the skin he can, dammit, he’s still so hard. He grabs Dean’s shoulders and hauls himself up, opens his eyes for the first time since…god, he can’t remember.
Dean’s face is still so red. Little pieces of hair are stuck to his forehead and his eyes are heavy but he still looks like himself, like Dean, Sam’s brother. His cock is still sticking out of the panties and they’re a mess now, jesus, stretched out and soaking wet. He watches lazily, still a little out of it as Sam sits up on his knees, shoves his jeans and boxers down as far as they’ll go. The air’s so cold against the wet tip of his cock and his balls are so tight, feel like they’ve been that way for hours.
He shuffles forward, dragging his pants off as he goes, so undignified but so horny, and then he’s free and he straddles Dean’s hips, drapes himself over Dean’s chest. There’s so much skin, everywhere, his shoulders under Sam’s hands, his nipples against Sam’s chest, his stomach against Sam’s cock. Sam buries his face in the side of Dean’s neck, fucking growls, rubs his mouth senselessly against Dean’s pulse.
Dean slides his hands up Sam’s back, up and down, he’s still so sweaty. Sam’s balls drag against Dean’s soft cock, against the panties. Holy fuck.
“Close your legs,” Sam mutters into Dean’s skin and Dean does it, just for Sam. God. Sam digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulders, tilts his hips forward, nudges the head of his cock against the satin still covering Dean’s balls—so sticky smooth and hot, jesus—and pushes, cushy dragging pressure against his cockhead until it slips and he gasps against Dean’s neck, feeling the satin slide of the panties all along the top of his cock as it pops between Dean’s thighs.
“Sam,” Dean says, sounding so surprised.
And Sam loves him so much, too much. Dean is everything he’ll ever need, what was he thinking, he doesn’t need ‘normal,’ he needs this, needs Dean under him forever, always, never let him go, never leave him, fucking look for him if he gets lost, or better yet hold onto him so tight he can’t get lost again. They can’t get lost if they’re together, together like this, Sam shoving his cock into the tight space between Dean’s thighs, along his taint through the flimsy fabric, so close, almost like he’s inside. Would Dean let him…?
He would, he so would, but it’s too much to think about right now, when Sam’s head is bursting with his love, Dean’s love. Dean’s letting him do this, wanted it, likes it, likes it when Sam fucks his thighs when he’s soft, likes it when Sam gets his neck between his teeth, makes these sounds when Sam bites the edge of his jaw, moans desperate and muffled into Sam’s mouth when their lips finally touch.
Sam shoves his tongue inside, lets go of Dean’s shoulders so he can grab his face, hold it still so he can lick all over the roof of his mouth. He jabs his hips up, so close, shoves his cock at Dean through the pink panties, once, twice, and loses it all over the pretty ruched back.
He pulls his head back, bites at Dean’s perfect lips as his hips stutter out. “Dean,” he says. Wants to say I love you.
“Yeah.” Dean’s still out of breath. “Yeah, Sammy.”
Oh god.
Sam lets go. His thighs shake as he lifts his hips, slips out from between Dean’s legs.
That. That really just happened.
One of Dean’s hands slides up Sam’s back, into his hair. He pulls Sam’s head down against his shoulder and keeps it there, lightly scratching Sam’s scalp with his fingernails. He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes.
Sam breathes too, a big warm huff against Dean’s skin. He closes his eyes, pushes his face further into the comfort of his brother, who he just had sex with, and it was kinky sex, but it’s all good. They’re good. Better than they have been in a long time, and how fucked up is that?
But they’re good, and that’s what counts. Even more, Sam is good right now. It’s been…fuck, probably fifteen years of wanting, wishing, hoping, of getting over it and backsliding and falling in love all over again. Of losing Dean and getting him back, but never really deserving to. Why does Sam deserve this? Why now?
Dean sighs. He’s working on some tangles near the back of Sam’s neck. It’s almost…tender? “Glad you’re comfy,” he says, “because I am sitting in a massive wet spot.”
Because Sam came all over his ass. “You were pretty comfy a minute ago,” he says into Dean’s armpit.
“That was a minute ago,” Dean points out. “This is now, and you’re heavy.”
This is probably true. It’s also a little embarrassing to be sitting—naked—in his brother’s lap, but Sam can’t really bring himself to care right now. “You love it,” he insists.
There’s a long pause.
“Maybe I do,” Dean says finally, quietly.
And maybe he meant to say something else. And maybe things aren’t perfect, maybe they never will be. But Dean still has his fingers in Sam’s hair. And they’re good.
—
The sun shines gold stripes on Dean’s chest through the window. They mix with the sleazy blue of the lava lamp, turn his skin into a collage of bright, happy green. It’s perfect, almost the color of his eyes and Sam slides out of bed as carefully as he can, finds his camera on the floor where he left it.
Takes a picture.