Fic: Sunday, 2AM
Jan. 23rd, 2007 07:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Sunday, 2AM
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4,567
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: I was trying something different with the narrative, andjewels667 and mooyoo made sure that I didn't sound like a raving lunatic. Thanks for the beta guys! And thanks to jewels667 for the title, too. *throws flowers*
Summary: Dean kisses Sammy, then runs. But where did it all begin?
2AM Sunday.
“Dean.”
Dean reels back, paralyzed with shock. He automatically rubs the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, biting his tingling lip. He sees the panic stretching through his brother’s tense shoulders and quietly implores, “Don’t.”
It doesn’t work. Dean turns around and trips out the door. Sam sits back down and looks at the rubber-soled scuff marks on the floor.
-----
Two hours ago, 12AM Sunday.
I’m gonna kill him, Dean swears, slamming into his car and cranking the ignition. He gets the timing wrong and the clutch screams at him before he tries again. This time he’s got too much gas and the car peels out with a pained squeal.
Once he’s careening down the highway with nothing but a hundred miles between here and Sammy, Dean tries not to think about what had happened that evening. But fuck, how can he not think about it?
They’d gone to a bar that night, a little consolation trip to make up for the fact that the brothers had spent about two full weeks tracking down a kid with a penchant for Japanese horror movies and too much time on his hands. Two fucking weeks. Some alcohol was in order and Dean was the first to suggest it.
Surprisingly, Sam agreed. Surprisingly, because Sam had been increasingly bitchy and difficult as of that weekend and Dean was getting pretty fucking tired of his whiny ass and the gloomy cloud that followed him like a little lost dog.
He tries not to acknowledge the possibility that this maybe sort of could’ve been his fault.
I’m gonna kill him, Dean repeats instead, squashing down the fear that threatens to bubble out of his ears, the fear at coming home after the bar and finding their motel room completely devoid of Sammy, petulant or otherwise.
His blood’s thrumming with heat, he can’t keep his hands still and the shredded wails coming from the speakers don’t do much to calm him down. Dean cricks his neck, puts both hands on the steering wheel and steps on the gas pedal until it won’t go any lower.
-----
One hour earlier, 11PM Saturday.
It just that, you see, Sam’s had enough. He’s had enough.
He’d put it all on the table, one last ditch-effort at making something out of this thing, this enigmatic something between him and Dean that’s been brewing since he was still in diapers and sucking on Dean’s thumb to fall asleep. He tried to make something of it, and Dean shut the door in his face.
So, he leaves.
-----
Two hours earlier, 9PM Saturday.
She wasn’t particularly hot, but the buzz in his system, the low lighting and the rack she had on her more than made up for a deficiency in looks.
Erica or Alexia or something, Dean can’t keep their names straight, makes a joke and the girls all laugh. He didn’t hear what she said but Dean laughs along and sneaks a hand over the rounded ass of the girl next to him and squeezes perfunctorily. She wiggles back against his palm.
“Hey, so,” the girl pipes up after the last giggles have faded. “We’re gonna get out of here. Don’t wait up for me.” Her friends shoot them lascivious grins and make shooing gestures with their free hands, the ones that aren’t holding drinks.
“You think you can drive?” the girl asks on the way to the door, her low voice slurring and flirty as she downs the last of her cocktail and sets it on a random table.
“Oh, I can do more than that,” Dean replies with a feral grin.
He has one arm around the girl’s waist as he reaches out to push the heavy door open when suddenly a huge hand claps him on the shoulder.
“Hey what—“ Dean whips around.
Sam comes from nowhere and pries the girl off his brother, then gets up in Dean’s face.
“Sammy.” Shit. Dean gets a vague urge to run like hell.
He starts to think he should’ve done just that when his little brother angrily grabs his face with both hands and descends upon Dean with a possessive clashing of teeth and smashed lips that lasts longer than exactly necessary. Dean’s pushing Sam’s tongue back with his own before he realizes that maybe it would be more effective to do it with his hands. So he does.
Sam stumbles back, gangly limbs and coiled tension, and then storms out the bar.
Dean blinks in wide-eyed confusion and wonders if he just imagined that, but the shocked expression on the girl’s face tells him otherwise. He feels something like defensiveness climb over him and pulls her back, wiping the incident from her mind with a sloppy kiss to the side of her neck.
Somehow he doesn’t want Sam’s spit in her mouth. He doesn’t kiss her for the rest of the night, and that’s fine by her because she’s busy with his dick anyhow, and Dean concentrates on that instead of the fact that Sam had just openly kissed (claimed) him and then stomped off like he’d been the one mauled in front of a crowded bar.
Later, Dean comes in her throat but he’s still thinking about Sammy’s hurt expression. He should probably head back to their room after this.
-----
The night before, 6PM Friday.
There are bubble-gum pink streamers hanging down from the ceiling in limp rows, and Sam thinks of tentacles and that time in Texas. He opens his mouth to point out the likeness to Dean but then he’s cut off by a string of muttered curses.
“—need some fucking fortification for this,” Dean mumbles as yet another underage girl in sequined McClintock makes eyes at him. Sam snorts loudly.
“Oh come off it Dean, I know you’re only pissed because you’re in a room full of jailbait,” Sam teases.
“Don’t be disgusting Sammy. Just because school dances are right up your alley, doesn’t mean I go for this kind of shit,” Dean growls as he kicks a nearby balloon that’s listlessly skidding across the floor. “Now where is that fucking kid?”
Sam only chuckles again and gets up out of his chair. “Stop complaining. I’ll go look for him, just stay put and don’t kill anybody.”
Dean grunts. He busies himself for the next five or so minutes by glaring away giggling teenagers and hell, was that a boy who had just given him the look-over?
Such a brat, Sam thinks benignly as he glances at Dean from across the room. God, he can’t seem to help himself tonight. Sam’s eyes keep straying like magnets to his brother’s pouty lips, his fine ass…
Sam grins wickedly. Oh Dean, you are so mine. He wanders over to the punch bowl and fills a cup of distressingly un-spiked punch, then another for his brother, and runs over his mind for the thousandth time what he’d overheard the other day. He feels another self-satisfied smirk sneak onto his face and he tries to wipe it off, reminding himself that this is not the time nor place to be creepily smiling to himself, seeing as how he sticks out like a 6’4” sore thumb over the sea of shimmying high-schoolers.
Still, that doesn’t stop him from returning to his seat and not-so-accidentally brushing his fingers against Dean’s as he hands him the red cup. Dean’s hand twitches and a little liquid sloshes over the brim.
“Please tell me this is whiskey.”
“It’s whiskey,” Sam indulges, then takes a sip from his own Kool-Aid. He’s half watching out for the kid they’re tracking that night, half watching the way the punch stains Dean’s mouth red, when suddenly the voice of a woman jars him from his trance.
“You guys chaperones too?” A brunette with long curls and a Spanish-styled dress seats herself on the other side of Dean. Dean sits up straighter.
“Yeah—“ Sam blurts before Dean can reply. “You too?” He doesn’t like the way her breasts are almost touching Dean as she leans over in order to hear him, and immediately decides to shut up.
“Yeah, my kid sister made me come. It was either Dad or me, but don’t worry,” she says, flashing a smile at Dean. “I got a couple favors out of it.”
Sam casually slings his arm around the back of Dean’s folding chair and trails his fingers down the metal until it bumps over a lip and widens into a gap. He gently presses the flat of his hand against Dean’s lower back.
“Yeah, is—“ Dean starts. “Um. Is that so?”
“Yeah,” the girl says. She starts chatting about chores and house parties as Sam feigns interest, his real focus being on how the hell there is so much fabric to be pulled up just to get to some fucking skin already. Dean blinks distractedly but makes no move to stop him.
And why would he? Sam thinks gleefully as his fingers finally, finally find purchase on a patch of moist warmth. He victoriously snakes his hand underneath the hem of Dean’s shirt and lets the material fall back down, effectively covering his questing palm as he skates it up and down his brother’s rigid back. He’s following the fascinating bumps of Dean’s vertebrae when the older brother coughs.
“I’m Dean,” he says after the girl, Nathalie, introduces herself. “And this is Sammy—“
“Sam,” he automatically corrects. His palm is starting to sweat against Dean’s back and he pulls off, leaving only the tip of his index finger in contact with clammy skin. “Nice to meet you,” he smoothly continues, reaching out with his free hand to shake hello.
Dean’s practically vibrating at this point, and Sam hopes it’s from excitement and not politely concealed anger. Well let’s find out, he thinks to himself and scoots towards Nathalie, so far forward that he has to put his hand on Dean’s knee to keep himself steady.
“So you’re in college now?” he asks her confidently, high off his own audacity and his brother’s implicit permission. “I’m planning on law school sometime in the future.”
Nathalie lights up with delight. “Really? That’s what I want to do too.”
Sam has to partake in the conversation now but that doesn’t stop him from rubbing Dean’s knee in miniscule circles and tracing down Dean’s spine, playing his uncomfortable brother like a reluctant violin.
He ventures a glance down at Dean’s lap, hoping to find some evidence, some bulge or denim folds that will let him know. But it’s too dark in the room and so he takes a breath, moves forward like a boat on a wave and pushes the envelope one inch further.
He slips his finger down the tiniest shallow, the merest beginning of Dean’s ass.
“That’s our Sammy,” Dean jumps, snapping into the conversation. “Doesn’t know when to stop.”
“But that’s a good thing,” she argues, telling the boys about how lawyers need to be aggressive to succeed. But Sam isn’t listening anymore. Under his older brother’s raised eyebrow and dangerous gaze, Sam feels awful. Bad Sammy. He withdraws his hands and smoothes the moist palms over his own jeans.
He should feel ashamed, he really should. And he does a little, but remorse quickly gives way to something akin to annoyance as Dean starts to insert himself into the role of the matchmaker.
“You guys would make quite a pair,” Dean hints. He’s always had the tact of a wild boar. “Hey you know, Sammy’s got a thing for the smart ones.”
Nathalie blushes. Sam turns red.
“Dean,” he hisses. Don’t do this.
But Dean does, as he always does, and by the end of the night Sam has to contend with a girl who has the painfully wrong idea while Dean is outside, interrogating their target in the front parking lot and kicking tires when the kid turns out to be a fraud.
Sam meets up with him after the dance.
“Sammy,” Dean tries.
“Don’t.”
The two pile into the Impala, the failure of the hunt and their own issues roaring between them like static, and all Sam can hear is blood beating in his ears.
-----
6 days earlier, Saturday.
Sammy wrinkles his forehead when he’s upset. He says Dean’s name hushed and hard, like he matters. Sammy’s laugh makes him feel like a million bucks, and the blinding white of Sammy’s teeth looks like daybreak. These idiosyncrasies, among many others, are all part of an interminable list of things Sammy does to make Dean constantly want to stab himself in the face. Because if not that, then all those things Sammy does just might make Dean do something else, something worse.
Unfortunately, the younger Winchester isn’t making it any easier. Especially not lately. And especially not that night, when he’d… fuck. If Dean didn’t know any better he would think that the man was doing it on purpose, the sadistic little brat.
“Dean?”
“What?” Shit, this has to stop, Dean says after zoning out for the umpteenth time on the mole underneath Sam’s moving lips. “I mean yeah. I was listening.”
Sam blinks at him disbelievingly. “So, you wanna be my date?”
“Wait, what? ” Like he said. The little brat was doing this shit on purpose.
“I knew it!” Sam claps his hands together and lets out a laugh. “You’re such a liar, Dean. You’ve been spacey all night. What the hell is going on with you?”
Dean decides that it doesn’t matter what his problem is, just that he needs to get over it. Preferably now. “Nothing, man. Just run it by me again.”
Sam lets his brother off the hook and repeats himself, dishing out stats on the only kid who’d caught a glimpse of the victim’s ghost and then detailing where he’d be next weekend.
“Prom,” Dean repeats incredulously. Jesus Christ with a cherry on top, I’m taking Sam to prom.
“Okay, sounds like a plan,” Sam says, patting his older brother on the knee and Dean feels his ears warm. He desperately hopes the bad fluorescent lighting is dim enough but a pleased smile appears on Sam’s face and Dean wants to (see, there it is again) stab himself in the face.
Dean decides that he needs to get laid. And then maybe Sammy will stop looking so… yeah. A rough, flyby romp has always been the remedy of choice for Dean Winchester, and there is no reason why things should change now just because of a little mishap between brothers.
Laid, he determinedly repeats to himself.
-----
1 day earlier, Friday.
Ohfuckme, Sam thinks, when memories of last night flood in. It’s a little murky, a little swimmy, but he gets the gist. Gets enough to explain Dean’s face that morning, the constipated look he always gets when he’s really upset but trying (failing) to conceal it.
Sam rolls over in bed and faces the wall. Five feet beyond that wall is his very naked, very wet older brother, taking his morning shower, soaping himself up and down with strong hands in elusive parts…
It’s just morning wood, Sam says to himself, looking down in dismay at his tented boxers. Except, it isn’t.
Annoyed at the downward spiral his mind always seems to take on the subject of Dean, Sam makes to get out of bed when suddenly, a noise echoes from the bathroom.
It’s a moan, quiet and muffled over rushing water but a moan nonetheless. Sam stops in place.
And then— “Sammy. ”
Sam stares at the wall. Bores into it with his eyes, gauging how deluded and hard up he must be to imagine his older brother groaning his own name, when he hears it again. Dean’s throaty moan, stifled but gritty, followed by Sam’s name.
Sam won’t believe it. There’s no way that Dean could— that they both could…
Sam lies in bed for the next twenty minutes that it takes for Dean to finish up, staring up at the ceiling and feasting with his ears. When his brother comes out in a billow of steam, Dean’s cheeks are flushed and Sam can’t stop grinning.
“What’s wrong with your face?”
Sam’s been smiling so hard that his cheeks will probably be sore the next day, but somehow he just can’t get the corners to turn back down.
“Nothing,” Sam manages between teeth.
-----
Where it begins.
1 day earlier, 11PM Thursday.
“You said the dead girl would be here,” Sam whines. He shoves Dean with his shoulder.
“Stop bitching, we’ve only been here like, two minutes.”
“Correction: you’ve been here for two minutes. I’ve been here since 9 o’ clock, jerkface.”
Dean flashes a set of pearly whites, gleaming in the moonlight. “You told me to ask the locals, so I asked the locals.” Sam wrinkles his nose as a whiff of alcohol hits him in the face.
“Jesus, you smell like you went skinny-dipping in a keg. I could get drunk off your fumes,” Sam wearily eyes his brother as Dean gravitates forward.
“Oh yeah?”—scoot—“You getting buzzed then?”
“I told you to lay off the hard stuff tonight,” he swallows. His brother’s face is taking on a slightly maniacal glint and it’s making Sam edgy.
Dean scoots in again. “How ‘bout now, Sammy?” Sam feels the rum-soaked warmth spread over his face and Dean isn’t too far off the mark; he’s feeling the proximity like a shot of liquid cocaine that wallops him in the back of the eyes and he’s swaying on the balls of his feet. It could be from the crouching he’s done for the past two hours, or it could be from something else. Dean licks his lips and Sam thinks that it’s probably something else.
“Dean,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore. The stakes are getting too high.
“So Sammy,” Dean leans in and exhales noisily. “You hammered yet?”
Dean’s tilted so far forward that he has to put a steadying hand down, fingertips pressing into the cool dirt. His stiff jacket shifts down and then Sam sees it: the smudge of a lip print staining Dean’s collar.
It’s so clichéd it’s disgusting, Sam thinks, and his lip curls in distaste. Though cloying just a few moments ago, Dean’s nearness is suddenly suffocating him. “What the hell are you doing?” Just do or don’t, stop being such a cocktease.
And this is the moment where Dean is supposed to back off. Because let’s face it, this wasn’t the first time the brothers had tiptoed around the Line, the invisible line that’s thick as a brick wall with promises of dark, seductive things beyond. It should stop Dean in his tracks, a man who knew his boundaries and swore by them, but there’s something different tonight.
Maybe it’s the way Sam’s eyes don’t quite reflect his words. Sam grunts “back off” but his eyes say “stay” and with the roaring in Dean’s ears, all he knows is “stay”. So he does. And when Sam sways forward and lets his knees press into the damp earth, Dean stays. When Sam grabs his rumpled collar (smearing the gloss until his fingers glint red), Dean stays.
Sam drags Dean down, pulls him in, and puts those girly lips in their place. Which means, against his own.
Dean makes a muffled noise and loses his balance, sprawling himself against Sam with limbs and lips in all the wrong places. Because somehow, he’s mouthing against his brother’s (babysoft, Sam-scented) neck and that’s just wrong because Sam tastes like himself, he tastes like the motel soap Dean used that morning and he tastes likes, oh yeah, his brother. Dean launches himself backwards as clumsily as he fell forwards and lands on his ass.
Sam licks his lips. He tastes liquor.
The evening could have ended a lot more awkwardly than it did, but then the victim’s supposed ghost makes her debut and the boys spend the rest of the wee hours chasing silk charmeuse and special effects.
Between volleys of rock salt, Sam prays, Please be so drunk, you don’t remember any of this.
Dean avoids his eyes for the rest of the night. After they’ve lost the ghost but picked up a fresh lead, the brothers trip into their motel room and pass out while sunlight peeks between drawn blinds.
-----
10 days later. 1:55AM, Sunday.
Dean wrenches the Impala into the empty lot and feels a flash of pleasure as she spins on a dime, spewing up loose dirt behind kicking wheels. Then he’s out of the car, slamming it on its worn hinges and striding towards the run-down cottage before him.
Found a new lead, the text message had said, followed by the address. Dean growls.
He had been jerked around enough that night (in public, for god’s sake— Sam had planted him a wet one at a fucking dive bar), and then his baby brother’s disappearing act had him in a tizzy like a parent of twelve at Disneyland. Then to top it off Dean finds out that Sam’s working the hunt without him.
“—fucking hormonal little…” Dean’s muttering under his breath when he enters the dilapidated building.
“Sam?” he calls out, voice reverberating off rotted wood. No answer. Dean curses again as he scans the dim surroundings for a light fixture, eyes quickly adjusting to the blue-tinted gloom.
No sign of any working electricity. But there are bloodstains on the wall.
Something comparable to an icicle lodges into Dean’s throat and he freezes.
Stop it, he tells himself. He draws a dust-addled breath and steps forward.
Red, streaking bloodstains are liberally smeared across the peeling paint and they arc down, spluttering into uneven puddles on the warped, wooden floor. There are swirls of disrupted dirt and— oh god— stamps of clotted blood in the shape of boot tracks.
“Sammy?” Dean calls out again, voice hollow with fear. Again, no answer, and he forges ahead.
When he enters the door-less bedroom Dean is prepared for the worst. Instead, he sees his brother sitting on a suspicious-looking mattress, recessed into a drunkenly tilted bed frame with a mangled beast at his feet and his shotgun across his lap.
Sam looks up.
“Hey. Don’t worry,” Sam says as Dean swallows the space between them with long strides. “It turns out the kid was lying. It wasn’t a spirit at all—“
Dean rushes over to him and hauls the slender man up mid-sentence, fists balled in worn cotton, and gives him the once-over. At least, that’s what he means to do but after Sam’s health is assured, Dean shakes him hard and then yanks his brother’s collar down in order to growl into his mouth directly.
It takes Dean two, three seconds to realize that it doesn’t usually require kissing to check if somebody’s okay. Strictly speaking.
Dean snatches back like Sam’s made of fire and unsteadily backs up, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam says, biting his lip. “Don’t.”
What the fuck was that?? Dean screams to himself. He doesn’t even hear Sam, not with his own panic reverberating through his eardrums and he exits the bedroom. Shoulders square, he marches out of the run-down house and barrels into his car, turning the ignition on only to jump back when AC/DC shrieks through the speakers.
“Fuck,” Dean curses, snapping the key back down and yanking it out. He tries to shake the ringing out of his ears but it doesn’t work.
Suddenly the passenger door opens. Dean plasters himself to the driver door in alarm.
“Dean,” Sam says quietly, ducking his head down and clambering into the pushed-back seat. Dean stares at him.
“Can’t we talk about this?”
“No.”
Sam’s brow furrows and his lips stretch flat. “Fine then.”
Dean’s about to call his baby brother on being way too old for whining when Sam leans up into his space, plants a hand on Dean’s steering wheel, and pushes in for a kiss.
He’s backed into a corner, he has nowhere to go, and this is Dean’s excuse when he accepts his brother’s resolute mouth against his own. This is Dean’s excuse when his eyelids droop half-shut, catching a blurry glimpse of Sam’s hair before closing all the way shut.
“—‘s so wrong…” Dean mumbles against Sam’s mouth. Sam pulls back a little bit.
“I know, Dean,” he says lightly, telling Dean something, anything that will make the older man just stop fighting already. It seems to work, at least for the moment and Dean stays quiet when Sam licks the corner of Dean’s mouth. He stays (relatively) quiet when Sam nibbles on Dean’s lower lip.
When Sam’s pointed tongue roves across Dean’s jaw and laps behind his ear, Dean takes a breath as if to protest but Sam beats him to the punch.
“We’ll figure it out later, Dean.” Sam dips his tongue into Dean’s ear. Dean jumps a bit but doesn’t protest, and with the silence the younger brother surges forward, awkwardly settling himself until he’s stretched over Dean’s body. “God, I’ve wanted to do this—mmm… since last week, when you ah—“ Dean bucks his hips up against Sam’s stomach. “Oh god Dean—“
“Since when?” Dean prompts, unsure if he ought to be asking or not. Sam bears down on his growing arousal and he decides that asking is good.
“Since I heard you jerking off in the shower that morning,” Sam smiles into Dean’s warm neck.
“What ah— what about it? You were enough of a cock—ah— uh, cock block that night.” Sam gently bites Dean’s skin and rolls it between his front teeth. “Shit.”
Sam grins knowingly, then decides to keep extraneous information (Sammy; he said Sammy and came) to himself for now. Dean’s finally opening a little, making room for his brother’s body as Dean tentatively smoothes a hand over Sam’s shoulder, the back of his neck, sliding into unruly hair that’s fluffing from the moist warmth in the car.
“Maybe I just didn’t want you at that bar while I was stuck behind a stupid bush, thinking about all those skanks looking at you, wanting you,” Sam moves his lips over Dean’s collarbone and ends his sentence with a bite.
Dean swallows reflexively and Sam traces his bobbing Adam’s apple with his tongue.
“So wrong,” Dean says again, but this time he’s pulling Sam’s face up to meet his own. He kisses his baby brother.
When they part, Sam smiles hesitantly, unsure of how to interpret the mixed signals. But then Dean looks at him (actually looks at him), gaze unwavering, and Sam’s grin widens.
Dean leans back and his eyes dart past Sam and out the passenger window. He says, “This house is really creeping the fuck outta me.”
Sam holds his breath.
Dean reaches across Sam, turns the volume down a few notches, then inserts the car key and fires the engine up. AC/DC picks up where it left off.
Dean turns to look at his brother who retreats to his own seat, and sends Sam a slow, promising smile.
Sam lets his breath out and says, “Yeah, let’s get outta here.”
Dean puts the car in gear and rolls out.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Author:
aeroport_artRating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4,567
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: I was trying something different with the narrative, and
jewels667 and mooyoo made sure that I didn't sound like a raving lunatic. Thanks for the beta guys! And thanks to jewels667 for the title, too. *throws flowers*Summary: Dean kisses Sammy, then runs. But where did it all begin?
2AM Sunday.
“Dean.”
Dean reels back, paralyzed with shock. He automatically rubs the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, biting his tingling lip. He sees the panic stretching through his brother’s tense shoulders and quietly implores, “Don’t.”
It doesn’t work. Dean turns around and trips out the door. Sam sits back down and looks at the rubber-soled scuff marks on the floor.
-----
Two hours ago, 12AM Sunday.
I’m gonna kill him, Dean swears, slamming into his car and cranking the ignition. He gets the timing wrong and the clutch screams at him before he tries again. This time he’s got too much gas and the car peels out with a pained squeal.
Once he’s careening down the highway with nothing but a hundred miles between here and Sammy, Dean tries not to think about what had happened that evening. But fuck, how can he not think about it?
They’d gone to a bar that night, a little consolation trip to make up for the fact that the brothers had spent about two full weeks tracking down a kid with a penchant for Japanese horror movies and too much time on his hands. Two fucking weeks. Some alcohol was in order and Dean was the first to suggest it.
Surprisingly, Sam agreed. Surprisingly, because Sam had been increasingly bitchy and difficult as of that weekend and Dean was getting pretty fucking tired of his whiny ass and the gloomy cloud that followed him like a little lost dog.
He tries not to acknowledge the possibility that this maybe sort of could’ve been his fault.
I’m gonna kill him, Dean repeats instead, squashing down the fear that threatens to bubble out of his ears, the fear at coming home after the bar and finding their motel room completely devoid of Sammy, petulant or otherwise.
His blood’s thrumming with heat, he can’t keep his hands still and the shredded wails coming from the speakers don’t do much to calm him down. Dean cricks his neck, puts both hands on the steering wheel and steps on the gas pedal until it won’t go any lower.
-----
One hour earlier, 11PM Saturday.
It just that, you see, Sam’s had enough. He’s had enough.
He’d put it all on the table, one last ditch-effort at making something out of this thing, this enigmatic something between him and Dean that’s been brewing since he was still in diapers and sucking on Dean’s thumb to fall asleep. He tried to make something of it, and Dean shut the door in his face.
So, he leaves.
-----
Two hours earlier, 9PM Saturday.
She wasn’t particularly hot, but the buzz in his system, the low lighting and the rack she had on her more than made up for a deficiency in looks.
Erica or Alexia or something, Dean can’t keep their names straight, makes a joke and the girls all laugh. He didn’t hear what she said but Dean laughs along and sneaks a hand over the rounded ass of the girl next to him and squeezes perfunctorily. She wiggles back against his palm.
“Hey, so,” the girl pipes up after the last giggles have faded. “We’re gonna get out of here. Don’t wait up for me.” Her friends shoot them lascivious grins and make shooing gestures with their free hands, the ones that aren’t holding drinks.
“You think you can drive?” the girl asks on the way to the door, her low voice slurring and flirty as she downs the last of her cocktail and sets it on a random table.
“Oh, I can do more than that,” Dean replies with a feral grin.
He has one arm around the girl’s waist as he reaches out to push the heavy door open when suddenly a huge hand claps him on the shoulder.
“Hey what—“ Dean whips around.
Sam comes from nowhere and pries the girl off his brother, then gets up in Dean’s face.
“Sammy.” Shit. Dean gets a vague urge to run like hell.
He starts to think he should’ve done just that when his little brother angrily grabs his face with both hands and descends upon Dean with a possessive clashing of teeth and smashed lips that lasts longer than exactly necessary. Dean’s pushing Sam’s tongue back with his own before he realizes that maybe it would be more effective to do it with his hands. So he does.
Sam stumbles back, gangly limbs and coiled tension, and then storms out the bar.
Dean blinks in wide-eyed confusion and wonders if he just imagined that, but the shocked expression on the girl’s face tells him otherwise. He feels something like defensiveness climb over him and pulls her back, wiping the incident from her mind with a sloppy kiss to the side of her neck.
Somehow he doesn’t want Sam’s spit in her mouth. He doesn’t kiss her for the rest of the night, and that’s fine by her because she’s busy with his dick anyhow, and Dean concentrates on that instead of the fact that Sam had just openly kissed (claimed) him and then stomped off like he’d been the one mauled in front of a crowded bar.
Later, Dean comes in her throat but he’s still thinking about Sammy’s hurt expression. He should probably head back to their room after this.
-----
The night before, 6PM Friday.
There are bubble-gum pink streamers hanging down from the ceiling in limp rows, and Sam thinks of tentacles and that time in Texas. He opens his mouth to point out the likeness to Dean but then he’s cut off by a string of muttered curses.
“—need some fucking fortification for this,” Dean mumbles as yet another underage girl in sequined McClintock makes eyes at him. Sam snorts loudly.
“Oh come off it Dean, I know you’re only pissed because you’re in a room full of jailbait,” Sam teases.
“Don’t be disgusting Sammy. Just because school dances are right up your alley, doesn’t mean I go for this kind of shit,” Dean growls as he kicks a nearby balloon that’s listlessly skidding across the floor. “Now where is that fucking kid?”
Sam only chuckles again and gets up out of his chair. “Stop complaining. I’ll go look for him, just stay put and don’t kill anybody.”
Dean grunts. He busies himself for the next five or so minutes by glaring away giggling teenagers and hell, was that a boy who had just given him the look-over?
Such a brat, Sam thinks benignly as he glances at Dean from across the room. God, he can’t seem to help himself tonight. Sam’s eyes keep straying like magnets to his brother’s pouty lips, his fine ass…
Sam grins wickedly. Oh Dean, you are so mine. He wanders over to the punch bowl and fills a cup of distressingly un-spiked punch, then another for his brother, and runs over his mind for the thousandth time what he’d overheard the other day. He feels another self-satisfied smirk sneak onto his face and he tries to wipe it off, reminding himself that this is not the time nor place to be creepily smiling to himself, seeing as how he sticks out like a 6’4” sore thumb over the sea of shimmying high-schoolers.
Still, that doesn’t stop him from returning to his seat and not-so-accidentally brushing his fingers against Dean’s as he hands him the red cup. Dean’s hand twitches and a little liquid sloshes over the brim.
“Please tell me this is whiskey.”
“It’s whiskey,” Sam indulges, then takes a sip from his own Kool-Aid. He’s half watching out for the kid they’re tracking that night, half watching the way the punch stains Dean’s mouth red, when suddenly the voice of a woman jars him from his trance.
“You guys chaperones too?” A brunette with long curls and a Spanish-styled dress seats herself on the other side of Dean. Dean sits up straighter.
“Yeah—“ Sam blurts before Dean can reply. “You too?” He doesn’t like the way her breasts are almost touching Dean as she leans over in order to hear him, and immediately decides to shut up.
“Yeah, my kid sister made me come. It was either Dad or me, but don’t worry,” she says, flashing a smile at Dean. “I got a couple favors out of it.”
Sam casually slings his arm around the back of Dean’s folding chair and trails his fingers down the metal until it bumps over a lip and widens into a gap. He gently presses the flat of his hand against Dean’s lower back.
“Yeah, is—“ Dean starts. “Um. Is that so?”
“Yeah,” the girl says. She starts chatting about chores and house parties as Sam feigns interest, his real focus being on how the hell there is so much fabric to be pulled up just to get to some fucking skin already. Dean blinks distractedly but makes no move to stop him.
And why would he? Sam thinks gleefully as his fingers finally, finally find purchase on a patch of moist warmth. He victoriously snakes his hand underneath the hem of Dean’s shirt and lets the material fall back down, effectively covering his questing palm as he skates it up and down his brother’s rigid back. He’s following the fascinating bumps of Dean’s vertebrae when the older brother coughs.
“I’m Dean,” he says after the girl, Nathalie, introduces herself. “And this is Sammy—“
“Sam,” he automatically corrects. His palm is starting to sweat against Dean’s back and he pulls off, leaving only the tip of his index finger in contact with clammy skin. “Nice to meet you,” he smoothly continues, reaching out with his free hand to shake hello.
Dean’s practically vibrating at this point, and Sam hopes it’s from excitement and not politely concealed anger. Well let’s find out, he thinks to himself and scoots towards Nathalie, so far forward that he has to put his hand on Dean’s knee to keep himself steady.
“So you’re in college now?” he asks her confidently, high off his own audacity and his brother’s implicit permission. “I’m planning on law school sometime in the future.”
Nathalie lights up with delight. “Really? That’s what I want to do too.”
Sam has to partake in the conversation now but that doesn’t stop him from rubbing Dean’s knee in miniscule circles and tracing down Dean’s spine, playing his uncomfortable brother like a reluctant violin.
He ventures a glance down at Dean’s lap, hoping to find some evidence, some bulge or denim folds that will let him know. But it’s too dark in the room and so he takes a breath, moves forward like a boat on a wave and pushes the envelope one inch further.
He slips his finger down the tiniest shallow, the merest beginning of Dean’s ass.
“That’s our Sammy,” Dean jumps, snapping into the conversation. “Doesn’t know when to stop.”
“But that’s a good thing,” she argues, telling the boys about how lawyers need to be aggressive to succeed. But Sam isn’t listening anymore. Under his older brother’s raised eyebrow and dangerous gaze, Sam feels awful. Bad Sammy. He withdraws his hands and smoothes the moist palms over his own jeans.
He should feel ashamed, he really should. And he does a little, but remorse quickly gives way to something akin to annoyance as Dean starts to insert himself into the role of the matchmaker.
“You guys would make quite a pair,” Dean hints. He’s always had the tact of a wild boar. “Hey you know, Sammy’s got a thing for the smart ones.”
Nathalie blushes. Sam turns red.
“Dean,” he hisses. Don’t do this.
But Dean does, as he always does, and by the end of the night Sam has to contend with a girl who has the painfully wrong idea while Dean is outside, interrogating their target in the front parking lot and kicking tires when the kid turns out to be a fraud.
Sam meets up with him after the dance.
“Sammy,” Dean tries.
“Don’t.”
The two pile into the Impala, the failure of the hunt and their own issues roaring between them like static, and all Sam can hear is blood beating in his ears.
-----
6 days earlier, Saturday.
Sammy wrinkles his forehead when he’s upset. He says Dean’s name hushed and hard, like he matters. Sammy’s laugh makes him feel like a million bucks, and the blinding white of Sammy’s teeth looks like daybreak. These idiosyncrasies, among many others, are all part of an interminable list of things Sammy does to make Dean constantly want to stab himself in the face. Because if not that, then all those things Sammy does just might make Dean do something else, something worse.
Unfortunately, the younger Winchester isn’t making it any easier. Especially not lately. And especially not that night, when he’d… fuck. If Dean didn’t know any better he would think that the man was doing it on purpose, the sadistic little brat.
“Dean?”
“What?” Shit, this has to stop, Dean says after zoning out for the umpteenth time on the mole underneath Sam’s moving lips. “I mean yeah. I was listening.”
Sam blinks at him disbelievingly. “So, you wanna be my date?”
“Wait, what? ” Like he said. The little brat was doing this shit on purpose.
“I knew it!” Sam claps his hands together and lets out a laugh. “You’re such a liar, Dean. You’ve been spacey all night. What the hell is going on with you?”
Dean decides that it doesn’t matter what his problem is, just that he needs to get over it. Preferably now. “Nothing, man. Just run it by me again.”
Sam lets his brother off the hook and repeats himself, dishing out stats on the only kid who’d caught a glimpse of the victim’s ghost and then detailing where he’d be next weekend.
“Prom,” Dean repeats incredulously. Jesus Christ with a cherry on top, I’m taking Sam to prom.
“Okay, sounds like a plan,” Sam says, patting his older brother on the knee and Dean feels his ears warm. He desperately hopes the bad fluorescent lighting is dim enough but a pleased smile appears on Sam’s face and Dean wants to (see, there it is again) stab himself in the face.
Dean decides that he needs to get laid. And then maybe Sammy will stop looking so… yeah. A rough, flyby romp has always been the remedy of choice for Dean Winchester, and there is no reason why things should change now just because of a little mishap between brothers.
Laid, he determinedly repeats to himself.
-----
1 day earlier, Friday.
Ohfuckme, Sam thinks, when memories of last night flood in. It’s a little murky, a little swimmy, but he gets the gist. Gets enough to explain Dean’s face that morning, the constipated look he always gets when he’s really upset but trying (failing) to conceal it.
Sam rolls over in bed and faces the wall. Five feet beyond that wall is his very naked, very wet older brother, taking his morning shower, soaping himself up and down with strong hands in elusive parts…
It’s just morning wood, Sam says to himself, looking down in dismay at his tented boxers. Except, it isn’t.
Annoyed at the downward spiral his mind always seems to take on the subject of Dean, Sam makes to get out of bed when suddenly, a noise echoes from the bathroom.
It’s a moan, quiet and muffled over rushing water but a moan nonetheless. Sam stops in place.
And then— “Sammy. ”
Sam stares at the wall. Bores into it with his eyes, gauging how deluded and hard up he must be to imagine his older brother groaning his own name, when he hears it again. Dean’s throaty moan, stifled but gritty, followed by Sam’s name.
Sam won’t believe it. There’s no way that Dean could— that they both could…
Sam lies in bed for the next twenty minutes that it takes for Dean to finish up, staring up at the ceiling and feasting with his ears. When his brother comes out in a billow of steam, Dean’s cheeks are flushed and Sam can’t stop grinning.
“What’s wrong with your face?”
Sam’s been smiling so hard that his cheeks will probably be sore the next day, but somehow he just can’t get the corners to turn back down.
“Nothing,” Sam manages between teeth.
-----
Where it begins.
1 day earlier, 11PM Thursday.
“You said the dead girl would be here,” Sam whines. He shoves Dean with his shoulder.
“Stop bitching, we’ve only been here like, two minutes.”
“Correction: you’ve been here for two minutes. I’ve been here since 9 o’ clock, jerkface.”
Dean flashes a set of pearly whites, gleaming in the moonlight. “You told me to ask the locals, so I asked the locals.” Sam wrinkles his nose as a whiff of alcohol hits him in the face.
“Jesus, you smell like you went skinny-dipping in a keg. I could get drunk off your fumes,” Sam wearily eyes his brother as Dean gravitates forward.
“Oh yeah?”—scoot—“You getting buzzed then?”
“I told you to lay off the hard stuff tonight,” he swallows. His brother’s face is taking on a slightly maniacal glint and it’s making Sam edgy.
Dean scoots in again. “How ‘bout now, Sammy?” Sam feels the rum-soaked warmth spread over his face and Dean isn’t too far off the mark; he’s feeling the proximity like a shot of liquid cocaine that wallops him in the back of the eyes and he’s swaying on the balls of his feet. It could be from the crouching he’s done for the past two hours, or it could be from something else. Dean licks his lips and Sam thinks that it’s probably something else.
“Dean,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore. The stakes are getting too high.
“So Sammy,” Dean leans in and exhales noisily. “You hammered yet?”
Dean’s tilted so far forward that he has to put a steadying hand down, fingertips pressing into the cool dirt. His stiff jacket shifts down and then Sam sees it: the smudge of a lip print staining Dean’s collar.
It’s so clichéd it’s disgusting, Sam thinks, and his lip curls in distaste. Though cloying just a few moments ago, Dean’s nearness is suddenly suffocating him. “What the hell are you doing?” Just do or don’t, stop being such a cocktease.
And this is the moment where Dean is supposed to back off. Because let’s face it, this wasn’t the first time the brothers had tiptoed around the Line, the invisible line that’s thick as a brick wall with promises of dark, seductive things beyond. It should stop Dean in his tracks, a man who knew his boundaries and swore by them, but there’s something different tonight.
Maybe it’s the way Sam’s eyes don’t quite reflect his words. Sam grunts “back off” but his eyes say “stay” and with the roaring in Dean’s ears, all he knows is “stay”. So he does. And when Sam sways forward and lets his knees press into the damp earth, Dean stays. When Sam grabs his rumpled collar (smearing the gloss until his fingers glint red), Dean stays.
Sam drags Dean down, pulls him in, and puts those girly lips in their place. Which means, against his own.
Dean makes a muffled noise and loses his balance, sprawling himself against Sam with limbs and lips in all the wrong places. Because somehow, he’s mouthing against his brother’s (babysoft, Sam-scented) neck and that’s just wrong because Sam tastes like himself, he tastes like the motel soap Dean used that morning and he tastes likes, oh yeah, his brother. Dean launches himself backwards as clumsily as he fell forwards and lands on his ass.
Sam licks his lips. He tastes liquor.
The evening could have ended a lot more awkwardly than it did, but then the victim’s supposed ghost makes her debut and the boys spend the rest of the wee hours chasing silk charmeuse and special effects.
Between volleys of rock salt, Sam prays, Please be so drunk, you don’t remember any of this.
Dean avoids his eyes for the rest of the night. After they’ve lost the ghost but picked up a fresh lead, the brothers trip into their motel room and pass out while sunlight peeks between drawn blinds.
-----
10 days later. 1:55AM, Sunday.
Dean wrenches the Impala into the empty lot and feels a flash of pleasure as she spins on a dime, spewing up loose dirt behind kicking wheels. Then he’s out of the car, slamming it on its worn hinges and striding towards the run-down cottage before him.
Found a new lead, the text message had said, followed by the address. Dean growls.
He had been jerked around enough that night (in public, for god’s sake— Sam had planted him a wet one at a fucking dive bar), and then his baby brother’s disappearing act had him in a tizzy like a parent of twelve at Disneyland. Then to top it off Dean finds out that Sam’s working the hunt without him.
“—fucking hormonal little…” Dean’s muttering under his breath when he enters the dilapidated building.
“Sam?” he calls out, voice reverberating off rotted wood. No answer. Dean curses again as he scans the dim surroundings for a light fixture, eyes quickly adjusting to the blue-tinted gloom.
No sign of any working electricity. But there are bloodstains on the wall.
Something comparable to an icicle lodges into Dean’s throat and he freezes.
Stop it, he tells himself. He draws a dust-addled breath and steps forward.
Red, streaking bloodstains are liberally smeared across the peeling paint and they arc down, spluttering into uneven puddles on the warped, wooden floor. There are swirls of disrupted dirt and— oh god— stamps of clotted blood in the shape of boot tracks.
“Sammy?” Dean calls out again, voice hollow with fear. Again, no answer, and he forges ahead.
When he enters the door-less bedroom Dean is prepared for the worst. Instead, he sees his brother sitting on a suspicious-looking mattress, recessed into a drunkenly tilted bed frame with a mangled beast at his feet and his shotgun across his lap.
Sam looks up.
“Hey. Don’t worry,” Sam says as Dean swallows the space between them with long strides. “It turns out the kid was lying. It wasn’t a spirit at all—“
Dean rushes over to him and hauls the slender man up mid-sentence, fists balled in worn cotton, and gives him the once-over. At least, that’s what he means to do but after Sam’s health is assured, Dean shakes him hard and then yanks his brother’s collar down in order to growl into his mouth directly.
It takes Dean two, three seconds to realize that it doesn’t usually require kissing to check if somebody’s okay. Strictly speaking.
Dean snatches back like Sam’s made of fire and unsteadily backs up, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam says, biting his lip. “Don’t.”
What the fuck was that?? Dean screams to himself. He doesn’t even hear Sam, not with his own panic reverberating through his eardrums and he exits the bedroom. Shoulders square, he marches out of the run-down house and barrels into his car, turning the ignition on only to jump back when AC/DC shrieks through the speakers.
“Fuck,” Dean curses, snapping the key back down and yanking it out. He tries to shake the ringing out of his ears but it doesn’t work.
Suddenly the passenger door opens. Dean plasters himself to the driver door in alarm.
“Dean,” Sam says quietly, ducking his head down and clambering into the pushed-back seat. Dean stares at him.
“Can’t we talk about this?”
“No.”
Sam’s brow furrows and his lips stretch flat. “Fine then.”
Dean’s about to call his baby brother on being way too old for whining when Sam leans up into his space, plants a hand on Dean’s steering wheel, and pushes in for a kiss.
He’s backed into a corner, he has nowhere to go, and this is Dean’s excuse when he accepts his brother’s resolute mouth against his own. This is Dean’s excuse when his eyelids droop half-shut, catching a blurry glimpse of Sam’s hair before closing all the way shut.
“—‘s so wrong…” Dean mumbles against Sam’s mouth. Sam pulls back a little bit.
“I know, Dean,” he says lightly, telling Dean something, anything that will make the older man just stop fighting already. It seems to work, at least for the moment and Dean stays quiet when Sam licks the corner of Dean’s mouth. He stays (relatively) quiet when Sam nibbles on Dean’s lower lip.
When Sam’s pointed tongue roves across Dean’s jaw and laps behind his ear, Dean takes a breath as if to protest but Sam beats him to the punch.
“We’ll figure it out later, Dean.” Sam dips his tongue into Dean’s ear. Dean jumps a bit but doesn’t protest, and with the silence the younger brother surges forward, awkwardly settling himself until he’s stretched over Dean’s body. “God, I’ve wanted to do this—mmm… since last week, when you ah—“ Dean bucks his hips up against Sam’s stomach. “Oh god Dean—“
“Since when?” Dean prompts, unsure if he ought to be asking or not. Sam bears down on his growing arousal and he decides that asking is good.
“Since I heard you jerking off in the shower that morning,” Sam smiles into Dean’s warm neck.
“What ah— what about it? You were enough of a cock—ah— uh, cock block that night.” Sam gently bites Dean’s skin and rolls it between his front teeth. “Shit.”
Sam grins knowingly, then decides to keep extraneous information (Sammy; he said Sammy and came) to himself for now. Dean’s finally opening a little, making room for his brother’s body as Dean tentatively smoothes a hand over Sam’s shoulder, the back of his neck, sliding into unruly hair that’s fluffing from the moist warmth in the car.
“Maybe I just didn’t want you at that bar while I was stuck behind a stupid bush, thinking about all those skanks looking at you, wanting you,” Sam moves his lips over Dean’s collarbone and ends his sentence with a bite.
Dean swallows reflexively and Sam traces his bobbing Adam’s apple with his tongue.
“So wrong,” Dean says again, but this time he’s pulling Sam’s face up to meet his own. He kisses his baby brother.
When they part, Sam smiles hesitantly, unsure of how to interpret the mixed signals. But then Dean looks at him (actually looks at him), gaze unwavering, and Sam’s grin widens.
Dean leans back and his eyes dart past Sam and out the passenger window. He says, “This house is really creeping the fuck outta me.”
Sam holds his breath.
Dean reaches across Sam, turns the volume down a few notches, then inserts the car key and fires the engine up. AC/DC picks up where it left off.
Dean turns to look at his brother who retreats to his own seat, and sends Sam a slow, promising smile.
Sam lets his breath out and says, “Yeah, let’s get outta here.”
Dean puts the car in gear and rolls out.
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Date: 2007-01-24 08:32 am (UTC)And damn I think I'm sobering up... Next comes the hangover *whimper* Going to the bar and downing a whole bottle of tequila to get the worm and win $50 is NOT a wise thing to do, neither is chasing it down with like 6 shots of Jack Daniels. *groan, whimper*
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Date: 2007-01-24 08:34 am (UTC)I hope you got the $50! And thanks for reading, lol :3
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Date: 2007-01-24 09:29 am (UTC)And yes, I drank the worm outta the tequila, and downed about the whole bottle in a steady chug to do it, then five minutes later finished off the rest of the bottle and moved on to shots of Jack Daniels... I'm definitely gonna be feelin it in the mornin, afternoon, when the hell ever I crawl my ass outta bed.