They
start
out at eight seconds.
Eight seconds. Long enough to break someone's neck, or stab them, or
push them
off a cliff or down the stairs. Long enough to kill in a hundred
different
ways.
Nowhere near long enough.
But Dean has always been a quick study, and he picks this up just as
swiftly as
he did shooting with a crossbow and doing that stupid fancy high kick
thing
(that Sam still can't do right even now and that Dad seemed to think
was so
important, which is ridiculous because it's not as though you can't
just shoot
or punch or stab anything coming at you slowly enough to be run at and
kicked).
Anyway, the second time they try, it's twice as long, easy. The third
time is
the first time that Sam dares to hope that Dean has the hang of it now,
that
they'll be able to do this.
The sixth time, Sam loses count around the three minute mark because
Dean does
that thing with his tongue, and if his mouth is cold and Sam's sixth
sense is
tingling along with the rest, somehow that doesn't make much of a
difference to
the burn in Sam's gut. They kiss almost desperately and Sam touches and
strokes
and thinks he could come from this alone, from just being able to touch
Dean
again (but he won't think of that now because Dean is still here and
that's all
that matters and this is real). Dean's teeth unerringly find the spot
on Sam's
collarbone that makes him arch up and moan, and Sam rolls them over and
pushes
Dean into the mattress and slides a leg between his thighs and buries a
hand in
his hair (wintry cool and the texture is wrong but he doesn't care,
doesn't
think about it, won't acknowledge it) and leans forward to capture
Dean's
mouth, and Dean gasps soundlessly beneath him and there is a zing of something
and Sam falls face-first into the pillow, his body thudding down onto
the bed
with all the grace of a sexually frustrated sack of potatoes.
His breath puffs out in a visible cloud as he turns onto his back, his
skin
rising into goosebumps.
This can't be healthy. Nothing that feels like this can be healthy.
Sam can't see Dean anymore, but there is a sense of lingering presence,
a
slight weight of attention pressing on Sam's awareness. Absurdly, he
has to
suppress an irrational pang of worry, even now.
He sighs as he flops back on the bed. His body is tingling with
expectation,
every inch of skin yearning mindlessly for a touch that won't come, and
he has
to swallow past the sudden, unexpected constriction in his throat.
He's being ridiculous. It's just sex; it doesn't really matter. He can
see
Dean, talk to him, be with him, and he's still the same obnoxious
swaggering
too-pretty smart-ass he always was. So what if he turns into a cloud of
frigid
air when Sam tries to touch him.
After a moment of believing this as hard as he can, Sam slides his own
hand
down his chest and into his boxers. When Sam closes his eyes, he can
almost
imagine that this is a game, and that Dean is over on the next bed,
watching
him with hot eyes, hand on his own cock.
The lamp directly overhead buzzes and flickers; Sam's eyes fly open,
startled. He's
too far gone to stop, but he wishes he'd been able to keep his eyes
closed. He
didn't want to see the empty room when he came.
+++
Sometimes, Sam thinks about calling
"Spirits can gain strength from physical proximity to and direct
attention
by the living, can't they – especially if it's the ones they're
connected to. You
know, the ones they're haunting?" he could ask, because that would
explain
why Dean has been gaining strength so quickly, and maybe Sam can
accelerate the
process by intentionally funnelling energy to Dean somehow. Maybe she
could
tell him...
"Boy, what the friggin hell do you think you are playing at," she
would answer. Or: "You don't have the sense God gave to snails, and I
have
a mind to come over there and whack you with an entire drawer full of
silverware."
Or, worst of all: "Boy, you know this just ain't right. He'll stay
because
he's a good boy, and he cares about you, and he's just stupid like
that. But
you should know better. You know you're going to have to let him go."
So he doesn't call.
+++
Sam is still damp from the shower, and the whisper of Dean's lips
across his
skin makes him shiver, breath hitching in his throat. He leans back on
his
elbows, stretching a little and arching his neck – enticingly, he
hopes.
He feels self-conscious for the space of one heartbeat. Fortunately,
Dean
doesn't play hard to get; it's only a moment before he accepts the
invitation. His
teeth close on the sensitive skin at the base of Sam's throat, and Sam
shuts
his eyes to concentrate on the sensation of a cool tongue licking
across his
pulse, of Dean slowly nibbling up the column of his throat, pausing to
linger
at the spot behind Sam's ear that makes him sigh with pleasure.
Long before Sam is ready for him to stop, Dean stops. Sam swallows the
protest
that wants to escape and waits. This is the way they're going to have
to do it
– he'll get to touch Dean soon enough.
"What d'you want, Sam?"
Dean's voice is low and dark; there's the slightest hint of a catch in
it. Sam
actually shivers a little, and he's not at all sure it's due to the
sudden drop
in temperature.
After a moment Sam raises one knee and opens his legs a little. Not too
much.
The towel loosens and slips; the minute weight of fabric against his
cock feels
like a touch, and he lifts his hips up into it once, twice. He doesn't
answer,
not in words.
Dean laughs, rough and throaty. "Yeah... that's what I thought."
Sam slips an arm behind his head so he can watch Dean. He's stepped
back from
the bed and is over by the window now, shrouded in shadow. Sam can feel
his
eyes on him, though, can feel his gaze sweeping over Sam's body. His
skin is
singing with it. It feels like he is waking up, finally waking up bit
by bit
after being caught in a nightmare.
"You just gonna stand there?" Sam asks softly.
He's just teasing, of course, because he knows that's what Dean will
have to
do, for now. Even so there's a breathless moment when Dean takes a
single, slow
step forward.
After a moment, Dean hooks his thumbs into his pockets and shifts his
stance,
raising his chin a bit as he rocks back onto his heels. There's a flash
of the
smug, toothy smile that's so typically Dean, and Sam knows the exact
expression
in Dean's eyes even if he can't see it. "Maybe I will. The view's
pretty
spectacular."
Sam is too old to blush – he's not that nervous, and neither is he a
kid
getting his first awkward compliment. Besides, it would be stupid. It's
just
Dean. So he doesn't blush. He just takes a deep breath and lies back on
the
bed, wriggling until he can see Dean when he turns his head to the side.
He smoothes a hand slowly across his chest. His nipples are already
hard, from
the cold or from Dean's eyes on him or both, and he shivers as he
circles light
fingertips around one. Dean is a motionless shadow, strangely
insubstantial,
then outlined in surrealistically sharp relief for a moment as a car's
headlights sweep by beyond the threadbare barrier of the curtains.
A shadow, and an overwhelming weight on Sam's senses.
He rubs the nub of skin harder and imagines Dean's touch – his mouth on
him,
his hands, his body. If it were Dean's tongue circling his nipple, Dean
giving
him just a hint of teeth, a quick bite, Sam would already be gasping
for breath
and grabbing at him, trying to push his head down.
"Dean," he says, and refuses to be embarrassed by the emotion, the
hint of pleading in his voice.
Dean's shadow moves, stills. Sam can't understand what he mutters at
first, but
then Dean shifts again and speaks up, almost reluctantly, as though the
words
are being dragged from him. "You're so fucking beautiful."
And Sam's never had cause to question that he's attractive, but he's
not
beautiful, either. Dean's the beautiful one. But he knows that Dean is
completely sincere, and a spark of sheer yearning want races through
him,
burning in his gut and making him catch his breath.
"I want to watch you," Dean says roughly. "Let me watch you
touch yourself."
Sam's getting the feeling Dean hasn't done this kind of thing too
often. That's
not a bad thing, because neither has Sam. The plain truth is that Sam
is pretty
vanilla.
Well. Except maybe for this thing where he's trying to fuck his brother
even
beyond the grave.
He stares at Dean as he slides his hand lower on his own body,
caressing his
abs, following the edge of the towel lying low across his hips. He dips
his
fingers beneath the fabric, just a little, and draws back again. Dean
makes an
inarticulate little noise, and Sam teases himself, stroking leisurely
across
his stomach before following down the line of hair beginning beneath
his navel.
He exhales shakily as he stops just shy of his erection, sharp thrills
of
arousal racing downwards to glow in his stomach and fill his cock
further.
The towel is still hanging on, though it's been a while since it's
concealed
anything. He's been hard since Dean licked his neck.
"You're so fucking hot," Dean murmurs. "Yeah, Sam, come on –
come on, do it, touch yourself for me like you want me to touch you..."
Sam puts back his head, laying his hand across the base of his throat.
The heat
of the touch startles him for a second; he draws his hand slowly down
the
length of his body, lifting into the touch a little for Dean's benefit.
When he
reaches the towel he doesn't stop, cupping himself through the rough
fabric,
pushing down, arching up into his palm.
"Oh fuck yes, like that. You're so hard... come on, rub yourself a
little,
gently, like that, yeah. You know what I'd do? I'd touch you just a
little,
stroke up right from your balls to your cockhead – I'd lick you, with
just the
tip of my tongue. Watch you writhe and moan –"
Sam shoves the towel aside hastily to run his fingertips up the
underside of
his erection oh so slowly, imagining Dean's fingers on him, Dean's
tongue. And
again. The writhing and moaning isn't on purpose, it just happens. He
watches
Dean and imagines that it's his hand wrapping around the base of Sam's
erection, Dean's hand he is pushing up into, Dean's fingers tightening
almost
to the point of pain, relaxing, tightening again, drawing a sound from
Sam that
might have embarrassed him if he had any brain capacity left to worry
about
that kind of thing.
"I want to kiss you." He sounds strangled, and he had no idea he was
going to say that, but as soon as he has it's like he can't stand to
not be
kissing Dean for another second. "I need to kiss you. God, Dean, please
–"
Sam doesn't see him move, but suddenly he's by the bed, just like that.
Sam
surges up and seizes his jacket with both hands, and then Dean has a
hand and a
knee on the bed and Dean's tongue is in Sam's mouth, tangling with his
own, and
Sam kisses him hard and fast and demanding like he wants to devour him.
Someone
is making desperate little whining noises and it might just be Sam
himself. Dean
kisses like he means it, like he was made for nothing else, throwing
himself
into it headlong with lips and teeth and tongue and everything he is,
and Sam
can't believe how perfectly Dean that is, and how
much it makes him want
to throw Dean down and make him scream.
"God damn it," Sam gasps when Dean breaks away. His
lips are
tingling, the taste of Dean is on his tongue, and it's all he can do to
let go
when Dean steps back, retreating back to his old spot by the window. He
wants
to kiss Dean until he trembles, wants to stroke and lick and bite and
claim
every inch of him, hear the choked-off, quiet moans he makes when he's
being
fucked deep and slow and just right. He wants to see the vulnerable
hollow of
Dean's throat when he throws his head back and gasps for breath, wants
to see
Dean laid out for Sam, all golden skin and sleek muscle and wild green
eyes and
he wants it now, damn it. "Fuck."
"Oh yeah," Dean murmurs, velvet dark. "But not yet, babe. Soon...
but not yet."
Yeah. So Sam breathes once, twice, and finds that he can be patient for
a
little while longer, because it will only make it better in the end,
and
because he has to.
"What're you thinking about, Sam?" Low, heated, full of carnal
promise – delivering a jolt of arousal to Sam's system all by itself,
and yeah,
Dean's really getting the hang of this now.
Sam inhales slowly, calling up the memory of Dean sinking to his knees
before
him, nibbling down Sam's stomach, looking up at him almost coyly before
sticking out his tongue and giving him a couple of teasing licks. Not
that many
though, because Sam knows how to ask so Dean can't refuse, and so it
wasn't
long at all until Dean flattened his tongue and slicked it over the
flared head
of Sam's erection, just once, before going down on him. No hesitation,
and no
way at all to mistake the fact that he'd done this before, and most of
all Sam
remembers his dull surprise at the skill of the tongue fluttering
against the
underside of his cock as Dean pulled back to sink down again with a
little
sideways twist... the burn of something a whole lot like rage seeping
through
his arousal.
"Your mouth," he answers, only partially truthful.
"You like my mouth on you, Sam? Like it when I take you as deep as you
will go, all the way to the root, and swallow around you so you
whimper, you
clutch my hair and thrust into my throat even though you try not to. I
know you
love it when I pull back to suck at just the head on your cock, nice
and slow. When
I run my hands up those long, long beautiful legs of yours..."
Sam spreads his legs as far as they will go and lifts his knees, and
when he
runs a teasing touch along the soft skin of his inner thighs, his cock
jumps
against his stomach, tip glistening wetly.
"I love the way you feel in my mouth, Sam. I know you love it, too... I
can tell when you sort of whimper when I suck on your cockhead just
once before
pulling off. Licking down, teasing and sucking all the way down the
length of
your cock. Then I take you in my hand and just hold you while I lap at
your
balls, taking one into my mouth, real gentle, and then sucking..."
Somehow Sam's hands have ended up wrapped around his erection, his hips
pushing
up of their own accord, driving his erection into the slick tunnel of
his
fists. He reaches down to palm his balls and moans at the throbbing
ache, at
the tension mounting inside him, tingling along every nerve and pooling
in his
groin.
"Yeah, come on, do it, touch yourself..."
Dean murmurs encouragement Sam only half hears, and Sam arches a
little, the
weight of Dean's rapt attention searing his skin, filling his senses.
He twists
and moans to the touch of his own hands like a porn star, and it's not
faked at
all.
"I want to be inside you," Dean rasps. "D'you want that,
Sam?"
God, yes. Dean inside him, him inside Dean, Sam doesn't care – just as
long as
it involves Dean touching him.
"How d'you want me to take you? You want to be on your hands and knees?
Get
on your hand and knees, Sammy. Let me see you spread for me."
Sam moans but doesn't comply. He doesn't want to stop touching himself,
and
he's trying not to speed up the rhythm of his hand on his cock, but he
isn't
sure he's succeeding.
Dean keeps talking, voice a dark, low rasp, and Sam is so turned on he
can't
really concentrate on the meaning of the words washing against him
anymore, the
rough, dark voice drowning out the last bit of reason he might still be
able to
lay claim to.
"What do you want?"
That one makes it through, and Sam's answer is out before he even knows
what it
will be.
"Want to fuck you," he snarls, and some corner of his mind that is
still thinking is startled at the aggression, because he sounds as
though he
could just toss Dean down and tear his clothes off and take him, take
him hard
and fast and again and again until he can't sit down for a week, take
him until
he screams Sam's name and comes into his hand, until he collapses
bonelessly
against Sam, all satin skin and sweat and heat and open, wide-eyed
smiles and
murmured Sammys. Until he falls asleep in the
circle of Sam's arms, too
fucked out to worry about his tendency to snuggle and cling to Sam in
his
sleep. "Now, Dean – need to have
you –"
And Dean is there, right there, eyes hot, and Sam grabs his hips and
pulls him
down on top of him, lithe and solid and Dean along
the entire length of
Sam's body.
This is going to work. Dean is everywhere, filling his arms and senses,
rubbing
himself against Sam lewdly, rough fabric against sensitized skin,
grinding
down, panting into Sam's ear and biting and scrambling back to sit on
his
haunches grinning like a loon. So fucking beautiful, and Sam's, still
here, for
him, all his... God, he's going to have Dean in a second, just as soon
as –
He pushes up to catch Dean's mouth in an almost brutal kiss as his
fingers
scrabble at Dean's leather jacket, frantic to push it off his shoulders
and get
it out of the way. He can't find purchase; Dean is fumbling with his
jeans, and
Sam reaches down to help, slaps Dean's hands away because he's getting
nowhere.
Sam tugs but the button won't come free, and after another moment he
breaks the
kiss to look down as he hooks his fingers into Dean's waistband and
pulls his
jeans open.
Or rather, as he tries to hook his fingers into Dean's waistband.
Because
Dean's waistband seems to be fused with – no, part of –
"Fucking hell."
+++
"Oh, this is just – man. I can't believe this. I cannot fucking
believe
this."
Dean's anger fills the room in a new way these days. It's a strange
feeling –
like a thunderstorm gathering. Not that Sam's ever been able to feel
thunderstorms gathering, but he imagines this would be what they would
feel
like if he could: gathering energy, and tension, and a strange, diffuse
sense
of imminence, of nature holding its breath.
The feeling is doing nothing at all to abate Sam's arousal. He wants
nothing
more than to come – right now it doesn't feel like much of an
exaggeration that
he might die of frustration if he doesn't (and why the fuck can't Dean
do it,
he could still do this just as well even fully clothed! why does he
have to
pick now of all times to be a fucking drama queen?). But instead he
just
breathes, a bit unsteadily but slowly and carefully, and lies with his
hands
fisted in the sheets tangled beneath him, trying to gather his wits
enough to
think.
Because he knows that tone in Dean's voice. Dean is freaking out. He
doesn't do
it often, but when he does, it's never good, and Sam needs to keep his
wits
about him. Can't afford to come now because he would inevitably fall
asleep, he
knows he would, no matter how determined he was to
stay awake. Can't
leave Dean alone to brood and agonize and turn it all into some
horrible
personal failure or shit like that, because by the time Sam woke up
Dean would
have locked it all away like some creeping poison and hidden it behind
his
fucking artificial smile and stupid "shallow grunt" routine.
Sam swallows twice before he can find his voice; he wants to curse, or
maybe
just break down into slightly hysterical laughter, because it is
funny,
in a way. But Dean is all the way across the room and not meeting his
eyes, and
the streetlamp in front of the window is flickering. "Dean," he
forces out at last. "It's alri-"
"Not one word, Sam. Not one fucking word."
Not so irrelevantly, Sam hopes that Dean doesn't hear the dog beginning
to howl
somewhere outside. Dean blusters and struts, leers and shrugs and lifts
sardonic eyebrows and somehow, unbelievably, seems to think that's
enough –
that that alone will make people buy into his uncaring-tough-guy act.
And
now... he doesn't have this thing entirely under control yet, and
sometimes,
like now, he leaks. That makes it even more obvious what's going on
with him. He
must really hate that.
"Seriously. It's only been –"
"Words are coming out of your mouth again. What part of not one word do
you not understand? This is just fucking typical! You sulk and you pout
and you
give the world the silent treatment for days when you get your panties
in a
twist over some shit, but God forbid I tell you to just leave it for
once, then
of course you can't fucking shut up –"
There's a weird kind of overlay to Dean's voice, like a second voice in
the
background, shouting at a whisper, repeating the same sentence over and
over
again. Sam strains to understand the words, but can't.
Maybe there's a grain of truth to Dean's ranting, because before Sam
knows it,
thoughts are again jumping unstoppably from his brain to his tongue.
"Cool
it, man, you'll get the hang of this." He tries a small, hopeful grin.
"And
it's – come on, you of all people not being able to get your clothes
off
–"
A short burst of static and sound from the TV makes Sam jerk sideways
reflexively. The lamp on the bedside table goes out with a sharp pop,
leaving
the room almost entirely dark.
The uncertain light filtering in through the curtains provides the only
illumination as Sam leans over to joggle the bulb and flip the switch a
couple
of times. The lamp doesn't turn back on, and when Sam gives up and
turns back
to the window, Dean is gone.
Jesus.
Irritation spikes through him sharp as steel. This is so damn childish,
and so
fucking unnecessary, and Sam opens his mouth to snap something about
Dean's
sense of humor evidently having died more thoroughly than Dean himself.
The
words stick in Sam's throat, though, and feel as though they may rip it
apart
from the inside if he forces them out. So, he doesn't. Anyway, he knows
that Dean
is just being a bastard because Sam needs this, and Dean wants to give
it to
him and can't, and is beating himself up over it in that usual moronic
way of
his.
It's not as if this stupid clothing thing is a real issue. After Dean
has
become so corporeal so quickly, this shouldn't give him trouble for
long; in
fact, Sam is certain that it's basically the same thing. Sam hasn't
found too
many useful sources in his research, but he's developed his own
theories from
what little there is.
The aspect and attributes of manifestations are determined by a range
of
different factors that include self-image, intent, and will. In some
cases,
certain aspects are determined by the underlying laws of the haunting,
essential and immutable components – but not in this case. What Dean's
wearing
now, the jeans and boots and t-shirt and battered leather jacket – the
amulet,
even the carefully styled hair – must be some kind of subconscious
choice on
Dean's part. The way he pictures himself. Because when – in the
hospital, and
later – Dean hadn't looked like he did now. He'd been wearing a
shapeless,
off-white smock tied at the nape of his neck; it had made him look even
paler,
absurdly fragile, the smudges underneath his eyes dark blue like ink,
like
bruises.
Sam's breath hitches, and he gets up just to move.
He walks around the
room for a minute, crossing to his duffel and fingering the straps
desultorily.
Then he decides to take a shower and go to sleep. Dawn is hours away,
but his
circadian rhythm is shot to hell, anyway.
They're both still raw from what happened. It's not just Sam who's
scared and
needy and desperate, and he should maybe try to remember that.
It will be okay, though. Dean is still here, and he'll come around.
Dean will
forgive him. He always does.
Sam doesn't jerk off in the shower. He's not in the mood anymore.
Some time after he crawls back into bed, the mattress dips. A cool hand
smoothes over his hip, up his side, rests on his shoulder for a moment
before
brushing lightly through his hair. Sam relaxes and finally closes his
eyes, and
is asleep soon after.
+++
In
It's just lucky the girl is already four or five years old. He thinks
of asking
the mother if she's adopted, just to be sure, but the child is still
sobbing,
looking at the door, and the look on the mother's face doesn't invite
further
conversation, and so he just leaves with his donuts.
Back in the car ("you call this a car, Sam?"), Sam
discovers
that he's bought vanilla cream donuts and double chocolate donuts with
sprinkles in addition to the jelly ones he likes. He stares at them for
a full
minute before he can bring himself to toss them into the trash can on
the curb.
+++
Sex has never been so fucking complicated in the history of the world.
Sam has
empirical proof of this: If it had, the human race would be long
extinct. Because,
yeah, so Sam is right about the non-permanent nature of the clothes
hurdle. And
so he's right about the non-permanent nature of the prolonged solidity
hurdle,
too. Too bad none of all that wonderful and gratifying rightness makes
a flying
fuck of a difference.
It's like some kind of kismet, if Sam believed in that sort of thing.
Which he
doesn't. But if he did, he'd really be wondering if bad undead sex
karma was
delivered to everyone who messed about with – who tried to keep someone
they
loved with them.
Just another thing that he will never ask
Some of it is just Dean being unreasonable, though, because now that
they could
finally be getting somewhere, Dean is balking.
"No, Sam." Arms crossed, chin down, brows drawn into
the
patented 'full sulky glower'.
"Dean –"
"No means no, haven't you heard?"
Sam huffs in exasperation, and he knows by the way Dean looks at him
sideways
and rolls his eyes that Dean thinks Sam's being childish, or that he's
sulking
or something equally ridiculous. In reality, it's Dean who's being
stupid.
Sam's been a ghost hunter for most of his life, for fuck's sake. He's
not going
to run scared of a freaking cold spot.
"Now get your ass the hell off that bed and into a hot shower right the
fuck now, or I swear..."
No more point in trying to get some tonight; Sam knows that pissy tone.
Dean's
not going to be reasonable about this at all, and it's up to Sam to be
the
bigger man. So Sam surrenders to the inevitable and gets up, and if
he's a
little stiff and dizzy and his limbs feel a bit heavier than they
typically do,
then that's not exactly surprising. His balls must be heading for a new
world
record of indigo by now.
He stumbles on the way to the bathroom, but that's because he trips
over a sock
or his jeans or something, and if he clutches at the doorframe a bit to
keep
his balance then all that means is that he should really learn to pick
up after
himself one of these days.
"Your lips are blue, asshole," Dean snaps from the doorway. His glare
is pure accusation, but his eyes are wide and dark. Worried.
Oh yeah? You're rotting in your grave, Sam thinks,
but doesn't say. As a
comeback, it lacks that certain something, and he doesn't know why he
keeps
thinking this kind of shit, anyway.
"You do realize that if you kill yourself over this, I'll be way too
embarrassed to hang with you anymore."
Yeah, yeah. Emptiest threat ever, and Sam grunts derisively as he
climbs into
the shower. Which turns out to be a rather more protracted and less
graceful
maneuver than he had anticipated; he's uncoordinated and his vision is
swimming
and he really wishes Dean would go away, because few things look less
attractive than Sam being a klutz.
He pulls the shower curtain closed demonstratively. Unfortunately, it's
made of
clear plastic, so it's no more than a symbolic gesture which Dean duly
ignores.
The first stream of water all but scalds Sam's skin and he shies back,
dislodging the curtain. It tucks itself back in solicitously.
Sam waits a minute for his body to adjust and then reaches out to mix
some warm
water into the cold.
So maybe Dean isn't entirely off the mark on this. He's still being a
cock-teasing bitch.
"Idiot," Dean mutters. "Freezing yourself like some kind of
ice-maiden fodder. You might have bought a clue when you lost your
hard-on
because you were too fucking cold. Might have been a hint that maybe,
just
maybe, it was time to wrap it up and call it a day –"
"Sex is not merely about erections for everyone, Dean," Sam says
loftily.
Dean gives him a long, disbelieving stare and then snorts. "Yeah, but
you
don't look like a lesbian to me."
Sam has to laugh because that's a ridiculously Dean thing to say, but
he rallies
in the next moment. "Seriously. I just want to touch you, and – you
know. Be
with you. It doesn't matter if I get off in the end –"
"Oh, please. Don't feed me that line of modern man crap, Sam! You were
just too damn stubborn to stop."
Sam opens his mouth to retort, but no argument comes immediately to
mind, and
while he's thinking up something suitably pithy and scathing he notices
that
he's shivering and his teeth are chattering and he's really fucking
cold.
"You know," Dean says slowly, "You're an idiot, but it's still
kinda cool that you're so secure in your masculinity. Most guys
wouldn't want
their dicks to be seen in sub-zero temperatures."
Sam doesn't dignify that with an answer; he turns into the spray and
only
sneaks a glance down when he's sure Dean can't see him do it from where
he's
standing.
Damn it. It's just another ploy Dean's thought up
because he thinks Sam
is going to die of a little cold. But the hell of it is... Dean's right.
Dean laughs, and Sam rips back the shower curtain to send a spray of
water his
way. It passes through him harmlessly and soaks a tangle on the floor
that Sam
suspects is his last clean pair of jeans.
Maybe he should rethink his disbelief in karma.
+++
Dean's cell phone rings when Sam's dream is just beginning to take the
familiar
turn into antiseptic smells and the monotonous whine of heart monitors,
and for
exactly five seconds, he is relieved to be woken – until he answers the
phone.
"Son, there's not much time. Write this down –"
Sam has imagined this conversation dozens of times, and not once did it
go
anywhere good.
"Dad," he says, his voice flat. An instant later, his chest seizes up
with a riptide of emotions so absolute that for a moment, he can't
breathe, or
think, or begin to untangle the mass of rage and grief and longing.
"Sammy?"
He breathes.
"Yeah," he rasps at last, and then falls silent. He isn't sure how he
managed to force that one word out, and there's nothing else he can
say, or
wants to.
His father throws coordinates at him and orders him to write them down
with
increasing impatience; Sam clutches the cell phone so hard he's afraid
it might
break, and concentrates on breathing.
"I don't have time for this now," his father says at last, voice
terse with anger, as usual. "Let me talk to Dean."
Sam chokes on something that might have been a laugh, if his throat
hadn't been
closed painfully tight. "Sorry," he grates after another frozen
moment of forcing air into his lungs. "Dean can't come to the phone."
He takes the phone from his ear and looks down at it for a long moment
before
flipping it shut. He has no idea what he's feeling, except that he
wishes like
hell Dean were here. Why is Dean not here, anyway, when it's already
dark out
and his goddamned hero was on the phone asking for him? Finally asking
for him now,
because there was a case he wanted Dean to take care of – some stranger
needing
to be saved – when he couldn't be bothered to lift a fucking receiver
when his
devoted son, his perfect warrior, lay dying with tubes up his nose and
a
ventilator pumping behind his bed and his hand limp and cold and clammy
in
Sam's desperate grip.
Something shatters, and Sam looks up just in time to see the other
window blow
out, curtains whipping out through the newly empty frame as though torn
by
hurricane-strength winds.
It's probably a good thing his father called instead of just turning up
in
person, because Sam really doesn't have this telekinesis thing figured
out yet.
It takes his father half an hour to call back. Sam lets the call go to
voicemail. His father doesn't say anything; he just breathes, the sound
heavy
and strangely labored. Then there's the click of a recording device,
and Sam's
own voice distorted and slowed, and a whisper that Sam knows too well.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean says. "I'm sorry."
+++
The
thing about digging up a corpse and then salting and dousing it in
butane
is, you can't watch your back while you're doing it, and holding a
shotgun
loaded with rock salt in one hand while trying to work with the other
will slow
you down way too much. You need a partner for this kind of work, at
least if
you want to come out of it in one piece.
Good thing this kid wasn't buried in sanctified ground.
Sam knows that something is happening behind him. He can feel it like a
silent
explosion against his back, a continuous, violent collision between
force and
counterforce... a vertiginous maelstrom making him more than slightly
nauseous.
This spirit is old. If it hadn't been murdered and bound by a witch,
its body
would have been dust by now; if Sam hadn't dreamed of the grove where
its bones
lay, tangled in the roots of an ancient cherry tree, they never would
have
found it. It's old, and it's strong, and it's angry.
Not good. Not good at all, and in his haste Sam fumbles the container
of salt
and drops it onto the small bones gleaming in the freshly dug pit. He
leaves it
and pours lighter fluid after it quickly, soaking the entire bottom of
the pit.
The first match goes out too soon, and Sam curses, his voice thin in
the utter
silence.
Thank God – the second match burns steady. Butane ignites with the
characteristic whooshing murmur, and Sam finally, finally whips around,
just in
time to see a long-dead girl solidify in the middle of the clearing.
She is small and delicate, long black hair falling over her shoulders
like
water, eyes dark, serene and deep. Her hands are curled into claws,
hooked into
something – someone – Sam can't see. She looks up and smiles at him,
knowingly,
victoriously, and opens her mouth to speak, and that is the moment when
she
erupts into flames and burns to nothingness. Her soundless shriek
echoes in
Sam's skull and makes him clap his hands to his ears.
Eternal moments pass before Dean flickers into view, standing where she
was,
his back to Sam. He is translucent and strangely blurred for the space
of
several heartbeats; Sam even imagines he can see him sway on his feet
slightly,
though that's probably just Sam's imagination.
It takes far too long, but at last he comes into focus and steadies,
his
manifestation filling in with color and detail, the dark outlines of
the trees
behind him giving way to leather and denim. When he turns around, his
most
annoying smirk is firmly in place, and the eyebrow he cocks at Sam
dares him to
comment.
Sam exhales slowly and shakily; his knees are weak with relief. He
stumbles
forward even though he knows he can't touch Dean now – Dean has
expended too
much energy in a battle against an adversary he was no match for. Sam
reaches
out anyway, all of his senses raw and open.
He can feel the chill of Dean's incorporeal presence when Sam leans
close to
the space he occupies, when he holds out an arm in a half-hug that
looks far
more real than it feels. He can see him, down to the hint of stubble on
his
cheeks, the irregularity in the bridge of his nose where he broke it
when he
was 15, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he squints at
Sam. And
he can feel him – his closeness, his attention and something more,
something
elusive, indefinable... inestimably Dean.
Dean watches him, wearing his half-puzzled, half-concerned frown. After
a beat,
his brow clears and – infuriatingly – his mouth curves into what he
thinks is
his reassuring grin. He's visibly searching for the right words to
comfort his
scared little brother. Sam doesn't want them; he closes his eyes and
steps
forward.
He steps into Dean and the world drops away.
It's wrenching, scalding, a shock that makes him gasp and jerk like a
fish on
the line, body and mind erupting into sudden incandescence. For the
fraction of
a second Sam interprets the sudden overload of every nerve, every sense
as
pain. But it's not. It's not. It's not that at all. It's –
Dean.
Dean is everywhere. He can feel Dean everywhere,
all over, and it's like
burying himself balls-deep in Dean's beautiful body and tasting his
lips and
his throat and his sex and watching his face as he comes moaning Sam's
name and
running his hands everywhere, over every delectable inch, kissing
touching
licking him, kissing his mouth catching his hot little whimpers on his
tongue
while he takes him, rough and slow and frantic and sweet, Dean's hands
and
mouth and teeth and tongue on Sam all over, Dean's cock pushing into
Sam so
slowly and deeply, Dean's heat enveloping him Dean's teeth catching his
lip
Dean's tongue on his balls Dean's fingers, Dean,
everywhere, the pure
unbearable delight of it raging through Sam like wildfire.
Dean's amazement and wonder mesh with Sam's and a trace of wry humor
winds
through the passion they share, and
somewhere, his hands and knees hit the ground, but he can't feel the
impact. Every
nerve in his body is pulsing with rapture, blazing to the tune of Dean
Dean
Dean singing in everything Sam is, the world filled with the essence of
Dean. Sam
can't even begin to understand, but he can feel, and he knows, this is
what
Dean is, and Dean burns so brightly that it's like a pile-driver to the
stomach, so true and strong and passionate, and the darkness and anger
and
violence woven through just make it more Dean, more incredible, more
magnificent. Sam is there too, Sam is at the center of it and Sam
always knew
it and Dean's so fucking beautiful and Sam always knew that, too, but
this,
knowing, feeling it like this is –
It builds and builds and all that exists is Dean and the raging need to
get
closer still and the excruciating pleasure rushing through Sam, racing
along
every fiber of his being until it saturates him completely
and then it shatters, and he shatters with it.
When it finally releases him he is shaking and soaked in sweat and
gasping for
breath, lying fully clothed in the middle of a forest clearing with the
salty
bones of an ancient human sacrifice smoldering several feet away. He
can feel
Dean close by; there are stars sparking in his vision, and when he
swallows,
his throat is raw. Maybe he's been screaming.
Wouldn't surprise him. Christ.
Eventually, spurred onwards by the fact his wet clothes are growing
uncomfortably cold in the night air, he flops around on the ground
until he
manages to push himself into a sitting position. He pauses to take
stock, and
wow, his muscles are limper than over-cooked noodles, his head is
spinning, and
there is so much come in his boxers that he'll squelch when he walks.
His face hurts because he's grinning so hard. He has kicked karma's
butt from
here to Mars, and damn, it feels great.
It takes him a couple more minutes to pick himself up off the ground.
Dean is
nowhere in sight, so Sam wobbles over to the pit to collect his
scattered stuff
– matches and lighter, butane canister, shovel, pick-axe and shotgun,
check –
and then makes his unsteady, squelchy way back through the woods.
+++
Dean
is leaning against the car when Sam gets back to the road. His clothing
is
rumpled and disarrayed, his hair mussed and flattened on one side as
though
someone has been running their fingers through it, gripping it, pushing
Dean's
head into a pillow while nuzzling his ear. Sam can see his collarbone
where his
t-shirt's collar is stretched out and tugged to the side. There are
teeth marks
on his neck, a huge hicky adorns his throat, and there's a dopey,
slightly
dazed smile on his face. In short, he looks thoroughly well-fucked.
Insanely sexy dead brother, check.
"Dude," Dean breathes reverently. There is such amazed delight in his
voice that Sam feels his grin widening even further, a feat he'd
previously
thought physically impossible.
Dean's answering grin is blinding. "Sammy, I felt
that – and it
felt amazing. I'm dead and I just had the most
amazing sex in my life! Fuck,
it was better than that time with the twins and the whirlpool! It was
even
better than when –"
And he rambles on, but Sam isn't listening anymore, because the way
Dean
phrased that just then is bothering him. "You felt that?"
Dean rolls his eyes at him, indicating that Sam's being an idiot. "Hell
yeah. Couldn't you tell?"
"No, I mean, you sounded like this was the first time you – weren't you
feeling anything when –"
Dean never was as inscrutable as he liked to think. With that wide-eyed
expression on his face, he might as well take out an ad announcing he's
been
caught out and is trying not to let on.
Clearly, Dean hadn't meant for Sam to know this. Hadn't thought it
something
Sam would want to know. And he'd been right.
"Aw, man." Sam drops his armful of equipment to the ground and sags
against the car next to Dean. His body is still humming with content
pleasure;
there is a vague, fading imprint of Dean echoing in his mind, like the
lingering ache of teeth or clutching fingers, but so much more real, so
much
more substantial.
He feels lower than the lowest slug.
Why has he never thought this through? He should have known. If he'd
ever
thought about it at all, he would have known. This wasn't Dean's body,
it was
merely a representation shaped by Dean's will. It didn't interact with
physical
reality as a human body would. Of course it didn't feel, didn't react
to
physical stimuli as a living body would, didn't feel sexual excitement
– not in
the physical sense...
"It's all good, Sam," Dean says. "I enjoyed –"
"You enjoyed it because I liked it," Sam interrupts. Dean shrugs,
clearly not seeing the problem, and Sam sighs and runs a hand through
his hair,
pushing it out of his eyes. It's a new feeling for him, being an
inconsiderate
asshole. He doesn't like it. When did he turn into the guy who was too
busy
getting his rocks off to pay any attention to his lover?
God, he's the kind of guy they write dating manuals about, counselling
girls –
and boys – that they should say what they want and what they don't, and
if they
don't really want to they shouldn't agree to cavort in a tub of jello
or hang
upside down from the light fixtures or –
"Jeez, Sam. I can hear you angsting from here, you big dork."
"I just – you should have told me."
Dean's disgusted stare is eloquent, and Sam flushes and hangs his head
a
little. "Yeah, and I shouldn't have been a thoughtless ass."
"Dude!" Dean staggers back dramatically, hands raised in front of his
chest. "I'm a guy! Don't get all sensitive and in touch with your inner
woman around me!"
Sam snorts a little, amused in spite of himself. "Sorry. I can spit on
the
ground and grab my crotch if that makes it better."
That bags him villanously waggling eyebrows and a leer. "I got it
covered,
princess, especially the last bit. Just get the gear into that lump of
junk you
call a car and get us out of here."
So Sam collects his equipment again, tosses it in the back seat, and
drives
them back to the motel. Dean provides the soundtrack, blathering on
about human
sacrifice and various traditions of witchcraft and how Starbucks
doesn't serve
real coffee, and the really bad TV he was forced to watch last night
because someone
wouldn't change the channel.
In front of the motel room, Dean stops and turns to fix Sam with a
baleful
stare. "I hope you don't expect a goodnight kiss. Because yeah, you
drove
me home, and I had fun tonight and everything, but you still shouldn't
have
done that to my car, you fucker."
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