mickeym

~~~~~

The bookstore smells like old paper, and dust. It reminds Sam a lot of Bobby's library, and he's hit with a pang of loss and sadness that makes him tremble. He shoves it down and heads over to the counter where an young woman sits, eyes trained on the book she's reading.

"Excuse me, miss?"

She looks up then, and smiles at him. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Sam Winchester. I have an appointment with Mona Richards?"

"Oh! You're here to interview." She gives him an up-and-down that makes him want to squirm, then hollers over her shoulder, "Mona, your two o'clock is here."

"Be right there, Theresa."

The girl – Theresa – giggles. "She'll be a few minutes; you can go ahead and look around, and she'll come find you."

"Thanks." Sam gives her a smile, and she giggles again, making him feel absolutely ancient. He never thought he'd feel so old at twenty-seven.

The book store is an interesting mix of new and used – mostly used, but there does seem to be some new stock out in the front. There's a whole section of used textbooks, which makes sense because there's a community college not far from here, and there's also a really good sized section of reference and research-type books. Sam's poking at the reference books, wondering if the owner would be interested in any of the stuff he has, when someone taps on his shoulder. "Sam? I'm Mona."

He turns and she gives him a brilliant smile which he returns, along with holding his hand out. Jess used to complain about how many men didn't seem to want to shake hands because of her gender. "Sam Winchester."

"Come on back to the office. You drink coffee, Sam?"

"I do," he says, following behind her. She's absolutely tiny, five feet nothing, if she's anything, with silver-gilt hair, and the bluest eyes he's ever seen. Her face is smooth, but for laugh lines, and Sam knows he's never going to guess her age. It could be anywhere between thirty and seventy, though he'd bet it's closer toward the seventy end than the thirty.

"How do you take it?" She asks, ushering him into a small, cluttered office and pointing at the one empty chair beside the desk.

"Um, black with two sugars, please." She hands off a mug and smiles when he takes a drink, eyes widening with pleasure. "Wow. That's awesome coffee, thanks."

"Thank you." Another smile. "My husband imports it – we have a coffee shop on the other side of town, so I help myself for my own personal stock."

He laughs. "That's convenient."

"Isn't it?" Mona sits down behind the desk and steeples her fingers together. "So, I understand you're interested in a job as a clerk?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Stop that." She waves at him, about as threatening as a Shih Tzu. "'Ma'am' makes me feel old. It's just Mona."

"Okay, Mona." He takes another drink of the coffee. "Yes, I'd like a job as a clerk."

"Why?" She cocks her head, looking intently at him.

"Well." Sam chews on his bottom lip for a minute and remembers why he hates interviewing for jobs. Not that he's had a lot of them, but still. "I like books. A lot. I read all the time. Love research. My—Dean, he teases me a lot about it, but he's always supported me. I wouldn't mind being surrounded by books all the time. Makes me feel safe." Now why the hell did he add that? Sam mentally closes his eyes and kisses the job goodbye.

"Makes you feel safe, hmm?" Mona's studying him, and Sam gets the feeling not much escapes her. "An interesting thing to say about books—but you know, I know what you mean. Have you ever worked in a bookstore before?"

"Yes, ma—I mean, Mona. I worked at the bookstore at school."

"College? Where'd you attend?" She asks when he nods.

"Stanford." It still hurts to say it, and probably always will, a little. Her eyes widen, and then she nods.

"I see. Well. I'll tell you, Sam, I'm not looking for a clerk." He sighs. Figures. "I'm actually looking for someone to take over this place. Start out as manager, and then become owner. I want to sell it, but I don't want to sell it to just anyone, you understand. Books – especially old books, and rare books, need to be handled by someone who understands them. Someone who loves them and respects them. And I think you do, don't you?"

"I do, yes." Manager? Owner? Does he want to own this store? Even eventually? Sam swallows. "You're serious about selling it?"

"I am. Are you serious about being interested?"

Sam takes a deep breath and nods. "I am."

"Well, then. Congratulations, you have the job." Mona smiles at him. "Let's get you introduced to the other staff, and then we'll get you started on your paperwork."

Sam officially meets Theresa (part-time clerk) and Marty (full-time clerk), and Janet, who does the books for the bookstore and Mona's husband's coffee shop. He gets a tour of the store, and the stockroom in the back, which is where his office will be, then spends an hour in Mona's office (it's going to be his office one day in the not-too-distant future) doing all the new-hire paperwork that always seems to be required. Inside he feels like jumping up and down like a little kid, and he can't wait to get home and tell Dean that not only did he get a job, but they're buying a bookstore.

~~~~~

The door to the bookstore is framed or hung unevenly – Sam can't tell for sure which it is, because the whole building seems to list slightly sideways – so every time the wind blows it shakes the door, and makes the bell over the door jingle.

Sam's ready to rip the damn thing down.

"It's really windy out there today, isn't it?" Theresa wanders out of the office/stockroom in the back to lean on the front counter, and Sam only barely stops himself from saying something really mean and sarcastic. It's not Theresa's fault that Sam's mad at the bell. He contents himself with a grunt and goes back to his notebook. Dr. Daniels' suggestion of keeping a journal has turned out to be a good one, and Sam's trying to get down the nightmare he had last night while it's still fairly fresh in his mind.

"Think it'll snow?"

Theresa's voice pulls him back out of his thoughts and into the here-and-now, and Sam lifts his head to look out the window. It looks wintery out there, heavy, dark clouds hanging loud and ominous. It's mid-November, and they haven't had any snow yet. The locals tell them it's hard to predict weather patterns anymore, what with global warming and all the other crap that's gone down in the last year or so, but say it should start snowing pretty soon.

"Maybe." Sam turns back to Theresa. "Done with inventory?"

"Yeah. There wasn't much new stuff in this week. Probably be a lot more in a couple weeks, when the semester ends." She edges a little closer, leaning over the counter to show off her cleavage, nicely highlighted by the low-cut, v-necked sweater she's wearing.

"Probably." Sam takes one step back and plants himself back on the high stool, well out of the flirt zone.

It didn't take Theresa very long to start flirting with Sam; probably within the first couple days after he was hired. So far she's been mostly subtle about it, just standing close, leaning over, stuff like that. It's mostly amusing , but has the potential to become problematic. Sam's not sure, but he'd be surprised if Theresa's out of high school yet. So even if he was interested, which he's not, she's jailbait—and he's not biting.

"You can take off early if you want," he says, watching her watch him.

She beams at him. "Awesome! Hey, um." She bites down on her lip and Sam thinks, uh-oh, here it comes. Sure enough, the next thing out of her mouth is, "You want to go out, get a coffee or something sometime?"

Sam sighs and tries to decide how it's better to turn her down. Age, or involved with someone? He doesn't think she'd be deterred by the age thing, so he goes for the big guns. "Thanks, but I can't. I'm, I've got a boyfriend." Sort of.

Her eyes widen until he's afraid they're going to pop out of her head, and then she breathes, "Oh, wow. Really?"

Sam nods. "We just keep it pretty quiet. You've met him—Dean, comes in here on Saturdays when he picks me up?"

She still looks a little pop-eyed. "Wow. I didn't—wow. That's. Wow." Then she realizes what he's told her, and she blushes crimson. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. I've been, I mean, I didn't—Sorry, Sam." She's gone in a flurry of wind and more door jingles, pushing past Marty as he's coming in. He turns to look back at her, then at Sam with a bemused look on his face.

"Finally broke down and told her about Dean, huh?"

Sam scowls at him. "I really hate you."

Marty shrugs his coat off and tosses it toward the coat rack in the corner. "Sure you do. And hey, it's not my fault I saw you guys attached at the lips. I'm kinda surprised I'm the only one who's seen it, the way you guys look at each other."

Sam groans, because Marty's right, damn him. It was totally his fault, kissing Dean in the office where anyone could walk in on them. "God, just stop already."

"You just hate that I'm right." Marty leans up against the counter and pokes at the pile of invoices Sam's been working his way through. "Did paychecks come in yet?"

"Nope, not yet." Sam eyes Marty over his notebook. "You know they don't come in until Thursday afternoon. That's tomorrow, genius."

Marty groans. "Damn. I must've looked at the wrong date. Oh, hell, that means we're gonna get paid late, next week."

"It does? We are? Why?"

"Uh, 'cos of Thanksgiving?" Marty shakes his head when Sam just blinks at him. "Dude, don't you ever look at the calendar? Thanksgiving is next week. It's almost the end of November."

Great. Another holiday. They'd managed to ignore Halloween this year, shutting themselves inside with all the lights off, just the TV flickering as they watched the original Halloween and Friday the 13th movies before going to bed and blowing each other's minds with crazy-awesome blowjobs. Well, Thanksgiving could be the start of a new tradition: having an actual decent dinner, cooked at home, by them.

And maybe Mrs. Murchison next door would bake an extra pumpkin pie.

"Man, where's the year going," Marty's saying, when Sam tunes back in. "I swear, it's almost Christmas."

Christmas. That's worse than Thanksgiving. Sam stifles a groan and reaches to shove his notebook back into his backpack. He's saved from having to actually say anything by the door opening, Dean smiling as he comes in, whistling a jaunty tune.

~~~~~

Sam's reached the point where he can honestly say he hates therapy. Hates wading through all the crap that encompasses his life, because it feels like being stuck in quicksand, heavy and clinging, pulling him back down. It's dark history and he wants to be done with it; wants to find the sunshine and step out of the shadows.

"I want you to spend the rest of the week, and the weekend, working on focusing on good memories," Dr. Daniels tells him at the end of his appointment. "Nothing dark or sad, or anything that makes you angry. Just the ones that make you feel safe, comforted, happy. Okay?"

"Easier said than done," Sam mutters, but he nods. "Should I write 'em down?"

"Absolutely. I think the journaling's done a lot of good for you."

"Yeah. It's weird," Sam says, waiting while Dr. Daniels fills out the prescription for his refills. "I didn't think it was doing any good, but sometimes I feel—lighter, almost. It's hard to explain."

"I've had people tell me that before," Daniels says, handing over the prescriptions. "I think after the new year we'll work on getting rid of some of the baggage. Writing letters and burning them, that sort of thing. It gives closure you might not get otherwise, particularly if it's someone you can't actually talk to anymore."

Closure would be nice, but Sam's not going to hold his breath. At this point he'd be happy just to have the nightmares taper off; anything else would be icing.

That evening is Dean's guitar lesson, so Sam figures that's a good time to try the focusing on positive memories thing. He settles on their bed in a lotus position, window cracked open to allow a small stream of cool air, one lamp on low. No music or television because Sam doesn't mind the quiet. It works for him in a way it doesn't work for Dean.

He's not meditating, exactly, but it feels a little like it anyway, like the times Jess had him sit with her while she did her yoga exercises. Meditation, focusing, whatever – it's about remembering the good things that sometimes seem so overshadowed by the bad they're hard to recognize.

If pressed, Sam will say his earliest comfort memory is the scent of the aftershave Dad wore. He can't remember what brand it was, but even now, years later, smelling that scent makes him feel safe and loved. The clearest one after that is Dean making him laugh by doing bouncy rabbit ears with the shadows from a flashlight, which also makes him feel safe and loved.

The next one is target practice, sitting beside and just behind Dad and Dean, legs crossed under him, an empty pistol in his hands. Dad crouches behind Dean, helping him hold the gun, moving limbs into place for maximum stability. The gun is loud when it's fired, and there's a weird stink in the air, and underneath all of it is the soft murmur of Dad's voice explaining to Dean the best way to hold pistols, and how rifles need to be held differently. Sam listens to all of it, eyes closing sometimes when the sun shines too warm on his face making him sleepy. Dean sounds just like Dad, so serious when he says yes, Sir, in answer to something or other Dad says to him.

Dad lets him hold the pistol after Dean's fired it, while Dean watches, smiling at Sam encouragingly. The metal is warm and smooth against his fingertips and Sam kind of can't wait for his hands to be big enough to hold it steady, to fire it the way Dean did.

He's not sure what comes after that, or even before it, because there are so many. Lots of images flutter past him, some pausing, flickering behind his eyelids like photos he wants to keep but that fade with the passage of time anyway.

Dean teaching him how to swim one summer, when Dad was gone most all day long doing research or hunting.

Curled up against his brother in a chair big enough for both of them with room left over, and learning how to read, following Dean's finger as it pointed out the words in The Cat in the Hat. Even years later, Sam still isn't sure who was more proud when he made it to the end of the book, Dean, or himself.

A day spent at the park, all three of them, both he and Dean shrieking and laughing and calling out, "More, daddy, more!" as he pushed the swings higher and higher. Sam remembers giggling, laughing so hard everything's blurry around him. Or maybe it's blurry because he and Dean were on the merry-go-round, spinning fast and wild, Dad pushing it and laughing at them clutching at each other, their laughter blending with Dad's.

It was a good day, that one. Sam's not sure how old he was; four, maybe? It's an old memory, that's for sure. But he remembers the sun on his face, the taste of summer on his tongue when he took a deep breath. That whole day was bright and full of laughter, something they didn't get much of, all together. For one clear, shining moment, everything was normal: they were normal kids, their dad wasn't talking about demons or death, and Sam got to just play with his brother.

His first date with Jessica, coffee at the little shop just down the street from campus. Sam thinks he fell in love with her that day, sitting there in the sunshine while they talked and laughed.

Helping Jess teach her cousin how to ride his bike. Kenny was eight, and reminded Sam so much of himself at that age. He remembers the proud smile on Kenny's face when he made it all the way down the block and back without falling over at all.

Time spent at Bobby's, or with Pastor Jim. Sam misses both of them, but Bobby most of all. Jim's been gone a while now, so the ache has faded some. Bobby is still new, still raw, and Sam shies away from that because these are supposed to be memories that focus on safe and comfortable.

He thinks about Dean then, because no matter how infuriating and annoying his brother can be, he's also the one thing that's always made Sam feel safe and comfortable; made him feel comforted, even when things were happening around them that were completely out of control, Dean was safety.

At not-quite-seven, Sam's afraid of the dark, afraid of the shadows that seem to gather just beyond the gleam of the nightlight. He can hear them laugh in high-pitched giggles, can see the shine and flash of their teeth when the light falls just right.

He takes his bear -- raggedy old thing with one ear sewn up funny and one arm shorter than the other where Dean had to do an emergency patch when it ripped open after pulling on it too hard, teasing Sam about something or other -- and dashes for the door. If he can get to Dean's room, he'll be safe, because even if Dean teases him and picks on him sometimes, he's still Sammy's big brother. He can do anything. He can keep Sam safe, keep the dark away. He's the reason Sam never feels alone.

It's quiet in the apartment, shadows slinking everywhere, slipping just beyond reach, just beyond where he can see them, and he runs, feet slapping on the fake-wood flooring, those last few steps to Dean's room and then into the room. Dean's already sitting up, squinting as Sam draws closer.

"Bad dreams?"

"Shadows," Sam says quietly. "An' they got teeth."

Dean nods and shifts over, patting the spot beside him. "C'mon up, Sammy."

He doesn't say a word about the bear, just waits while Sam shuffles and shifts, getting comfortable before drawing the covers up over both of them. When Sam tucks his hand beneath the pillow he feels the prick of the blade there and wonders if that's why Dean's not scared of the dark. He pulls his fingers back and sucks on the one he pricked, then closes his eyes. Now it's safe to sleep.

Sam wishes he still had that bear. He can't remember what happened to it, but figures it probably got left behind at some pay-by-the-week motel, forgotten in the rush of packing up to hurry to the next job.

He's debating whether to get up and try to type out some of these memories or just stay here on the bed, feeling warm and relaxed, when he hears the Impala's distinctive growl as Dean pulls into the driveway. He stays where he's at, breathing slow and deep until he hears the door open, Dean calling out to him.

"Sam?"

"Up here." He stretches, muscles gone a little stiff from sitting for a while, and smiles when Dean steps into the doorway. "Have a good lesson?"

"Yep. How 'bout you? Have a good—whatever?"

Sam snorts. "Not bad. Productive, anyway."

"That's good, right?"

"Probably, yeah." It's kind of a surprise, if he's honest, how many untainted good memories he has – because he knows he didn't call them all up in this one sitting. That makes Sam feel better all by itself. "Wanna go get a burger? I'm kind of hungry."

"'S what happens when you don't eat enough at dinner." Dean nods sagely. "Get your ass in gear, Sam, and I'll even spring for French fries."

"I don't know how I could resist an offer like that," Sam says drily, but he's already moving, and even lets Dean smack him on the butt as he walks past.

~~~~~~

They're both wet and shivering from an impromptu snowball fight, and Sam's covered in pine needles and resin. Who knew chopping down a Christmas tree could be so messy?

"I'll get the shower started," Dean tells him once they've settled the tree in the corner, in the little stand. "You make sure everything's locked up."

"I'm the one covered in pine stuff," Sam says, sneezing once.

"So strip down here, and then it won't be a problem."

Actually, if he doesn't get warm soon, Sam thinks, the tickles in his nose are the least of his worries. Much colder and he's going to pull something, shivering.

He checks both doors are locked and all the lights are off, then heads upstairs, following the trail of damp clothes Dean left all the way to the bathroom. Sam strips his own stuff off and tosses it toward the corner, in the general direction of the hamper, then opens the door to the bathroom, already wonderfully warm and steamy.

"Shove over," is all he says to Dean, opening the shower door. It's proof of how things have changed for them: having a place of their own to come home to, with a shower that's big enough for both of them.

Dean shoves with a grunt, stepping back under the spray to rinse the soap and shampoo off. Sam watches the water and suds sluice down Dean, patterns and ripples that make him back Dean into the wall and kiss him, pine resin be damned.

"Turn around," he says thickly, when they have to breathe or pass out. Dean nips one more kiss to his jaw but turns, eyes flashing with heat.

"Can't even let a guy shower in peace, huh?" But he stretches himself out and up against the shower wall, angling so his ass pushes out. Sam kneels behind him, running his hands over the sleek, slick curves, feeling the strength in Dean as his muscles shift and flex when he spreads his legs.

"Do you really want me to?" Sam knows the answer to that; he doesn't need to hear Dean actually say it.

Dean wriggles and shifts, and the water turns to a heavy mist, hot and steamy like the deep south in summertime. Sam breathes in the scent of body wash and shampoo; licks at the curve of Dean's ass to taste them, and the sharper taste of Dean beneath.

Dean makes a quiet noise and spreads his legs even further. Sam smiles against him and spreads Dean's ass, watching the water trickle down, droplets gleaming, teasing, beckoning until he has to lean in and lap them up. Has to trace his tongue over Dean's hole, pressing lightly at the small opening, just to feel the resistance. He nips at one asscheek, bites a little further in, and spreads Dean further so he can score the tender area with his teeth. Dean growls and moves, shivers rippling through him.

"Sam—"

"So impatient," Sam murmurs, drawing back. "Always want it, don't you."

"I hate you." Dean shivers again, goosebumps rising over his skin when Sam just hovers, breathing out. "Sammy, please—"

Sam presses forward, tongue pushing against the muscle, sliding inside when it gives. Dean groans; Sam hears it distantly, feels it vibrate through Dean and into him. He licks at the small hole, bites at it again, then sets to driving Dean out of his mind, tongue fucking in and out slowly, then faster, until Dean's moans and cries are one long, continuous sound.

He fucks Dean right there, braced against the shower wall, slick with the soap and water sluicing over them. Every stroke inward makes Dean whine, a low, needy sound forced out between his teeth. Sam groans when Dean tightens around him as he comes, his body milking Sam's, pulling his orgasm from him in hot, wet pulses.

They stay in the shower kissing and touching until the water runs cool. Sam washes off quickly, but the water is just this side of cold before he's done, and he's back to shivering by the time he gets out.

Dean's waiting for him in bed, though, and that warms him up faster than anything else might.

~~~~~

"I've been thinking about school," Sam says later that night, when they're tangled up in each other, warm under the covers while the wind blows snow everywhere.

"Yeah?" Dean sounds sleepy, and when Sam turns his head to see him better, he has his eyes mostly closed, face lax with relaxation and pleasure. It's really a kick to see him like that, all fucked out and happy. Kind of makes Sam want to do it again. "Well?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I think I'll take a couple classes at the community college – I'm thinking creative writing, or something – and see about the local university for next fall."

"Can't you just transfer—oh." Sam knows the instant Dean figures it out. He can't transfer his credits from Stanford, because Stanford doesn't exist any longer. "Damn."

"It's okay. It's a fresh start, right? I can do anything, be anything."

"Damn straight, Sammy." Dean doesn't sound sleepy anymore; in fact, he's turned and he's nuzzling at Sam's throat. "I'm sorry, man. About—"

"Don't. It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either, so don't even go there."

That one's harder to believe, to accept, so Sam just hums a non-answer and kisses Dean. "So are we really gonna do this?"

"Do what?" Slightly breathless is a good way for Dean to be. Sam traces one finger down his chest and around his navel. "Fuck again?"

"No. Well, yes. But no, I mean, this. Stay here. Live here." Smooth skin gives way to coarse hair, and Sam cups Dean's balls in his hand, rolling them gently.

"Jesus, Sam. I can't—concentrate, if you're molesting me." But Dean's already rolling his hips upward, toward the touches, and Sam laughs low.

"Molesting you, huh? Doesn't sound like you hate it too much." He lets go of Dean and retreats just enough they can actually talk without the temptation of teasing Dean to orgasm.

"Asshole."

"Takes one to know one." Sam settles onto his side, head propped up, and stares at Dean. "So. Staying here?"

Dean nods. "Might as well, right? We like the house, the area, we both have jobs we like, all that jazz." He closes his eyes, a pinched look crossing his face. "Man, we might as well join a bowling league or a softball team or something. We're domestic."

Sam laughs softly. "I got news for you, dude. We've been domestic for a while, now."

"I guess." Dean's staring up at the ceiling now, studiously not looking at Sam. "Got something I need to tell you."

Sam tells himself firmly that that does not sound ominous. "Yeah?"

"We're not really squatting here. I wasn't—squatting here. I found this place while I was driving around one day, just trying to clear my head and figure things out. Realtor was out front, trying to get the sign into the ground, and she was having trouble, so I stopped and offered to help – then asked her if it was just for sale, or if could be rented." He clears his throat, and Sam reaches out to take one hand, threading their fingers together.

"Go on."

"She said either; the owners had left. That part was true enough, they pretty much just up and left. Saw the signs of things to come, I guess, and decided to hightail it out of here. Anyway, she didn't care if it was rented or sold, so long as some money was coming in. So we did up a contract to do month-to-month, since I didn't know how long you were gonna be in the hospital and wasn't sure what we were gonna want to do after you got out. " He stops, and Sam squeezes his hand.

"I like this place, Dean, but it wouldn't matter where we were living as long as I got you."

"Oh, Jesus, Sam." Dean's cheeks heat up; Sam feels the warmth coming off them. "You are such a fucking girl."

"Mock all you want, but it's true." He kisses Dean quickly, whispers, "I do like this place, though. Wanna stay here with you. Grow old here with you." Dean whimpers when Sam bites down on his jaw, on his throat, so Sam smiles and does it again. "Stay here and love you. Make love to you."

"Want that too," Dean mutters, voice low and rough. "All of it. Christ, Sammy, want all of that." He turns toward Sam, mouth open, seeking, and Sam lets himself be pulled in close, devoured one slick, hot kiss at a time.

He rolls them until Dean's on his back, Sam sprawled over him, and works his hand down in between them and down. Dean's still loose and slick from earlier, his body opening to Sam easily. Two fingers go in and Dean squirms, trying to get them deeper.

"Fingers or cock?" Sam rubs upward, inward, pressing against Dean's prostate over and over, massaging the small gland until Dean's whimpering and writhing beneath him. "Want me to fuck you again?"

"God, yes." Dean growls the words. "C'mon, Sam. Give it to me."

He spits into his hand and slicks it over himself, then pushes Dean's legs open and up and slides deep inside in one smooth, continuous thrust. It burns a little, not quite enough slick to ease the way, but Sam likes it like this sometimes; likes to feel it everywhere. He knows Dean does too, because Dean's the one who started pushing to do it this way sometimes.

Dean's worked his cock up to fully erect, and it's slapping wetly between their bellies with each thrust. Sam wishes he could fuck and suck Dean all at the same time; he'd love to get his mouth on the swollen, slick head, lick all around it and tease his tongue over and in the tiny slit. He whispers this to Dean, mouth brushing Dean's ear, and shivers when Dean groans and tightens around him. It's the best kind of feedback loop, because the tighter Dean makes himself, the faster Sam fucks into him, each thrust rough and hard, rocking them, rocking the bed. Sam slows when Dean pushes a hand between them to jerk himself, drawing out slowly and pushing back in just as slow, the tease and burn so good it hurts.

He thrusts in and holds, leans back to watch Dean before adding his hand on top, slowing the strokes down until Dean's whining and hissing between his teeth, wanting to go faster.

"Sammy, god, please—"

"Not yet. God, you're gorgeous like this." And he is, all sweat-soaked and trembling, mouth swollen from kissing and biting, body tense and arched, needing release. Sam draws his thumb across the head of Dean's dick; dips his thumb down against the slit. He feels the precome well up and slide down. Dean shudders hard, wordless moan rising around them when Sam repeats it, using his thumbnail to open the tiny slit wider. More precome oozes out, droplets slicking around the head, dripping down over heated, swollen flesh.

"Sam. God. Sammy, please." Dean's breathless, each word more a groan than anything else, and the groan deepens, lowers, when Sam raises his hand up to his mouth to suck his thumb clean.

"Wanna come while I fuck you? Or like this?" Sam swivels his hips a little, quivering when Dean tightens around him again.

"While you fuck me. Unngh, god." He's jacking himself slowly again, but moving faster, and Sam feels how close they both are, the pleasure running hot and heavy through him, bubbling in his veins and sliding along his nerve endings. "C'mon, Sammy. Fuck me."

Sam leans down to kiss Dean, tongue stroking in and out of Dean's mouth fast and dirty while he works his hips. Dean bites at him, sucks on his tongue, and it's a clashing, a battle between them, sweat and spit, and Sam's so fucking close he's gonna come any second now. He fucks hard into Dean, hard enough to feel the bed shudder under them, and Dean's tightening up, body shaking as he comes in a rush, spilling between them, hot and sticky and everywhere. Sam's orgasm starts at the base of his spine and twists outward, coiling all through him. He groans and fucks Dean through it, cock swelling as he spasms, spilling deep inside.

It takes a few minutes before Sam can summon the energy or brain cells needed to coordinate moving off Dean, and he slumps over to the side and fumbles for the t-shirt he discarded much earlier, to wipe them off with.

Dean has that blissed-out look on his face again, and it makes Sam want to puff out his chest in pride. He settles for saying, "it's probably a good thing we don't share walls with anyone, huh?"

"No kidding. They'd be pounding and yelling for us to quiet down all the time." He makes a quiet sound that almost sounds like laugher, and pulls Sam closer. "Sleep now?"

"Sounds like a good plan." Sam tips Dean toward the door and ignores his grumbles about being the little spoon. They stop as soon as Sam slides their fingers together, hands coming down to rest across Dean's belly. "Love you."

Dean yawns and squeezes their hands. "Love you too, Sammy." His soft snores fill the air within moments, body going lax against Sam's.

Life isn't perfect, Sam thinks as he closes his eyes. He still has a lot of shit to work through; has some things he may never resolve completely. He and Dean are better about talking out things now than before, but there's a ways to go with that, too. He wants to go back to school and do something with his life, but he freely admits to be scared shitless about doing it. Even starting over as he'll be doing, makes something inside him freeze with terror.

But, imperfections notwithstanding, life is a lot better than Sam thought it might be. He's alive and Dean's alive. They're together, the world is still spinning, and the sun still rises every day. It's a far cry from what he was afraid might happen, the day before he said 'yes'. Then, he didn't dare believe there'd be a future for him, even if there was a future for the world.

Sam wiggles until he finds that perfect spot on the pillow, then pulls the quilt further up over both of them. No, life isn't perfect, but it is pretty good, and he's happy with it, imperfections and all.

~fin~

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

--William Ernest Henley

Author's Notes and Thank-you's: I can't believe this is my third year doing Big Bang. I'm kind of awed and impressed by that. *g*

I've wanted to explore some of Sam's anger management issues since the episode "Sam, Interrupted", and the glimpses we were given as we moved further into S5 of the way the Winchesters' lives – and Sam's in particular – were manipulated and played only fueled my interest. How would Sam deal with some of the revelations he was given? How could he – could he, period – move past the rage, or get it to a point where he could work around it? It certainly wouldn't be a quick fix, but rather more of a settle-in-for-the-long-haul sort of thing, and I hope I portrayed that with this story.

I think some of my frustration with, and trouble while writing this story, came because it's not something that can be quickly and easily fixed, as much as I wanted to. I tried very hard to show that Sam's making steady forward progress without making it seem too easy, too rosy. Hopefully I succeeded. In any case, I hope you all enjoy the story :)

I owe great big, huge thank you's to

arliss and

britomart_is for their tireless, unending support and for beta duty through several stages of the story. I absolutely couldn't have done this without their help and input, and I hope they know how much I appreciate them. *hugs*

Many, many thank you's to the very lovely and talented

electricmonk333 for taking on my story. The link to the art is at the beginning, in the headers; make sure you go check it out, because it's gorgeous. I'm so glad we got to work together on this!

And finally, a huge thank you to

wendy and

thehighwaywoman for all they do to bring the Big Bang challenge to us. It absolutely couldn't happen without them, and I can't say thank you enough for giving us the chance to do this.