mickeym

Title: A Medley of Extemporanea (Part 1/2, complete)
Author:

mickeym
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 7,078 this part; 13,385 total
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: Vague references made to AHBL2
Warnings: none, unless 'future-fic' is a category to warn for?
Notes: Oh, God, where to begin? This was originally started for

lyra_wing's

spn_50states challenge (I chose Kentucky. I know y'all are surprised). Considering the deadline was August 1, I'm a little late. Whoops.

The title comes from a Dorothy Parker poem. Extemporaneous means done without planning, or a spur of the moment thing. It really seemed to fit the idea I had, where Dean's done -- but everything that comes next just happens.

This story would never have happened without a lot of help from some really wonderful people. Thank yous to

pierson,

raynedanser and

iconis for early-stage beta-ing and reassurance. Lots of hugs to

poetdiva28 and

mkitty3 for cheerleading and support. Huge thanks and hugs to

aynslee and

rejeneration for final beta duties, and for encouraging me to keep going. *hugs all of you*

I really hope y'all enjoy this story. In spite of my annoyance with its persistant non-cooperation, I'm really happy with how it turned out, and very proud of it.

Sam falls asleep just as they hit Paducah city limits, his face smoothing out a little as the pain pills finally start to work.

Dean sighs and tightens his grip on the steering wheel, resisting the urge to brush Sam's hair back off his face.

He's so thin; so pale. It's been a long time since Dean's seen Sam look so unhealthy. Even after Jess was killed; even after Dad died, Sam was pale and grieving, but never looked so bad. Hell, he didn't look this bad after whatever mojo it was he worked to save Dean's ass, last year.

"Not doin' a very good job at the whole protection thing, am I, Sammy?" Dean mutters, looking away from Sam and back at the expanse of road. It'll be full dark before they get to the cabin, and Dean knows he'll need to stop and get some supplies--food and bandages, at the very least. He doesn't want to go any faster than he already is, though, because he sees the result of every bump in the road stutter across Sam's face; ripples of pain that don't go away completely.

If only they hadn't taken the job in northern Illinois. If Dean had realized sooner that Sam wasn't just cut up and sore from the damned Cissalc demon -- fucking six inch claws that left bloody grooves in Sam's belly before Dean could get the damned thing pinned. If he'd just figured out a little faster, put things together, realized the connection between throwing up, and fever, and pain, and--

There are very few things Dean can't banish at will from his memory, but the one of Sam going white and stumbling into Dean, fingers biting into Dean's arm, voice rough and broken when he said, "I think something's wrong," just before collapsing--

Well, that's one of them.

~~~~~

Second day, post-op, and Dean was so tired of hospitals, of the endless, unceasing beeps and clicks and of nurses in and out to check bandages and drains and hang another IV bag or inject something into it.

He was tired of the worry and the fear.

"I need a place to take him, Bobby--somewhere we'll be safe while he heals. Not just safe from the supernatural stuff, but from the Feds, too."

Bobby nodded, face twisted up in a frown. "I know of someone who's got a cabin, down in Kentucky. It's pretty remote--nearest town's a good twenty miles, at least. Just forest and lake all around. Be good and quiet for you." He glanced at Dean. "But you're gonna be bored outta your skull inside a week or two, Dean."

Dean looked at Sam, still and white against hospital sheets, and shook his head. "Nah, I won't." He tried to smile at Bobby, but it felt more like a grimace. "I'm tired of all this, Bobby. I've been tired of it. I -- we -- need some downtime for a while."

Because thirty shouldn't feel like a hundred, which is exactly how Dean felt, lately.

"I reckon you do," Bobby said. He looked at Sam and shook his head. "You boys have had one hell of a ride, these last coupla years."

Dean cut off his reply to that when Sam shifted and whimpered, caught in his new nightmare of painkillers wearing off. Bobby turned as Dean sat down beside Sam's bedside. "I'll drop back by with a key and directions to the cabin, Dean."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said, already settled into the chair he'd hardly left for the last thirty-six hours.

~~~~~

At some point the radio station fades out from classic rock to what has to be country and western, if the warbly voices and twanging guitars are anything to go by. Dean fiddles with the knobs, but nothing's coming in besides the country crap.

"Just great," he sighs, reaching down to rummage through the shoebox of tapes. He's just snagged one when the Impala hits a bump in the road, and Sam jerks, crying out with the sudden movement. When Dean glances over, unfocused brown eyes are regarding him, and Dean can tell Sam's still mostly asleep. Dean abandons the tape and settles his hand on Sam's knee, rubbing gently. "Sammy, hey--it's okay. Go back to sleep," he says softly.

"Mmm," Sam says, sucking in a breath. "Where're we?" He licks his lips, and Dean redirects his gaze back to the road, to the miles of Kentucky highway the Impala's eating up.

"Kentucky -- far side of Paducah. Almost to Connor's cabin. Go ahead and sleep, man. I'll wake you when we get there."

"Tired…" He licks his lips again and Dean wonders where the bottle of water Sam'd had has gone to. He'd had it at the last stop, hadn't he?

"I know, Sammy."

"No, tired--of bein' tired. Of hurting."

This time, Dean gives in to the urge to brush Sam's hair back, and he winces at the cold sweat slicking Sam's forehead. The fact that Sam even says he hurts is testimony to how much he hurts: Sam seldom says anything about pain. Just rolls with the punches and continues on.

"I know, man. Just--hang on, okay? Another hour or so, I think." Dean glances over; Sam's eyes are closed again. He drops his voice to a whisper. "Thataboy, Sammy. You get some sleep." The brush against Sam's forehead becomes a caress to his jaw, and Dean smiles when Sam turns his head toward the touch.

~~~~~

It's actually closer to two hours before they hit the turn-off from highway 68/80, and Dean decides he'll go back to Golden Pond (and he totally laughs at that name every time he thinks it) or Canton for groceries after he has Sam out of the car and settled.

They spend another forty minutes winding through the dark, on twisty-turny, back-country roads before hitting dirt and gravel. The first bump jerks Sam awake again, and by the time they come to a stop in front of a small cabin matching the description and directions Bobby gave him, Sam's clutching at his mid-section and ashen in a way that makes Dean really uneasy.

He opens Sam's door and reaches in, ready to help him shift over. "C'mon, Gigantor. We'll get you inside and into a bed, and you can sleep some more."

Sam's warm to the touch, under the cool slick of sweat, and Dean hears the groan he tries to muffle as they work together to get him upright.

There are six steps up to the cabin's porch, and they take them one at a time, with Sam hanging onto Dean, clutching weakly for support. Dean wants to just carry Sam up the steps, but a fireman's carry is out, thanks to the healing claw marks and the stitches from surgery. Traditional carry is out because Sam is fucking huge, and strong as Dean is, he's not that strong. So, one step at a time. Dammit.

"Hate this," Sam mutters near Dean's ear, and really, he can't do anything but agree.

"I know, Sammy. But you'll be back to fighting trim in no time, man."

Sam snorts, then winces. "Feels like my belly's been ripped open. A couple of times."

"Geez, I wonder why?" Normally this is where Dean would whap Sam upside the head. For now he contents himself with ruffling his hair a little before moving them slowly forward as he fumbles in his pocket for the key Bobby pressed into his hand the day before Sam was released from the hospital, along with a muttered, "it's yours for as long as you need it, so take your time."

The cabin itself isn't large -- from the outside it looks kind of like a triangle, with one window at the top, and two on the main level, one to either side of the door. It's rough-hewn wood, and looks a little rugged, like a camping or weekend cabin might. Inside it's dark, no light switch near the door that Dean can find, but there's a clear path to a sofa and Dean helps Sam settle down on it while he goes in search of lights.

Lamps provide a warm ring of illumination around the sofa and the recliner chair beside it, both of them set at an angle mostly facing a large, stone fireplace. A short hallway to the right off the main room reveals two doors, and beyond the main room to the left is an open doorway into the kitchen. Dean opens the first door to find a smallish bedroom with a largish bed and a dresser, and little else. The other door is a bathroom, with a shower stall, toilet and sink, and some shelves set into one wall. A rough, open staircase -- hardly more than a fancy ladder -- leads up to an open loft. Dean climbs up far enough to look around; sees a small couch and some bookshelves, and not much else.

The whole place is tiny, but cozy. Homey, actually, which makes Dean a little uneasy. He squashes it down, knowing the feeling's an ingrained response to staying anywhere for any length of time. He's going to have to suck it up and deal, if they're going to hang loose and rest for a while.

"At least there aren't any lace curtains or shit like that," he mutters, heading back outside to bring in their gear. Sam's quiet snort follows him into the night.

~~~~~

There are protective sigils and symbols carved all around the cabin; some inside, some outside, with a few of them being ones Dean's never seen before. He lays the salt lines down, discovering in the process a door at the back, out of the kitchen, that leads to a small porch overlooking what is presumably Lake Barkley. The porch has a set of steps down to a path that disappears quickly into the trees and the dark, but standing there in the quiet Dean hears the soft rustling noises of leaves in the wind, and wildlife doing their thing.

Sam dozes on the couch while Dean moves in and out, carrying stuff and getting them settled. He's shifting restlessly by the time Dean's finished, his forehead hot to the touch when Dean brings over a glass of water and the bag of pills.

"Wakey-wakey, Sammy," he says, crouching down beside the couch. Sam's eyelids flutter a couple of times before he actually opens his eyes, and they're dim with pain and fever, and dammit, Dean's sick and tired of watching his brother suffer.

"Time 'zit," Sam mutters, licking at his lips. They're dry and cracked, in spite of the Chapstick and Vaseline Dean smoothes over them constantly.

"Dunno, but it's time for meds." He helps Sam shift upright enough that he's not going to choke on the pills, and doles out the antibiotics, Tylenol for the fever, and pain meds. Sam swallows dutifully, then drains the glass, nodding when Dean asks, "want more?"

He finishes off three glasses of water before relaxing back against the pillows on the couch, a little more alert than before. Dean touches Sam's cheek, then his forehead, fingers lingering into a caress.

"C'mere," Sam says quietly, and Dean goes; leans forward until he can brush a kiss over Sam's chapped lips.

One gentle kiss becomes two, becomes three, and when Sam opens his mouth to lick at Dean's, it's more than Dean can stand. He threads his fingers through Sam's hair, holding them as close as he dares right now, and tries to tell him without words how much he's missed Sam, how scared he's been, how much he loves him. Sam tastes bitter, the medicine in his system leeching out the natural sweetness Dean's used to tasting. He's hot against Dean, and his mouth is wet, welcoming, and Jesus it's only been nine days, but Dean's missed this. Missed it so much it's been a constant, low-level throb inside him.

He breaks the kiss when he feels Sam tremble against him, smoothes back sweaty hair and rests his forehead against Sam's, breathing in the scent of sickness and hospital and medicine, and under it, very faint, the scent he knows as Sam.

Sam closes his eyes and breathes with him, then mumbles quietly, "'m gonna be fine, Dean."

Dean kisses Sam's forehead, his eyelids, ignores the ache in his chest that screams how close he came to losing him. Again. Almost believes himself when he says, "I know, Sam."

~~~~~

Late winter, holed up in some godforsaken motel while winds whipped snowflakes into tiny, icy missiles. Inside their room, Sam was hot against him, hard inside him, and Dean wanted to stay there forever, with Sam thrusting into him over and over.

He was alive and Sam was alive, and there was no more Deal hanging over his head. They had each other and Dean would hold on to Sam for as long as he could.

"You'll always have me," Sam said, the words breathless and rough against Dean's skin. He sat back, pulling Dean with him; held Dean there on his lap, dick still deep inside, throbbing. Dean moaned and wriggled, clenched tight around Sam when Sam took him in hand, fingers curling knowingly around Dean's erection. "You hear me, Dean? Do you believe me?"

He wanted to believe in forever, wanted to believe in always. Really wanted to, but it was so fucking hard. Sam squeezed a little too tight, and Dean moaned, pushing upward toward the touch.

"Sam, please--"

"Always, Dean. You can't get rid of me, and I'm not leaving you. I promise."

Dean wanted to tell Sam not to make promises he couldn't keep; instead he grabbed on to Sam's arms, holding on while sensation exploded through him, whitehot pleasure sizzling his nerve endings.

He'd barely finished coming when Sam pushed him forward onto the bed, big hands on Dean's hips as he thrust into him hard, fast, each one rubbing Sam's dick over Dean's prostate until he shook and humped against the bed, groaning when Sam spilled into him, slick heat that felt like a brand. Like love.

Like a promise.

Maybe he believed Sam, after all.

~~~~~

Kentucky is actually really pretty in the spring, Dean decides, wandering around the outside of the cabin. He's not a nature-loving kind of guy, but he can appreciate beauty, and since pretty much everything is in bloom right now, it's kind of hard to miss. Though the blue jays that live in the tree right outside the bedroom window -- and fight every morning, even before the sun's fully up -- could find a different place to live and he wouldn't miss them.

Connor's cabin has more than sigils and protective symbols carved or built into it; there are protections all around it in the form of various and assorted plants, trees and flowers. Dean's not the foremost expert on green things, but he knows some of them, and knows that a lot of care and thought went in to the planting.

He settles in to a routine over the course of the first couple weeks they're there: making sure Sam gets his meds when he's supposed to, tackling the job of actually cooking real food (after a long round-trip to Canton that should've only taken a couple of hours, until he got turned around on those damn twisty, unpaved roads) to try and tempt Sam into eating, and making sure Sam's as comfortable as possible for someone who's recovering from a ruptured appendix on top of demon-induced claw wounds.

Sam sleeps a lot at first; a deep, drugged, healing sleep. If he's awake four of the twenty-four hours in a day, Dean's surprised. During those few hours he's awake, though, he insists Dean help him out to the living room so he can move around some, or else he has Dean lay beside him so they can share slow, lazy kisses that do as much to reassure Dean that Sam's healing as anything else.

While Sam sleeps, safe behind as much protection as Dean thinks it's possible to have, Dean walks the property and the roads around the cabin.

It's cool, quiet, and peaceful, and Dean finds he's craving that now as much as he once craved the adrenaline rush of the hunt, the fight, the life they lived.

Lived, past-tense, because he's not sure he wants to go back to that. Not sure he can, no matter that there will always be evil things walking out there. He's too tired; weary of so much weight on his shoulders, and he's tired of shit always coming at him, at Sam, at them.

Let someone else step up and save the world for a change. He's done.

A mile down the road, situated behind some pine trees that look like mutated giant shrubs, is another rough cabin. The sole occupant is a tall, skinny, wrinkled old man who smells like licorice and tobacco and tells Dean to call him Hank.

Hank likes the Red Sox, fried chicken, whiskey straight up and is a fan of Archie Bunker, The Simpson's, and John Wayne movies. He builds birdhouses and carves things like Welcome To Our Home signs and the like, and says that once or twice a month he packs it into his car and goes to flea markets or craft shows to sell them. He cusses like a sailor and knows enough about firearms and bow-hunting that Dean figures he's either been in the military at some point, or was an avid sportsman when he was younger. Dean's never had a grandfather, but after a while he thinks if he had, he would have wanted him to be like Hank.

Hank, it turns out, is sweet (his words, not Dean's) on Sarah Whitcomb, who lives in the house a few miles further up the road. She's a tiny, older lady who looks like a good, stiff breeze could blow her away, but she's as sassy and full of fire as Missouri Moseley.

"Soon as your brother's able to get up and around, I expect to see you boys up to my house for Sunday dinner," she tells Dean after the second time she sees him at Hank's. "I fix a mean chicken and dumplings, and you're much too thin, young man."

Really, all he can do is mumble, "Yes, Ma'am", and grouch to Sam later about bossy old women.

He doesn't grouch too much, though, because he's eaten pie at Hank's that she left there, and it's a damn sight better than anything he can cook. Besides, if he's honest? It's kind of nice to have someone fuss over him and Sam, though he would deny even thinking it as sure as he breathes.

~~~~~

The cabin's quiet and dim when Dean lets himself in, and he calls out, "Sam?" before he realizes he hears the water running in the bathroom.

A wet, naked Sam is more than he wants to -- or can -- resist, so Dean locks the door behind him and heads for the bathroom, discarding his clothes along the way.

The bathroom's already steamy and warm. Through the opaque glass of the shower stall he sees Sam, body still too thin but finally starting to look stronger, and Dean eyes the long, familiar lines hungrily, finally allowing himself to believe Sam's going to recover.

"Hey," he says, opening the stall to let himself in.

Sam shakes water out of his eyes and smiles. "Hey, yourself. Thought you were down at Hank's?"

"Well, I was," Dean takes the soap from Sam and rubs it into a lather. "But now I'm here. That okay with you?" He raises an eyebrow in question.

"I suppose," Sam huffs before moving closer. Not that there was a lot of room between them to begin with; while the shower is decently big enough they can both be in it at the time, there also isn't a lot of room to maneuver.

Dean glances down, eyes tracing over the livid scars left on Sam's belly. One surgical, the other four definite claw marks. Each one makes him feel cold and hollow inside. "How you feelin'?"

"Better," Sam says, sighing when Dean slides slippery, slick hands over Sam's chest. He traces around Sam's nipples, rubbing until they bud up hard and tight beneath his fingertips, then moves down to stroke over warm -- just warm, not feverish anymore, thank God -- skin, following the ridges of muscle and bone. "Not so tired, today."

"Good." Dean leans in and licks up Sam's throat, biting at the tendon standing out in relief where Sam's tipped his head back. He mouths over wet skin, drinking in the taste of coolwarm water mingling with the salt of Sam's skin. "Don't fucking do that again," he mutters, biting the words into tender flesh.

"Do what?" Sam sounds a little breathless, a little amused.

"Die, dammit!" Dean's voice is rough, betraying the fear he's carried for the last two, almost three weeks (really, his mind whispers, their whole lives). "We're done," he says more calmly, but he doesn't move from where he is, nose pressed against Sam's throat.

"We're--what? Dean, what're you talking about?" The amusement is gone, and Sam's hands are hard on his shoulders, pushing at him, though Sam has about as much strength right now as a hummingbird. "You don't want--"

"I don't want to lose you, Sammy," he says, finally drawing back a little. Must be some soap in his eyes, because they're stinging and watering, and Dean blinks hard and fast to try and clear it away. "I can’t. We don't have to stay here, but we're done with the hunt. I can't do this again. Can't risk -- not any more."

His voice is fucking shaking, and Dean wonders if he's been on the verge of a nervous breakdown all this time. He really hopes those padded rooms come in some color besides white. White's not a good color for him. Gets boring too damn fast.

"--didn't happen because of the hunt," Sam's saying when Dean tunes back in. His voice is low and gentle, like one Sam might adopt trying to soothe a wild animal -- or a brother teetering on the edge of losing it. "A hunt had nothing to do with me getting appendicitis."

Rationally, Dean knows this. But getting his gut to listen to rationale? Ain't gonna happen. "Maybe not, but if you hadn't been clawed to hell and back, you might've noticed the signs. If we hadn't been hunting, we'd've been somewhere closer to a hospital--do you know how close you came to fucking dying, Sam? Doctor said another hour or two, and there would've been--"

Dean breaks off because he remembers -- can't ever forget -- the doctor telling him that the ruptured appendix caused peritonitis, though thankfully Dean's brain shut down at some point shortly after, so he missed the more grizzly bits of how Sam could die due to a massive case of (basically) blood poisoning.

"Yeah, but Dean--"

"No. No 'but's'. I don't want to do this anymore, man. I'm tired, I been tired a while. Let's just--not do this, okay? Please?"

It's humiliating, all this emotion pouring out of him, but for the life of him, Dean doesn't know how to make it stop. It's like a dam's broken open, and whoosh, here it all is.

"Do I get any say at all in the rest of my life? Or are you just making decisions for the both of us now?" Sam's voice is mild, almost gentle, but when Dean looks, he sees the spark of anger in Sam's eyes. "You wanna cut my sandwiches in half and wipe my ass for me too, while you're at it?"

"Dickhead." Dean drops his hands from Sam's shoulders and backs up as far as he can, all couple of inches of it, scowling. "I'm just trying to--to look out for you. You don't gotta be an asshole about it."

Sam shakes his head and reaches to shut the water off, though both of them are still soapy. "I thought we were partners in all this," he says, and for all the expressions Dean's seen on Sam's face, this is a new one. He's not sure what to call it. It's not anger, exactly, but there's definitely anger in there, too. "I thought things were -- different. Now."

Dean blinks, thrown by that last word. "Now? Instead of--?" And he wants to ask his brother why the hell they're standing there, in the shower, if they're not showering or fucking, or both? But he can't make himself push past Sam; can't make himself do anything but listen.

"Yeah, now," Sam says, with a peculiar emphasis. He snorts at whatever he sees on Dean's face. "Since we've been fucking," he says finally, glaring at Dean. "I thought we were done with the 'big brother protecting little brother' crap; that we'd moved on to being equals--y'know, looking out for each other."

"I can't not," Dean says helplessly, not sure how else to say it, to make Sam understand. "I--you're. My. You're everything, Sammy," he murmurs, heat flushing through him. Jesus, a merciful God would end this right now, put him out of his misery.

"And so what do you think you are to me, Dean? Chopped liver? A convenient lay? Someone I just happen to tag along with? Dude--you're my whole fucking world, okay? I want us to protect each other. To look out for each other, take care of each other. I want to hunt -- or not hunt, whichever -- with you. Shower with you. Fight with you. Bitch with you about stupid people doing stupid things. I want to tease you about the Impala and pick on your music choices, and listen to you whine about what a geek I am, because I like research and reading and crap like that." Sam stops to take a breath and Dean realizes that Sam's moved forward; he's kind of looming over Dean now. "D'you hear what I'm saying, here? Are you listening to me?"

"I hear you, Sammy. I do." Dean wishes he could back up a little more; it's easy to forget how freakin' huge Sam is, recent weight loss aside, because he tends to slouch, trying to make himself smaller.

"Yeah, but are you listening? Because that seems to be where we're having the breakdown." Sam crowds in against Dean, body warm and big and shielding, and all Dean wants to do is move even closer and stay here, pressed together, forever.

Instead he tries a smile; goes for light-hearted and joking. "You're such a fuckin' girl, dude, I swear."

It's the wrong thing to say; the wrong thing to do. Sam growls at him, eyes going dark and hot, his voice a full register below where it usually is. "Goddammit, Dean! This isn't funny and it's not something to joke about, and I just--" He cuts himself off abruptly before grabbing at Dean, big hands coming up to hold Dean's head for a kiss that feels like its devouring him; like Sam's trying to eat him alive.

Dean settles his hands on Sam's waist and kisses back, tasting the desperation and need on Sam's tongue that matches his own.

They spend long, long minutes kissing; making out with a hunger Dean isn't sure can ever be fully assuaged. It's sweet and slick and hot, with the bitterness of sorrow and anger underneath it all. Sam never lets go of Dean, his fingers twining into short hair, gripping as best he can. Dean slides his hands up and down Sam's back, fingertips rubbing over sleek muscle and damp skin, bones standing out in sharp relief beneath. He can map Sam's life from the scars and marks scattered around; knows Sam can do the same with his.

It's a shared map, a shared journey, and Sam gasps when Dean presses his fingers first into the thick scar tissue left from Sam's death two-plus years ago, and then when he digs into the muscles over Sam's left shoulder blade, right where the protection tattoo curls. Bobby gave them the charms right after Sam was possessed and they wore them faithfully, until a year ago when they had the charms tattooed on: Sam's on his left side, Dean's on his right. Side-by-side, like always, like nothing can touch them.

He strokes back down, fingertips skimming lightly until he reaches Sam's left hip and the runes tattooed there; he shivers when Sam mirrors his touch, rubbing over the matching tats Dean has on his right. They're rune bind tats: Berkana for new life, Uruz for strength, Teiwaz as a symbol for warriors and fighting, Algiz for protection, and finally, Wunjo for happiness. It took them six months to decide on the runes and which order they wanted them in, and to find an artist to make the design for them.

Dean rubs harder, remembering the sting of the needle, the electricity that flowed between him and Sam, the buzz afterward that was like no high he'd ever experienced before.

Sam presses his fingers into the small of Dean's back, outlining the Labarum tattooed there. It was part of the ritual Sam worked before literally stealing Dean's soul back from the Demon holding the marker. Dean tries not to think too much about that -- and in fact doesn't remember a lot of it -- but the tat itself is pretty cool, and Sam seems to like to trace it with his tongue, which is also all kinds of okay with Dean.

They each have one tat that doesn't match what the other has: Dean's is the Labarum, and Sam has an Eye of Horus in between his shoulder blades, high up, all gleaming black lines and curves. It was also part of the ritual, protection for Sam. Dean loves to touch it, stroke the curves with fingers and tongue, and feel Sam shudder beneath him. Against him. Feel them shudder and shake as they come apart, together.

Together.

Always together.

"Sam." Dean growls, bites at Sam's mouth, then pulls back. "Sammy. Yes. Yeah, I'm listening. You're right, okay? You're right."

Sam reaches up to cradle Dean's face, one thumb rubbing restlessly over Dean's bottom lip. Dean knows Sam knows what he's going to say, but Sam's a bastard, so of course he's going to make Dean say it. "What'm I right about?"

Dean kisses his thumb, then bites at the fleshy pad. "About--us." He swallows hard, nearly choking on the words. "We. It should be. We should be partners. In stuff." He clears his throat and breathes out, "in everything."

And this is as close as he ever wants to get to a Relationship Talk. Ever, ever, ever.

Sam smiles and leans in close, mouth brushing against Dean's as he whispers, "You are such an idiot."

"Takes one to know one, Sammy," Dean mumbles back, letting Sam swallow the words.

They shift around and Sam lets go with one hand to fumble beside them, and then the water's falling down over them again, warm with a metallic-sweet taste when it drips into Dean's mouth. They're slick against each other, drying soap suds revived with the water, and even though it probably hurts like hell, judging from the hiss, Sam grinds and pushes into Dean, rubbing his dick against Dean's stomach, against Dean's dick, until hunger is roaring through him hot and huge and out-of-control.

He comes with a growl that Sam drinks down, body shaking with the pleasure zinging through him. Sam rocks against him faster, low grunts spilling rhythmically from him with each movement. Dean slides his hand downward, slicking through the mess on his belly before wrapping it around Sam's erection. It only takes a few strokes then, rough and fast, to get Sam off; he comes over Dean's fingers with a soft groan, body stiffening then sagging as he goes limp and boneless against Dean.

Dammit, they're both slippery from the shower, and if Sam pushes them off-balance any more, they'll both go down. "Sam--Sammy. Don't, man, drowning in the shower isn't my idea of a good time."

"Mmm," Sam mumbles, eyes already mostly closed. He's smiling, though, so Dean takes that as a good sign. Just worn out from all the emoting and sexin'.

Dean is all for the latter and hopes never to have to do the former again. Not that he thinks that's likely to happen, but a guy can dream, yeah?

Meanwhile, his sasquatch of a brother is practically sound asleep on his feet in the shower, and Dean really doesn't want either of them to drown. He manhandles Sam around until he can turn the faucets off, then gets them both out, with the bonus of neither of them slipping or falling.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's get you in bed. Naptime for little boys," Dean mutters, drying first himself, and then Sam. Sam snuffles and takes the towel from Dean, opening his eyes partway.

"You sound like a total perv, saying that. And who you callin' little, dude?" He mumbles the words around a smile and a yawn, and rouses himself enough to finish drying off. "Don't remember you having complaints before."

"No complaints," Dean assures him. "Anyway, you might be a huge freak of nature, but you're still my little brother, got it?

"Sweet talk'll get you any--" Sam yawns again, cutting himself off. "Where. Um. Wanna nap with me?"

Dean cocks his head toward the door. "Thought you'd never ask, man. Ladies first."

He isn't sleepy, but it's nice to curl up with Sam. Dean prefers not to think of it as cuddling, and while Sam smirks and rolls his eyes at him, he lets Dean get away with it.

Right now, Sam is not-cuddling, spooned up behind Dean, his arm laid across Dean's chest. Sam's breath is warm against the back of Dean's neck, and when he shifts closer he nuzzles, chin and cheeks rough-soft with a week's worth of beard.

It's the sort of thing that should make Dean leap from the bed to run screaming from the room -- and even as recently as a year ago he probably would have. Or at least moved away -- but that's the last thing he wants to do, now. If anything, he'd like to get closer; wishes he could crawl inside Sam, or absorb Sam into him so they wouldn't ever have to worry about getting hurt or separated or anything else that makes Dean feel raw and vulnerable. Dean blinks back the sting in his eyes and twines his fingers with Sam's, closing his eyes with a sigh when Sam squeezes.

~~~~~

Quiet scuffling outside the windows wakes Dean an undetermined while later, and he reaches for his jeans and the knife under his pillow at the same time. It's dim outside, though not quite dark, and Dean wonders how long they've been asleep. Sam's turned onto his stomach, body loose and relaxed, and as Dean watches his mouth quirks once, just enough for a flash of dimple.

It's disgustingly adorable, and Dean's actually glad to fumble with the knife and prick his finger to break the moment and let him remember he has balls. He's been forgetting that a lot, lately.

The noise isn't nearly as noticeable out in the living room, and Dean frowns as he stands there, listening for it. They're way too far south for it to be a wendigo -- which wouldn't be making scuffling noises in any case -- and he's pretty sure the charms and plants and whatnot laid around the cabin make it pretty impenetrable from your average demons or spirits. He glances out the window, trying to see into the gloom, but it's late enough that the shadows are long and thick, and the only light out there now is fading quickly as the sun finishes setting.

"What is it?" Sam asks quietly from a point right behind Dean's left shoulder.

"Dunno," Dean says, leaning closer toward the window, trying to see more of the porch. "Maybe nothing, but--"

"Your spidey-sense is tingling?" Sam's voice holds a note of amusement under the professional attention.

"Somethin' like that." Dean edges toward the door. "You okay to cover me?"

"Yup," Sam says, and Dean hears the snick of the safety being flicked off; the sharp sound as Sam locks a bullet into the chamber.

"One," Dean begins, settling against the door. He has it unlocked on two, and pulls it open as he says three.

Whatever he's expecting, the shaggy, half-starved, Heinz-57 mutt staring up at him and wagging its tail furiously isn't it. He hears Sam laugh breathlessly, and the click of Sam's gun as he uncocks it and flicks the safety back in place. Dean sets his knife aside and settles down onto his knees in front of the dog, leaning forward to scratch between his ears. He gives Dean an ecstatic look and moves into the touch, tail wagging even faster than before.

"A dog?" Sam lowers himself slowly and a little awkwardly, and settles onto the floor beside Dean before reaching out to the dog. Their fingers collide as they both pet and scratch, and the dog looks like he's in canine heaven, soaking up all the attention. "Aren't we like, out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Kind of, yeah. Maybe a stray, though? Wild dog?"

Sam snorts. "Does this look -- or act -- like a wild dog? I mean, yeah, I can feel his ribs, but instead of attacking us for food, he's about to shake himself apart wagging his tail."

"Whatever, dude." Dean smacks his hands on his thighs and pushes to his feet. "C'mon, mutt. You want something to eat?"

Sam raises an eyebrow and climbs as awkwardly to his feet as he'd sat down. "You're gonna let him in? You don't even like dogs."

Dean stops mid-step. "What're you talking about? I love dogs."

"You did nothing but glare at the dog at that last job in Tennessee--"

"That wasn't a real dog! Sammy, man, that was like, a rat with long hair. It totally violated the guy-code; that dude shoulda been shot when he went outside his house."

Sam laughs. "It wasn't a rat, it was a Pomeranian."

"Like I said: a rat with long hair. That's not a dog. This," he gestures toward the dog, now sitting and smiling up at them, tongue lolling from its mouth, "is a dog."

Dean can almost feel the weight of Sam's eye roll, even facing away from him. "He needs a bath, unless we want this place infested with fleas and ticks."

"Did you just volunteer, Sammy?"

"Pretty sure not. I got this healing incision--"

Dean snorts, and the dog barks. "Didn't stop you from taking advantage of me in the shower, earlier--"

"Take advantage of you? I'm sorry, what?" Sam makes a big production of wiggling a finger in his ear, the smartass, and Dean feels obligated to lay a smack on that ass as he walks past and into the kitchen.

"You heard me. So, huh. What's good to feed a dog?" A quick look in the fridge shows they're getting kind of low on groceries anyway, and Dean frowns, wondering if there's enough money left to get any groceries, never mind dog chow.

Sam crowds up behind him, big and warm. "Dog food. I don't remember you buying any of that."

"You're just itching for a beat-down, aren't you?" Dean contemplates the hotdogs on the top shelf. "Those'll do 'til I can go into town--"

"Until we go into town," Sam says, reaching around him to snag the package. "I'm gonna go stir crazy if I don't get out of here for a little while."

"You sure you're up to it?" Dean frowns when Sam hands him two of the hotdogs, though the dog barks a couple of times before sitting smack in front of him, panting excitedly.

"Yeah. I really do feel a lot better--I need to get up and move around, Dean." Sam scratches lightly at the healing wounds and his incision. "They itch like hell, so that's a good sign."

"Yup." Dean breaks the hotdogs into several pieces and feeds Muttley a couple of pieces at a time, yelping when the dog mistakes one of his fingers for something edible. "Hey, watch it--only one here who gets to bite me is Sam!"

Sam laughs and pulls out another hotdog. "I'm not sure if that shows remarkably good taste on his part, or remarkably bad taste on mine."

"Hey!" Dean gives Sam a wounded look. "Stow it, or I'll cut you off." The skeptical, raised-eyebrow look Sam gives him lets Dean know he isn't fooling anyone. He drops the last couple of pieces of hotdog onto the floor -- ignoring the sigh of disgust from his brother -- and rubs his fingers on his thighs. "So, you wanna go into town now? The Wal-Mart will still be open."

"You're a complete pig, you know that?" Sam lobs a dishtowel at Dean's head and scowls until Dean wipes his hands -- again -- on it. "Do we have any money? I'm sure the hospital cleaned us out pretty good, and I know you haven't been further away than Hank's since we got here."

"The hospital maxed out William Gray's Mastercard, and put him on a payment plan for the rest of it, that he's supposed to start paying on in a month or so." Dean shrugs and throws the towel back at Sam. "Figured we could go get a drink and I'll hustle up a couple games of pool, or something."

Sam hesitates. "There's always the emergency stash--"

"No." Dean scowls. "It's called 'emergency' for a reason, Sam."

"And not having grocery money doesn't qualify?"

"Not if I can find a game of pool. Go get dressed, dude. Can't go to town in just your shorts, no matter how sexy your ass is. Oh, shave, too. Don't want the locals mistaking you for some of the wildlife come to town."

Sam bops him on the back of his head. "Hah hah."

On to Part 2