![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymTitle: A Medley of Extemporanea (Part 2/2, complete)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mickeym
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 6,307 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: See Part 1
~~~~~
They don't get a drink and Dean doesn't find a game to hustle, because as it turns out, Canton, Kentucky is part of Trigg County…which is a 'dry county'. Meaning, among other things, no bars.
They park in a gas station/foodmart parking lot and Dean grabs them a couple of sodas to drink while they consider their options. Of which there don't appear to be many.
"What the fuck, dude?" Dean asks again, even though Sam punches him in the arm. Again. But he can't help himself. It's kind of freaking him out. Who's ever heard of a town with no bars, no drinking, no pool games?
Dean doesn't even need the lights from the gas station to see Sam's scowl. "Seriously, don't ask me again. I got nothin'."
"I just--dry county? No booze? What the fuck?"
"Dean," Sam begins, that one word sounding oh-so-pissy, and then he visibly changes gears and shakes his head. "It's not totally uncommon in some of the southern states, and you know it. I know we had to have stayed in places before that were dry."
Not in any memory Dean can dredge up. He would remember that, wouldn't he? Dean's pretty sure his eyebrows are trying to crawl up into his hairline just from trying, but also--. "Are these people nuts? What the hell do they do for fun?"
"Not everyone equates pool and drinking with fun." Sam leans back against the Impala and takes a long drink of his soda. "It does kinda suck that we can't get a beer, though."
No bar and no pool games also puts a bit of a crimp in the whole getting-food-of-any-sort thing, and they really are getting low: Dean hasn't wanted to leave Sam too much while he was laid up so badly, and now he's kind of at a loss as to what they can do.
"Dude, the emergency stash--"
"Which part of 'no' aren't you getting, Sam?" Dean bumps his shoulder into Sam's and sighs.
"Look. I get that we need to keep some cash on hand and all that, but we also need to eat."
"Yeah, I just--" Just need to know I have some way to take care of you. "I hate emptying us out," is what he ends up saying, and hey, maybe he can do this relationship crap. Or is it a relationship-relationship, since Sam's also his brother? Whoa, those are the sorts of thoughts to be avoided at any cost, since they're almost guaranteed to make him dizzy.
"We could get jobs," Sam begins, and Dean shakes his head.
"You're still hobbling around like an old man, dude. What kind of job d'you think you could get?"
And Sam hits him again. "Something I don't have to run and jump and walk a lot for?"
Dean rubs his arm. "Ow, man. I'm startin' to feel like a domestic violence victim here. Knock it off."
"Then can we please just go get some groceries and go ho--go back to the cabin? We don't have to use all the emergency money, but we need food. And we can sit down and figure out the whole job thing tomorrow. Or next week, or whenever."
"Fine. Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean gulps down the rest of his soda, wishing for the burn of whiskey instead of carbonation, then climbs into the car. "We doing this, or what? Let's go, princess."
Sam shakes his head, but opens his door. "You are such a dickhead."
The Impala roars to life and Dean grins. "But you love me."
The look Sam turns on him is fond. "Yeah, I do."
Dean does his best to ignore the warmth moving through him, but he knows he's not fooling either himself or Sam, especially since he can't stop the grin spreading across his face.
~~~~~
They've been at the cabin for almost a month, and it's starting to feel like fucking home, which makes Dean twitchy and anxious in turns, when he forgets and thinks about it.
Breathing helps, though he's gonna have to graduate to breathing into a paper bag if he's not careful.
Their whole lives have been nothing but chasing this or that supernatural being, while trying to find The One that killed their mom. They've put that demon down, and Dad and Mom are both at rest, and Dean takes a lot of comfort in knowing that he's accomplished everything he always meant to. Trouble is, he's not sure what he's supposed to do now. Everything feels odd, unplanned. Before, it was a comfortable routine of drive, research, scout and recon, then take down some nasty son of a bitch, get a bite to eat, grab some sleep, and start over again the next day.
But now? Now, nothing's the same. Well, it's the same, but it's a different sort of same. Like, one morning Dean wakes up and Sam's in the kitchen making eggs with peppers and mushrooms and onions in them, bacon frying in another pan. Another morning, Dean wakes up first, and he might make pancakes, or he might say fuck it, and eat cereal. Some mornings he sleeps in; some mornings -- the ones where he's forgotten to leave the bedroom door cracked for Muttley to get out -- the damn dog wakes him up with wet, slobbery licks to his face until he gets up and opens the door.
Dean really hopes Connor doesn't mind the doggie door he installed in the back door.
They cook actual food, and clean up the cabin and do stupid, mundane things like make their beds and stock the medicine cabinet and haul the laundry down the rickety stairs to the partial basement where the ancient washer and dryer reside. (It took him a week to realize the door in the kitchen down to the basement was that, and not another closet. Thank god Sam was totally unaware of pretty much everything that first week, or he would never hear the end of it.) Sam acts like the cabin is home, and Dean's of the mind to roll with it until he hears differently.
They both poke half-heartedly at want ads in the paper, but Canton and Cadiz are fairly small towns; there isn't much in the way of jobs, especially with Sam still healing and needing to take it easy. They take a couple of short road trips to neighboring towns that aren't dry, and Dean makes enough at cards and pool to keep them in groceries and cover the cable bill.
He justifies the cable by saying they're out in the middle of nowhere, rabbit-ears just aren't going to cut it. Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean knows Sam's happy to get his internet connection back.
~~~~~
Little things happen: Dean goes with Hank for a weekend of selling carvings and birdhouses and ends up meeting a guy who actually lives in the area, just a couple (long, unpaved, windy) roads up from them. They get to talking and Dave -- "call me Davy, everyone does" -- is impressed with the Impala, and Dean's knowledge of cars in general, and once he finds out Dean literally rebuilt her from the frame up, his eyes light up.
Turns out he owns his own business, appraising and restoring antique and classic cars, and lately business has picked up some. In addition, he wants to expand -- get out there on the internet -- so Dean's happily surprised when Davy asks if he'd be interested in going to work for him.
"It's not going to pay a real lot at first--stuff's on commission, y'know? But you'll get a base salary, and we'll go from there."
"Any is more than nothin'," Dean says, shaking Davy's hand. "Thanks, man."
Davy laughs. "Your Chevy's a mobile billboard, Dean. I'd be an idiot not to snag you."
So, that's a job for Dean that pretty much falls into his lap.
About a month later, Sam's job falls into Dean's lap -- literally, because it turns out Davy is not 'net savvy. Or tech-savvy, for that matter, and Dean happens to be sitting in the general area Davy chucks the "HTML For Dummies" book toward after getting pissed at his lack-of-progress on his website.
Dean wipes his hands off on the rag hanging out of his back pocket and flips through the book before looking up at Davy. "You, uh. I ain't that good with this stuff, man."
Davy shakes his head and manages to look contrite. "Sorry. Didn't mean to throw it at you. And me neither, apparently." He gestures toward the computer, sitting on a rickety desk in the corner of the garage that's been designated as 'the office'. "How 'bout Sam? He any good with this stuff?"
"Sammy kicks ass at this shit." Dean doesn't like to think about the time it took him an hour to figure out that Sam had blocked all porn sites--and then another hour to figure out how to unblock it, only to have Sam turn around and show him how he'd done it in about two minutes. "You want me to see if he'd set up the website for you?"
Davy leans back in his chair and crosses his legs at his ankles, giving Dean a long look before replying. "Yeah, if you don't mind. I'll pay--hell, I'll keep him on retainer to be the web admin." He looks like he wants to say something else, and even opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, though nothing comes out.
"Sure, I'll talk to him," Dean says, then shifts around and sets the book aside. "It's not like he's doing anything but sitting on his ass right now." There's an awkward pause while Davy watches him, and Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Something else?"
Davy bites his lip, then seems to come to a decision within himself. "Y'all aren't really brothers, are you?"
Dean blinks, because he was expecting…pretty much anything but that. "Um--"
"I don't--I don't want details or anything. Really don't," Davy adds, a bit of a flush burning across his cheeks. "And it's none of my business what y'all get up to in the privacy of your own place. I just -- I didn't see nothin', but Terri said, uh. That y'all look at each other sometimes. And, um."
"And what?" Jesus. Dean's heart is beating like it's going to bust out of his chest.
"And brothers--don't." Davy gives Dean a lopsided smile. "Whoa. Okay, that? Was not how I'd, um. Planned to say that. So, uh, sorry for not respecting your privacy, or whatever, and I'll never bring it up again."
Dean gives Davy a weak smile. "No, it's uh, it's cool. We just. Figured, um, y'know. A cover story," he finishes, feeling lame as anything.
Their lives, as a series of cover stories and fake identities. He can't ever be Dean Winchester again, but it'd be nice to be just one person, not changing all the time.
"Yeah." Davy's still flushed and Dean feels like he's been scalded. Geez. "Like I said, I didn't see anything--Terri mentioned it after y'all were here last weekend, and I told her no way, you and Sam are brothers, and she said I'd lost my mind. So I thought I'd…." He trails off awkwardly, and man, this is just a whole lot of awkward going on here.
Dean thinks he should say something, but has no clue what, so the thing that comes out is, "Is this gonna be a problem with me--" he gestures around the shop. "Y'know, with me working here? Is it a problem for you, or Terri?"
"God, no." Davy grimaces. "I'm pretty much a live-and-let-live kind of guy, man. I can't speak for anyone else, obviously, but what you do on your own time is your own business."
"That was why the cover story," Dean mutters, wishing he knew exactly how it was he and Sam were looking at each other, so they could tone it down a notch or ten. Not that it's ever seemed to matter, because people thought they were a couple long before they actually were sleeping together. "Guess we'll just have to be careful."
"I guess?" Davy shrugs. "Like I said, I didn't notice anything. Maybe it's just something women notice. That whole romance thing? I dunno."
Romance? God help him. Or save him. Dean's not feeling picky at the moment.
"Maybe." Dean pulls the rag through his fingers a few more times, then stands up. "So, uh. S'okay if I take off now?"
"Not a problem." Davy's looking at a point just off from Dean's shoulder and yeah, this is kind of awkward. Hopefully, not so much tomorrow, when he has to come back, because this really is a sweet gig and Dean doesn't want it fucked up. "You talk to Sam tonight, about the web thing, okay? And I'll get all my information and stuff together--or maybe he should come over so we can sit down and talk about it? Yeah--do that. Bring him along tomorrow, and you can handle the Mustang while Sam and I talk web design."
Dean's mouth quirks up in a half-smile. Yeah, looks like things will be okay, tomorrow.
So, now they both have jobs. Sort of. And he has a headache.
~~~~~
Sam's on the computer when Dean gets home, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, laptop balanced on his legs and dog curled up against him. All the windows and both front and rear doors are open to catch the breezes, and it's fairly cool, for all it's bright and warm and sunny outside. It's an incredibly…domestic scene, and Dean's torn between pumping his fist at having it, and turning around and running out the door, fleeing in terror.
Instead, he opts for door number three, and leans against the wall for support while he unlaces his boots.
"Wow. No greeting at all for the breadwinner, here? I been slaving all day under a hot car--"
Muttley raises his head and woofs once, and Dean shakes his head. "Nope, it's too little, too la--hey!" A balled-up piece of paper hits him square in the center of his forehead, and Dean glares at his brother. "That whole 'I have a healing incision' thing isn't going to protect you forever, y'know."
"But I'll still be pretty," Sam says, shooting a thousand-watt grin in Dean's direction, complete with dimples and everything. Dean really wants to kiss him. A lot. "So how was work? Get good and greasy?"
"Ew. Dude. Keep your pervy fantasies to yourself." Dean wrinkles his nose then laughs at the look of disgust Sam shoots his way. "Actually, it was pretty interesting, toward the end."
"Yeah?" Sam scoots over and Dean settles on the floor beside him, sighing when his back cracks as he leans back. "Ouch, man."
"Nah, it feels good, actually." He tilts his head back and forth until his neck cracks too, then pokes Sam -- gently -- in the belly. "I got you a job today, if you want it."
Sam's eyebrows go up. "What kind of job?"
"Web design. Davy's pussying out on building his website. He chucked the book out, and everything." Dean wants a beer. Or six. When was the last time he got to tie a good one on? He can't even remember anymore, it's been so long. "And apparently, we got outed to him, by his wife."
"Website? I, wait, what?" Sam looks as shocked as Dean still feels.
"According to Davy, Terri said we couldn't possibly be brothers, based on the way we looked at each other when we were at their house last weekend." Dean shrugs his shoulders. "I got no clue, man."
"Huh." Sam still has the oh-shit-DUCK face on, and he's clearly working his way through all this. Dean wishes him luck, because he's had almost an hour now, and he hasn't figured it out.
~~~~~
"Did you mean it, what you said before?" Sam asks Dean later, when they're sitting at the table, the remains of dinner spread across it.
Dean's in the process of setting his plate down on the floor for Muttley to lick clean, and he pauses to run back over the conversation over dinner. Groceries, need to get some gun oil, check out the dock, make a run to Tennessee next weekend and get some beer--nope, nothing that should inspire that tone and that look.
"Did I mean what?" Dean asks cautiously.
"About not wanting to hunt anymore." Sam gets up from the table to fiddle with the faucets, but Dean can see the tension in his shoulders. Thing is, much as he doesn't want to add to it, to start this argument again, he's not going to back down, either.
"Uh, yeah," Dean says in the tone of voice he usually reserves for 'you dumbass'. "I thought that was pretty clear, Sam." Not to mention a couple weeks ago -- at least.
Sam turns to frown at Dean. "And you're going to be happy not hunting for like, the rest of our lives? After a whole lifetime of that?"
"Are we speaking different languages here? I was ready to quit a while ago."
"You never said anything about it before. About not wanting to hunt anymore." Sam's leaning against the counter now, arms folded across his chest.
"Actually, I did. Back--back before the gate opened, and all that shit, remember? When we were at that town, the one with the demonic virus." He cannot for the life of him remember the name of the town, but Dean will never forget the cold terror of shit, not Sam, can't lose Sam! that faded into resignation and acceptance that he and Sammy were both gonna bite it. "I told you I was tired of hunting, of that life."
Sam chews on his lip a minute before nodding. "Okay, yeah. But that was--that was 'cos of what Dad told you, wasn't it? I mean, I thought it was. You sure acted like you were happy enough with all the hunting after the gate opened."
That's because I thought I was going to die, dipshit. Dean doesn't say the words, but judging by the way Sam narrows his eyes it comes through anyway.
"I've had time to think about it," is what he actually ends up saying, trying desperately to ignore the way his stomach is knotted up and wishing there was some way to teleport himself the fuck out of this conversation.
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Dean holds a hand up. "Lemme finish, okay? I need to say this." He takes a deep breath and tries to organize his thoughts. Not easy when everything about this subject still feels raw. "Look. I don't want to keep running, Sam. I don't want to risk…losing any more. We're all that's left. And I can't lose you. I won't." He smiles half-heartedly at Sam. "I know there's still shit out there. But."
There's so much more Dean wants to say, but can't put into words. All the years of frustration and pain, and loss. He feels guilty about not hunting; thinks about Sam telling him so earnestly that with them out there, Dad wasn't really gone, that they were Dad's legacy that would live on. But all that comes up against the fact that he's still here and he has Sam, and everything else pales in comparison.
He didn't expect to get a second chance. Not that Dean doubted Sam's ability to save him, just, his luck wasn't hardwired toward the good. But he's got it, and he wants to keep it, dammit, even if that means being selfish.
"Dean."
Sam's standing -- squatting, really -- right beside him, and Dean shakes his head, wondering how he missed Sam moving from beside the sink to beside him. "Yeah?"
"I get it, all right? And--if that's. If that's what you want, then it's what I want, too. I won't ask again, okay?" His hand is big and warm, resting on Dean's thigh, and something tight loosens in Dean's chest, warmth cascading through him at the thought of Sam and always and safe. He smiles at Sam.
"Good. And you totally owe me a week's worth of blowjobs for making me do this girly talking shit again."
Sam leans in close, a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. "Definitely not a problem," he whispers, before sealing his mouth over Dean's.
It's a good long while before they actually get the kitchen cleaned up, and Dean wonders later whether dogs can be scarred by witnessing blowjobs.
~~~~~
When the alarm goes off the next morning, Dean is so not ready for it to be sunup. Especially since dawn seems to be coming later, and when the hell did it get to be fall, anyway?
"C'mon, lazybones," Sam says, sounding all morning-person awake, and for half a minute Dean sincerely hates him for it.
"Make morning later, man," he mumbles, tugging his pillow back over his head.
"Doesn't work that way and you know it." Sam's a solid, warm presence against him, which isn't making it any easier for Dean to want to get up. "But if you haul your ass up and out of bed, I'll go make you coffee. I'll even bring it to you."
"I hate you." But Dean's already rolling out of bed, doing his best to ignore the fact that it's still dark outside.
"No you don't." In spite of prodding Dean into getting up, Sam's still sitting on the side of the bed, an odd expression on his face.
"Sam?"
"I don't know how good I'm going to be at web-design," Sam mutters, finally standing up and then fussing over smoothing out the covers on the bed. It got cool last night and they actually dragged the quilts up over them at some point, though when, Dean couldn't say.
"You’ll kick ass and you know it. It’s right up your alley, all geektastic and shit." When he lets himself, Dean still kind of freaks over the idea of having a job that doesn't involve rock-salt or shotguns. He deliberately doesn’t think about how permanent this feels; even though he wants it, thinking about it makes his stomach tighten unpleasantly.
"Yeah, right. Just ‘cos I’m good with a browser doesn’t mean I can design a website. Especially one for a business. Jesus."
“Sam. Dude. Chill, okay?” Dean ambushes Sam on his way to the bathroom, pushing him up against the wall beside the door to kiss him, tongue teasing over Sam’s lips until he relaxes and opens his mouth to kiss Dean back.
Dean gets lost in the taste and feel of Sam; in the way his arms hold Dean close, and the salty-sweet flavor of his skin when Dean licks over Sam’s throat. He moans when Sam returns the favor, biting gently at Dean’s Adam’s apple before sucking on it.
Dean’s all for heading back to bed and seeing how far they can take this, until he remembers work, and that’s definitely a buzz-kill.
“Shit, we gotta—Sam, can’t be late for work, dude—“
It turns out Sam's pretty fucking devious, because he set the alarm for an hour early, and laughs -- full-on, big, happy laugh that Dean hasn't heard much of in a while, and missed a lot -- at the look on Dean's face.
No wonder it's so dark outside. Geez.
For the first time in over two months, Sam leans in close and nips at Dean's ear, and whispers, "Wanna fuck you."
Dean shudders hard and mutters, "God, yes."
Dean's still shivering when Sam draws him back down onto the bed and then takes his time licking, sucking, biting each inch of skin. He pushes Dean until Dean rolls onto his belly, half on his knees, half pressed to the mattress, and then spreads Dean's cheeks open and licks into him until all Dean can think of is how he's going to explode from the heat and pleasure spiraling wetly into and through him.
He pushes back against Sam's tongue, wanting more, wanting it harder and faster and deeper, groaning when Sam draws back and presses two slick fingers deep inside.
"Missed this," Sam says, voice rough and breathless. "You're so fucking hot, Dean."
"Nngh," is about all Dean manages, his hips snapping back and forth in time to Sam's fingers fucking him. "Jesus, fuck me, Sammy. I need--."
Sam brushes kisses against the back of Dean's neck and bites into his throat, scraping his teeth down the length. "I know what you need," he whispers, tracing back up the scrapes with his tongue while he works his fingers deeper, twisting and rubbing until Dean's seeing stars every time Sam rubs over his prostate. "Need it, too. Need you so bad."
Dean honest-to-god fucking whines when Sam shifts away, sliding his fingers out. Dean stays where he is, panting into the sheets, waiting to feel the mattress dip; waiting to feel Sam's heat against him again. He turns his head to watch Sam move to the dresser to grab the lube, tall and graceful again; no more awkward stumbling from pain, no more holding himself carefully against jostling and bumping.
Though he would deny it with his last breath, Dean loves to look at Sam. Fully erect, he's gorgeous, his dick curving up and away from his body, flushed with blood and shiny-slick at the tip where he's started to leak. It makes Dean ache to feel him, thick and long and hot, sliding deep inside him, so big it'll burn and sting until his body stretches and accepts it. He shudders and groans low in his throat when Sam catches him watching and reaches for himself, stroking up and down the length of his erection slowly, fingers teasing the tip, smearing those clear drops of pre-come, all the while holding Dean's gaze with his own.
"Fucking cock-tease, get over here and fuck me," Dean growls, drawing up on his knees a little. His dick is going to break off if he gets any harder and he hisses when he skims his fingertips over it.
"I'm getting to it." Sam stands there, though, just stroking himself, watching Dean. "I wanna see you touch yourself."
"Dude, I do that, I'm gonna come all over myself." But resistance is kind of pointless -- not to mention impossible -- with Sam's eyes dark and hot on him, so Dean takes himself in hand and strokes slowly from root to tip, thumb smearing through the moisture leaking out, then dipping to rub over the bundle of nerves. "Christ," he moans softly, Sam's gazing burning him.
"Love watching you," Sam says, coming back beside the bed, lube in hand. "The way you look."
"Less talking, more fucking," Dean mutters, chewing his bottom lip to keep from spilling a bunch of words himself.
"Impatient?" Sam laughs, but he doesn't give Dean a chance to answer. Just kind of…swoops in and kisses him, tongue sweet and hot and slick as it slides into Dean's mouth.
They fuck face-to-face, Sam big and heavy against Dean, holding him down on the bed. Penetration burns like a bitch; Sam's dick is thick and wide, and two fingers and some tongue action don't make up for two months of nothing. But it's a sweet burn, the throb eased when Sam holds still, waiting for Dean to relax until he can slide all the way in.
It's slow and easy at first, some of the earlier urgency faded under the weight of first-time-in-a-while. Sam licks at the drops of sweat Dean feels slipping down his throat, then nuzzles at Dean's jaw. Nuzzling turns to long, deep kisses that steal away the little bit of breath Dean has left, leaving languid heat moving through him in lazy waves.
Urgency returns with each stroke in and out, languid heat turning brighthot as it winds through him, wrapping around nerve endings and sparking behind his eyelids. Sam bites at Dean's mouth, at his throat, pulling low growls and moans from him with each one.
"Marking your territory?" Dean manages, tilting his head back to give Sam better access.
Sam thrusts into him and grunts, "Yes," and damn if that doesn't make Dean harder and hungrier for him. He grips Sam's shoulders tighter and moves, shifting under Sam to meet his thrusts better.
"Faster, Sam, Jesus," he grits out, voice rough and hoarse. "C'mon--"
Sam growls something under his breath, and before Dean can blink his knees are up by his ears and Sam's fucking hard and fast into him, the air around them filled with slick, wet sounds.
"Jack yourself," Sam pants, mouth hovering right above Dean's. "C'mon, wanna feel it. Wanna feel you come around me."
Dean works his hand in between them, shuddering when he wraps it around his dick. So good, his hand on his dick and Sam's dick in him. Each thrust hits just right, now, making pleasure slide thick and hot through him, and he's not going to last very long at all like this.
Sam's whispering something, the words lost in a blur of heat and want and more. Dean clings to Sam's shoulder with his free hand, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat swirling around them.
"C'mon," Sam mutters, and Dean groans as heat sweeps through him, a flashfire of sensation that zips from his toes to his head and back down again. He hears Sam's echoing groan as he tightens around him, body clenching through each spasm. He coats his fingers and belly with thick, wet heat; is still wringing the last few drops and the last jolts of pleasure out of himself when Sam grunts and slams into him, shuddering as he comes. Dean closes his eyes and rides out the pleasure of Sam pulsing deep inside him, his hand still lightly stroking himself through it.
Sam kind of…collapses…on Dean when he's done, which is bad, because he's really fucking heavy. Of the good, though, is a blanket of Sammy draped over him and around him, and just plain covering him. Dean decides breathing is overrated and closes his eyes to let the post-sex stupor flow over him.
"Dean. Dean, you can't go back to sleep." The whole bed is vibrating with the force of Sam shaking his shoulder.
Dean tries valiantly to shrug him off. "Lemme alone, Jesus."
"I usually just go by 'Sam'." It's delivered in a perfectly dry tone, but when Dean cracks one eye open, Sam's smiling at him. Dimples and everything. How's he supposed to resist that?
"Fuck. S'not nice to fuck me when I gotta get back up."
The bed dips as Sam rolls over and off. "I know you like time to cuddle afterward, but--"
Dean's upright before he has time to process he's moved. "Oh, you are so going down for that--"
Sam's lucky he has long legs and quick responses, though it's clear to Dean from the shout of laughter that rings out that he's not taking the whole potential-for-death thing too seriously.
Bitch.
~~~~~
Friday, Davy lets Dean off early, since he and Terri are going out of town for a long weekend. Sam's working at home -- has for the last two days, since web design apparently can be done anywhere and Sam's more comfortable on their couch, with Muttley asleep at his feet.
That's what Dean's expecting to find when he comes through the door, calling out, "Looocy, I'm hoooome," in the fakest Cuban accent he can manage. Muttley's asleep in a fading puddle of sunshine on the big woven rug in front of the couch, only raising his head for a soft woof when Dean drops his boots.
"Where's Sammy, Mutt?"
The dog woofs again, and that's when Dean sees the note on the table.
Dean--
Hank dropped by earlier and brought beer. There's some in the fridge.
I'm down on the dock. If you get yourself a beer, bring me one. I waited for you to get home.
--S
Beer. God bless Hank.
That's upped to considering Godhood for him when Dean opens the fridge and sees it's MGD. There's a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Tequila -- Cuervo Gold -- sitting on the counter, too, and Dean adds fresh limes to his mental list of Things To Get At The Store tomorrow.
He grabs two bottles out and pops the caps off both, and is in the process of elbowing the back door open when it occurs to him he's in sock feet. Ah, well. Not like he's never dug slivers out of his feet before.
Five steps down, and damn it's already getting twilight-ish out.
"Sammy?"
"Down here," Sam calls back, voice looping in an echo for a minute. "Hey," he adds, when Dean steps onto the dock a minute later. "Saw my note, huh?"
"God bless Hank," Dean says, handing one of the bottles over. "Whatcha doin' out here? I figured you'd be curled up with your computer, sittin' in the sun."
"Mmm," is Sam's most unintelligible reply, around a healthy swallow. "I was, for a while. Picked up the mail, and after Hank stopped by, I thought I'd come down here. It's peaceful."
"Yeah." Dean takes a swallow himself, savoring the cold, crisp bubbles washing over his tongue.
A fish jumps, somewhere out away from their dock; Dean hears the slap of its body against the water and imagines the ripples spreading outward, fading as they get further from the center. Might be nice to go fishing some weekend. Just sit out there and relax.
"Hey." Sam's voice is warm, close to his ear, and Dean quirks his mouth up at the corner.
"Hmm?"
"You like it here?"
Now what kind of question is that? Dean turns his head to look at Sam, trying to figure out what's going on in that head of his. Dean's actually gotten kind of attached to Lake Barkley, and Kentucky, and caught himself looking at real estate sites the other night. "Uh--yeah," he says cautiously. "Why?"
"Because it looks like this place is ours," Sam says, and holds out a sheaf of folded papers.
"Huh?" Is about all Dean can manage as he raises the papers up close to his face, wishing the light was a little stronger.
The top page is a deed, proclaiming the cabin, the lakeshore adjacent to it, and a parcel of land as belonging to Sam and Dean Winchester, signed over by Robert Connor Singer.
"That sneaky sonofabitch," Dean mutters, flipping the pages. "He--Jesus. Jesus, Sam." He looks up at Sam. "Did you know?"
Sam shakes his head. "The only thing I knew was what you told me: Bobby knew someone who had a cabin we could borrow for a while."
"I think we totally got played, Sammy."
Sam smiles. "I think you're right. Question is, what're we gonna do about it?"
"What d'you mean?"
"We can't--keep it, can we? That's…it's a cabin, Dean."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? Didn't you just ask me if I like it here? Don't you like it here?"
Sam sighs. "I love it here. But it's." He shakes his head. "Bobby's giving us a cabin? That's not weird?"
"Maybe? But does it really matter?" Dean's not sure what Sam's problem is. "He wouldn't have done it if he didn't want to." He shuffles through the papers, and a small slip of notebook paper falls out, fluttering down to the dock. One look at the chicken scratches has Dean handing it off to Sam. "Not even gonna try reading it. You burn your eyes out."
Dean's sure Sam rolls his eyes, but it's shadowy enough now he can't tell for sure. He definitely hears the sigh of I'm-humoring-you.
"'Sam and Dean. Hopefully this will keep you boys out of trouble for a good many years to come, since I'm getting too damn old to keep haring off across the country to get you out of it. It's been in the family for a while, passed down through a few generations. I don't have any family of my own, but the two of you are close enough. Take care of it, and pass it along to someone else who might need it one day, when you don't need it any longer. Signed, Bobby.'"
The silence draws out after Sam finishes reading the note while they both process it. The sound of scuffling pulls Dean out of his contemplation of the lake, and the way the setting sun makes it look purple in places, and he glances down at Sam, stretching out on the dock.
"Comfy, princess?"
"Screw you," Sam answers, no heat in the words. "So--do we stay?"
Dean's quiet for a minute, thinking of the twitches he still gets when he realizes he's settling…and of the peace that comes more and more often. "I'd like to," he says, finally. "You?"
Sam tugs on his arm until Dean lies against him -- carefully, mindful to keep his head on Sam's chest and not his abdomen -- and Sam can card his fingers through Dean's hair. "Yeah," he says, the word soft, almost too soft to be heard, if Dean weren't right there. "I want to stay."
The sunburst expanding inside Dean's chest burns a little hotter, a little brighter, and increases when Sam twines their fingers together and whispers, "I want to stay here, with you."
Dean squeezes Sam's hand. Right here, with Sam. Sounds perfect to him.
~Fin~
Author:
mickeymPairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 6,307 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: See Part 1
They don't get a drink and Dean doesn't find a game to hustle, because as it turns out, Canton, Kentucky is part of Trigg County…which is a 'dry county'. Meaning, among other things, no bars.
They park in a gas station/foodmart parking lot and Dean grabs them a couple of sodas to drink while they consider their options. Of which there don't appear to be many.
"What the fuck, dude?" Dean asks again, even though Sam punches him in the arm. Again. But he can't help himself. It's kind of freaking him out. Who's ever heard of a town with no bars, no drinking, no pool games?
Dean doesn't even need the lights from the gas station to see Sam's scowl. "Seriously, don't ask me again. I got nothin'."
"I just--dry county? No booze? What the fuck?"
"Dean," Sam begins, that one word sounding oh-so-pissy, and then he visibly changes gears and shakes his head. "It's not totally uncommon in some of the southern states, and you know it. I know we had to have stayed in places before that were dry."
Not in any memory Dean can dredge up. He would remember that, wouldn't he? Dean's pretty sure his eyebrows are trying to crawl up into his hairline just from trying, but also--. "Are these people nuts? What the hell do they do for fun?"
"Not everyone equates pool and drinking with fun." Sam leans back against the Impala and takes a long drink of his soda. "It does kinda suck that we can't get a beer, though."
No bar and no pool games also puts a bit of a crimp in the whole getting-food-of-any-sort thing, and they really are getting low: Dean hasn't wanted to leave Sam too much while he was laid up so badly, and now he's kind of at a loss as to what they can do.
"Dude, the emergency stash--"
"Which part of 'no' aren't you getting, Sam?" Dean bumps his shoulder into Sam's and sighs.
"Look. I get that we need to keep some cash on hand and all that, but we also need to eat."
"Yeah, I just--" Just need to know I have some way to take care of you. "I hate emptying us out," is what he ends up saying, and hey, maybe he can do this relationship crap. Or is it a relationship-relationship, since Sam's also his brother? Whoa, those are the sorts of thoughts to be avoided at any cost, since they're almost guaranteed to make him dizzy.
"We could get jobs," Sam begins, and Dean shakes his head.
"You're still hobbling around like an old man, dude. What kind of job d'you think you could get?"
And Sam hits him again. "Something I don't have to run and jump and walk a lot for?"
Dean rubs his arm. "Ow, man. I'm startin' to feel like a domestic violence victim here. Knock it off."
"Then can we please just go get some groceries and go ho--go back to the cabin? We don't have to use all the emergency money, but we need food. And we can sit down and figure out the whole job thing tomorrow. Or next week, or whenever."
"Fine. Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean gulps down the rest of his soda, wishing for the burn of whiskey instead of carbonation, then climbs into the car. "We doing this, or what? Let's go, princess."
Sam shakes his head, but opens his door. "You are such a dickhead."
The Impala roars to life and Dean grins. "But you love me."
The look Sam turns on him is fond. "Yeah, I do."
Dean does his best to ignore the warmth moving through him, but he knows he's not fooling either himself or Sam, especially since he can't stop the grin spreading across his face.
They've been at the cabin for almost a month, and it's starting to feel like fucking home, which makes Dean twitchy and anxious in turns, when he forgets and thinks about it.
Breathing helps, though he's gonna have to graduate to breathing into a paper bag if he's not careful.
Their whole lives have been nothing but chasing this or that supernatural being, while trying to find The One that killed their mom. They've put that demon down, and Dad and Mom are both at rest, and Dean takes a lot of comfort in knowing that he's accomplished everything he always meant to. Trouble is, he's not sure what he's supposed to do now. Everything feels odd, unplanned. Before, it was a comfortable routine of drive, research, scout and recon, then take down some nasty son of a bitch, get a bite to eat, grab some sleep, and start over again the next day.
But now? Now, nothing's the same. Well, it's the same, but it's a different sort of same. Like, one morning Dean wakes up and Sam's in the kitchen making eggs with peppers and mushrooms and onions in them, bacon frying in another pan. Another morning, Dean wakes up first, and he might make pancakes, or he might say fuck it, and eat cereal. Some mornings he sleeps in; some mornings -- the ones where he's forgotten to leave the bedroom door cracked for Muttley to get out -- the damn dog wakes him up with wet, slobbery licks to his face until he gets up and opens the door.
Dean really hopes Connor doesn't mind the doggie door he installed in the back door.
They cook actual food, and clean up the cabin and do stupid, mundane things like make their beds and stock the medicine cabinet and haul the laundry down the rickety stairs to the partial basement where the ancient washer and dryer reside. (It took him a week to realize the door in the kitchen down to the basement was that, and not another closet. Thank god Sam was totally unaware of pretty much everything that first week, or he would never hear the end of it.) Sam acts like the cabin is home, and Dean's of the mind to roll with it until he hears differently.
They both poke half-heartedly at want ads in the paper, but Canton and Cadiz are fairly small towns; there isn't much in the way of jobs, especially with Sam still healing and needing to take it easy. They take a couple of short road trips to neighboring towns that aren't dry, and Dean makes enough at cards and pool to keep them in groceries and cover the cable bill.
He justifies the cable by saying they're out in the middle of nowhere, rabbit-ears just aren't going to cut it. Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean knows Sam's happy to get his internet connection back.
Little things happen: Dean goes with Hank for a weekend of selling carvings and birdhouses and ends up meeting a guy who actually lives in the area, just a couple (long, unpaved, windy) roads up from them. They get to talking and Dave -- "call me Davy, everyone does" -- is impressed with the Impala, and Dean's knowledge of cars in general, and once he finds out Dean literally rebuilt her from the frame up, his eyes light up.
Turns out he owns his own business, appraising and restoring antique and classic cars, and lately business has picked up some. In addition, he wants to expand -- get out there on the internet -- so Dean's happily surprised when Davy asks if he'd be interested in going to work for him.
"It's not going to pay a real lot at first--stuff's on commission, y'know? But you'll get a base salary, and we'll go from there."
"Any is more than nothin'," Dean says, shaking Davy's hand. "Thanks, man."
Davy laughs. "Your Chevy's a mobile billboard, Dean. I'd be an idiot not to snag you."
So, that's a job for Dean that pretty much falls into his lap.
About a month later, Sam's job falls into Dean's lap -- literally, because it turns out Davy is not 'net savvy. Or tech-savvy, for that matter, and Dean happens to be sitting in the general area Davy chucks the "HTML For Dummies" book toward after getting pissed at his lack-of-progress on his website.
Dean wipes his hands off on the rag hanging out of his back pocket and flips through the book before looking up at Davy. "You, uh. I ain't that good with this stuff, man."
Davy shakes his head and manages to look contrite. "Sorry. Didn't mean to throw it at you. And me neither, apparently." He gestures toward the computer, sitting on a rickety desk in the corner of the garage that's been designated as 'the office'. "How 'bout Sam? He any good with this stuff?"
"Sammy kicks ass at this shit." Dean doesn't like to think about the time it took him an hour to figure out that Sam had blocked all porn sites--and then another hour to figure out how to unblock it, only to have Sam turn around and show him how he'd done it in about two minutes. "You want me to see if he'd set up the website for you?"
Davy leans back in his chair and crosses his legs at his ankles, giving Dean a long look before replying. "Yeah, if you don't mind. I'll pay--hell, I'll keep him on retainer to be the web admin." He looks like he wants to say something else, and even opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, though nothing comes out.
"Sure, I'll talk to him," Dean says, then shifts around and sets the book aside. "It's not like he's doing anything but sitting on his ass right now." There's an awkward pause while Davy watches him, and Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Something else?"
Davy bites his lip, then seems to come to a decision within himself. "Y'all aren't really brothers, are you?"
Dean blinks, because he was expecting…pretty much anything but that. "Um--"
"I don't--I don't want details or anything. Really don't," Davy adds, a bit of a flush burning across his cheeks. "And it's none of my business what y'all get up to in the privacy of your own place. I just -- I didn't see nothin', but Terri said, uh. That y'all look at each other sometimes. And, um."
"And what?" Jesus. Dean's heart is beating like it's going to bust out of his chest.
"And brothers--don't." Davy gives Dean a lopsided smile. "Whoa. Okay, that? Was not how I'd, um. Planned to say that. So, uh, sorry for not respecting your privacy, or whatever, and I'll never bring it up again."
Dean gives Davy a weak smile. "No, it's uh, it's cool. We just. Figured, um, y'know. A cover story," he finishes, feeling lame as anything.
Their lives, as a series of cover stories and fake identities. He can't ever be Dean Winchester again, but it'd be nice to be just one person, not changing all the time.
"Yeah." Davy's still flushed and Dean feels like he's been scalded. Geez. "Like I said, I didn't see anything--Terri mentioned it after y'all were here last weekend, and I told her no way, you and Sam are brothers, and she said I'd lost my mind. So I thought I'd…." He trails off awkwardly, and man, this is just a whole lot of awkward going on here.
Dean thinks he should say something, but has no clue what, so the thing that comes out is, "Is this gonna be a problem with me--" he gestures around the shop. "Y'know, with me working here? Is it a problem for you, or Terri?"
"God, no." Davy grimaces. "I'm pretty much a live-and-let-live kind of guy, man. I can't speak for anyone else, obviously, but what you do on your own time is your own business."
"That was why the cover story," Dean mutters, wishing he knew exactly how it was he and Sam were looking at each other, so they could tone it down a notch or ten. Not that it's ever seemed to matter, because people thought they were a couple long before they actually were sleeping together. "Guess we'll just have to be careful."
"I guess?" Davy shrugs. "Like I said, I didn't notice anything. Maybe it's just something women notice. That whole romance thing? I dunno."
Romance? God help him. Or save him. Dean's not feeling picky at the moment.
"Maybe." Dean pulls the rag through his fingers a few more times, then stands up. "So, uh. S'okay if I take off now?"
"Not a problem." Davy's looking at a point just off from Dean's shoulder and yeah, this is kind of awkward. Hopefully, not so much tomorrow, when he has to come back, because this really is a sweet gig and Dean doesn't want it fucked up. "You talk to Sam tonight, about the web thing, okay? And I'll get all my information and stuff together--or maybe he should come over so we can sit down and talk about it? Yeah--do that. Bring him along tomorrow, and you can handle the Mustang while Sam and I talk web design."
Dean's mouth quirks up in a half-smile. Yeah, looks like things will be okay, tomorrow.
So, now they both have jobs. Sort of. And he has a headache.
Sam's on the computer when Dean gets home, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, laptop balanced on his legs and dog curled up against him. All the windows and both front and rear doors are open to catch the breezes, and it's fairly cool, for all it's bright and warm and sunny outside. It's an incredibly…domestic scene, and Dean's torn between pumping his fist at having it, and turning around and running out the door, fleeing in terror.
Instead, he opts for door number three, and leans against the wall for support while he unlaces his boots.
"Wow. No greeting at all for the breadwinner, here? I been slaving all day under a hot car--"
Muttley raises his head and woofs once, and Dean shakes his head. "Nope, it's too little, too la--hey!" A balled-up piece of paper hits him square in the center of his forehead, and Dean glares at his brother. "That whole 'I have a healing incision' thing isn't going to protect you forever, y'know."
"But I'll still be pretty," Sam says, shooting a thousand-watt grin in Dean's direction, complete with dimples and everything. Dean really wants to kiss him. A lot. "So how was work? Get good and greasy?"
"Ew. Dude. Keep your pervy fantasies to yourself." Dean wrinkles his nose then laughs at the look of disgust Sam shoots his way. "Actually, it was pretty interesting, toward the end."
"Yeah?" Sam scoots over and Dean settles on the floor beside him, sighing when his back cracks as he leans back. "Ouch, man."
"Nah, it feels good, actually." He tilts his head back and forth until his neck cracks too, then pokes Sam -- gently -- in the belly. "I got you a job today, if you want it."
Sam's eyebrows go up. "What kind of job?"
"Web design. Davy's pussying out on building his website. He chucked the book out, and everything." Dean wants a beer. Or six. When was the last time he got to tie a good one on? He can't even remember anymore, it's been so long. "And apparently, we got outed to him, by his wife."
"Website? I, wait, what?" Sam looks as shocked as Dean still feels.
"According to Davy, Terri said we couldn't possibly be brothers, based on the way we looked at each other when we were at their house last weekend." Dean shrugs his shoulders. "I got no clue, man."
"Huh." Sam still has the oh-shit-DUCK face on, and he's clearly working his way through all this. Dean wishes him luck, because he's had almost an hour now, and he hasn't figured it out.
"Did you mean it, what you said before?" Sam asks Dean later, when they're sitting at the table, the remains of dinner spread across it.
Dean's in the process of setting his plate down on the floor for Muttley to lick clean, and he pauses to run back over the conversation over dinner. Groceries, need to get some gun oil, check out the dock, make a run to Tennessee next weekend and get some beer--nope, nothing that should inspire that tone and that look.
"Did I mean what?" Dean asks cautiously.
"About not wanting to hunt anymore." Sam gets up from the table to fiddle with the faucets, but Dean can see the tension in his shoulders. Thing is, much as he doesn't want to add to it, to start this argument again, he's not going to back down, either.
"Uh, yeah," Dean says in the tone of voice he usually reserves for 'you dumbass'. "I thought that was pretty clear, Sam." Not to mention a couple weeks ago -- at least.
Sam turns to frown at Dean. "And you're going to be happy not hunting for like, the rest of our lives? After a whole lifetime of that?"
"Are we speaking different languages here? I was ready to quit a while ago."
"You never said anything about it before. About not wanting to hunt anymore." Sam's leaning against the counter now, arms folded across his chest.
"Actually, I did. Back--back before the gate opened, and all that shit, remember? When we were at that town, the one with the demonic virus." He cannot for the life of him remember the name of the town, but Dean will never forget the cold terror of shit, not Sam, can't lose Sam! that faded into resignation and acceptance that he and Sammy were both gonna bite it. "I told you I was tired of hunting, of that life."
Sam chews on his lip a minute before nodding. "Okay, yeah. But that was--that was 'cos of what Dad told you, wasn't it? I mean, I thought it was. You sure acted like you were happy enough with all the hunting after the gate opened."
That's because I thought I was going to die, dipshit. Dean doesn't say the words, but judging by the way Sam narrows his eyes it comes through anyway.
"I've had time to think about it," is what he actually ends up saying, trying desperately to ignore the way his stomach is knotted up and wishing there was some way to teleport himself the fuck out of this conversation.
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Dean holds a hand up. "Lemme finish, okay? I need to say this." He takes a deep breath and tries to organize his thoughts. Not easy when everything about this subject still feels raw. "Look. I don't want to keep running, Sam. I don't want to risk…losing any more. We're all that's left. And I can't lose you. I won't." He smiles half-heartedly at Sam. "I know there's still shit out there. But."
There's so much more Dean wants to say, but can't put into words. All the years of frustration and pain, and loss. He feels guilty about not hunting; thinks about Sam telling him so earnestly that with them out there, Dad wasn't really gone, that they were Dad's legacy that would live on. But all that comes up against the fact that he's still here and he has Sam, and everything else pales in comparison.
He didn't expect to get a second chance. Not that Dean doubted Sam's ability to save him, just, his luck wasn't hardwired toward the good. But he's got it, and he wants to keep it, dammit, even if that means being selfish.
"Dean."
Sam's standing -- squatting, really -- right beside him, and Dean shakes his head, wondering how he missed Sam moving from beside the sink to beside him. "Yeah?"
"I get it, all right? And--if that's. If that's what you want, then it's what I want, too. I won't ask again, okay?" His hand is big and warm, resting on Dean's thigh, and something tight loosens in Dean's chest, warmth cascading through him at the thought of Sam and always and safe. He smiles at Sam.
"Good. And you totally owe me a week's worth of blowjobs for making me do this girly talking shit again."
Sam leans in close, a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. "Definitely not a problem," he whispers, before sealing his mouth over Dean's.
It's a good long while before they actually get the kitchen cleaned up, and Dean wonders later whether dogs can be scarred by witnessing blowjobs.
When the alarm goes off the next morning, Dean is so not ready for it to be sunup. Especially since dawn seems to be coming later, and when the hell did it get to be fall, anyway?
"C'mon, lazybones," Sam says, sounding all morning-person awake, and for half a minute Dean sincerely hates him for it.
"Make morning later, man," he mumbles, tugging his pillow back over his head.
"Doesn't work that way and you know it." Sam's a solid, warm presence against him, which isn't making it any easier for Dean to want to get up. "But if you haul your ass up and out of bed, I'll go make you coffee. I'll even bring it to you."
"I hate you." But Dean's already rolling out of bed, doing his best to ignore the fact that it's still dark outside.
"No you don't." In spite of prodding Dean into getting up, Sam's still sitting on the side of the bed, an odd expression on his face.
"Sam?"
"I don't know how good I'm going to be at web-design," Sam mutters, finally standing up and then fussing over smoothing out the covers on the bed. It got cool last night and they actually dragged the quilts up over them at some point, though when, Dean couldn't say.
"You’ll kick ass and you know it. It’s right up your alley, all geektastic and shit." When he lets himself, Dean still kind of freaks over the idea of having a job that doesn't involve rock-salt or shotguns. He deliberately doesn’t think about how permanent this feels; even though he wants it, thinking about it makes his stomach tighten unpleasantly.
"Yeah, right. Just ‘cos I’m good with a browser doesn’t mean I can design a website. Especially one for a business. Jesus."
“Sam. Dude. Chill, okay?” Dean ambushes Sam on his way to the bathroom, pushing him up against the wall beside the door to kiss him, tongue teasing over Sam’s lips until he relaxes and opens his mouth to kiss Dean back.
Dean gets lost in the taste and feel of Sam; in the way his arms hold Dean close, and the salty-sweet flavor of his skin when Dean licks over Sam’s throat. He moans when Sam returns the favor, biting gently at Dean’s Adam’s apple before sucking on it.
Dean’s all for heading back to bed and seeing how far they can take this, until he remembers work, and that’s definitely a buzz-kill.
“Shit, we gotta—Sam, can’t be late for work, dude—“
It turns out Sam's pretty fucking devious, because he set the alarm for an hour early, and laughs -- full-on, big, happy laugh that Dean hasn't heard much of in a while, and missed a lot -- at the look on Dean's face.
No wonder it's so dark outside. Geez.
For the first time in over two months, Sam leans in close and nips at Dean's ear, and whispers, "Wanna fuck you."
Dean shudders hard and mutters, "God, yes."
Dean's still shivering when Sam draws him back down onto the bed and then takes his time licking, sucking, biting each inch of skin. He pushes Dean until Dean rolls onto his belly, half on his knees, half pressed to the mattress, and then spreads Dean's cheeks open and licks into him until all Dean can think of is how he's going to explode from the heat and pleasure spiraling wetly into and through him.
He pushes back against Sam's tongue, wanting more, wanting it harder and faster and deeper, groaning when Sam draws back and presses two slick fingers deep inside.
"Missed this," Sam says, voice rough and breathless. "You're so fucking hot, Dean."
"Nngh," is about all Dean manages, his hips snapping back and forth in time to Sam's fingers fucking him. "Jesus, fuck me, Sammy. I need--."
Sam brushes kisses against the back of Dean's neck and bites into his throat, scraping his teeth down the length. "I know what you need," he whispers, tracing back up the scrapes with his tongue while he works his fingers deeper, twisting and rubbing until Dean's seeing stars every time Sam rubs over his prostate. "Need it, too. Need you so bad."
Dean honest-to-god fucking whines when Sam shifts away, sliding his fingers out. Dean stays where he is, panting into the sheets, waiting to feel the mattress dip; waiting to feel Sam's heat against him again. He turns his head to watch Sam move to the dresser to grab the lube, tall and graceful again; no more awkward stumbling from pain, no more holding himself carefully against jostling and bumping.
Though he would deny it with his last breath, Dean loves to look at Sam. Fully erect, he's gorgeous, his dick curving up and away from his body, flushed with blood and shiny-slick at the tip where he's started to leak. It makes Dean ache to feel him, thick and long and hot, sliding deep inside him, so big it'll burn and sting until his body stretches and accepts it. He shudders and groans low in his throat when Sam catches him watching and reaches for himself, stroking up and down the length of his erection slowly, fingers teasing the tip, smearing those clear drops of pre-come, all the while holding Dean's gaze with his own.
"Fucking cock-tease, get over here and fuck me," Dean growls, drawing up on his knees a little. His dick is going to break off if he gets any harder and he hisses when he skims his fingertips over it.
"I'm getting to it." Sam stands there, though, just stroking himself, watching Dean. "I wanna see you touch yourself."
"Dude, I do that, I'm gonna come all over myself." But resistance is kind of pointless -- not to mention impossible -- with Sam's eyes dark and hot on him, so Dean takes himself in hand and strokes slowly from root to tip, thumb smearing through the moisture leaking out, then dipping to rub over the bundle of nerves. "Christ," he moans softly, Sam's gazing burning him.
"Love watching you," Sam says, coming back beside the bed, lube in hand. "The way you look."
"Less talking, more fucking," Dean mutters, chewing his bottom lip to keep from spilling a bunch of words himself.
"Impatient?" Sam laughs, but he doesn't give Dean a chance to answer. Just kind of…swoops in and kisses him, tongue sweet and hot and slick as it slides into Dean's mouth.
They fuck face-to-face, Sam big and heavy against Dean, holding him down on the bed. Penetration burns like a bitch; Sam's dick is thick and wide, and two fingers and some tongue action don't make up for two months of nothing. But it's a sweet burn, the throb eased when Sam holds still, waiting for Dean to relax until he can slide all the way in.
It's slow and easy at first, some of the earlier urgency faded under the weight of first-time-in-a-while. Sam licks at the drops of sweat Dean feels slipping down his throat, then nuzzles at Dean's jaw. Nuzzling turns to long, deep kisses that steal away the little bit of breath Dean has left, leaving languid heat moving through him in lazy waves.
Urgency returns with each stroke in and out, languid heat turning brighthot as it winds through him, wrapping around nerve endings and sparking behind his eyelids. Sam bites at Dean's mouth, at his throat, pulling low growls and moans from him with each one.
"Marking your territory?" Dean manages, tilting his head back to give Sam better access.
Sam thrusts into him and grunts, "Yes," and damn if that doesn't make Dean harder and hungrier for him. He grips Sam's shoulders tighter and moves, shifting under Sam to meet his thrusts better.
"Faster, Sam, Jesus," he grits out, voice rough and hoarse. "C'mon--"
Sam growls something under his breath, and before Dean can blink his knees are up by his ears and Sam's fucking hard and fast into him, the air around them filled with slick, wet sounds.
"Jack yourself," Sam pants, mouth hovering right above Dean's. "C'mon, wanna feel it. Wanna feel you come around me."
Dean works his hand in between them, shuddering when he wraps it around his dick. So good, his hand on his dick and Sam's dick in him. Each thrust hits just right, now, making pleasure slide thick and hot through him, and he's not going to last very long at all like this.
Sam's whispering something, the words lost in a blur of heat and want and more. Dean clings to Sam's shoulder with his free hand, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat swirling around them.
"C'mon," Sam mutters, and Dean groans as heat sweeps through him, a flashfire of sensation that zips from his toes to his head and back down again. He hears Sam's echoing groan as he tightens around him, body clenching through each spasm. He coats his fingers and belly with thick, wet heat; is still wringing the last few drops and the last jolts of pleasure out of himself when Sam grunts and slams into him, shuddering as he comes. Dean closes his eyes and rides out the pleasure of Sam pulsing deep inside him, his hand still lightly stroking himself through it.
Sam kind of…collapses…on Dean when he's done, which is bad, because he's really fucking heavy. Of the good, though, is a blanket of Sammy draped over him and around him, and just plain covering him. Dean decides breathing is overrated and closes his eyes to let the post-sex stupor flow over him.
"Dean. Dean, you can't go back to sleep." The whole bed is vibrating with the force of Sam shaking his shoulder.
Dean tries valiantly to shrug him off. "Lemme alone, Jesus."
"I usually just go by 'Sam'." It's delivered in a perfectly dry tone, but when Dean cracks one eye open, Sam's smiling at him. Dimples and everything. How's he supposed to resist that?
"Fuck. S'not nice to fuck me when I gotta get back up."
The bed dips as Sam rolls over and off. "I know you like time to cuddle afterward, but--"
Dean's upright before he has time to process he's moved. "Oh, you are so going down for that--"
Sam's lucky he has long legs and quick responses, though it's clear to Dean from the shout of laughter that rings out that he's not taking the whole potential-for-death thing too seriously.
Bitch.
Friday, Davy lets Dean off early, since he and Terri are going out of town for a long weekend. Sam's working at home -- has for the last two days, since web design apparently can be done anywhere and Sam's more comfortable on their couch, with Muttley asleep at his feet.
That's what Dean's expecting to find when he comes through the door, calling out, "Looocy, I'm hoooome," in the fakest Cuban accent he can manage. Muttley's asleep in a fading puddle of sunshine on the big woven rug in front of the couch, only raising his head for a soft woof when Dean drops his boots.
"Where's Sammy, Mutt?"
The dog woofs again, and that's when Dean sees the note on the table.
Dean--
Hank dropped by earlier and brought beer. There's some in the fridge.
I'm down on the dock. If you get yourself a beer, bring me one. I waited for you to get home.
--S
Beer. God bless Hank.
That's upped to considering Godhood for him when Dean opens the fridge and sees it's MGD. There's a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Tequila -- Cuervo Gold -- sitting on the counter, too, and Dean adds fresh limes to his mental list of Things To Get At The Store tomorrow.
He grabs two bottles out and pops the caps off both, and is in the process of elbowing the back door open when it occurs to him he's in sock feet. Ah, well. Not like he's never dug slivers out of his feet before.
Five steps down, and damn it's already getting twilight-ish out.
"Sammy?"
"Down here," Sam calls back, voice looping in an echo for a minute. "Hey," he adds, when Dean steps onto the dock a minute later. "Saw my note, huh?"
"God bless Hank," Dean says, handing one of the bottles over. "Whatcha doin' out here? I figured you'd be curled up with your computer, sittin' in the sun."
"Mmm," is Sam's most unintelligible reply, around a healthy swallow. "I was, for a while. Picked up the mail, and after Hank stopped by, I thought I'd come down here. It's peaceful."
"Yeah." Dean takes a swallow himself, savoring the cold, crisp bubbles washing over his tongue.
A fish jumps, somewhere out away from their dock; Dean hears the slap of its body against the water and imagines the ripples spreading outward, fading as they get further from the center. Might be nice to go fishing some weekend. Just sit out there and relax.
"Hey." Sam's voice is warm, close to his ear, and Dean quirks his mouth up at the corner.
"Hmm?"
"You like it here?"
Now what kind of question is that? Dean turns his head to look at Sam, trying to figure out what's going on in that head of his. Dean's actually gotten kind of attached to Lake Barkley, and Kentucky, and caught himself looking at real estate sites the other night. "Uh--yeah," he says cautiously. "Why?"
"Because it looks like this place is ours," Sam says, and holds out a sheaf of folded papers.
"Huh?" Is about all Dean can manage as he raises the papers up close to his face, wishing the light was a little stronger.
The top page is a deed, proclaiming the cabin, the lakeshore adjacent to it, and a parcel of land as belonging to Sam and Dean Winchester, signed over by Robert Connor Singer.
"That sneaky sonofabitch," Dean mutters, flipping the pages. "He--Jesus. Jesus, Sam." He looks up at Sam. "Did you know?"
Sam shakes his head. "The only thing I knew was what you told me: Bobby knew someone who had a cabin we could borrow for a while."
"I think we totally got played, Sammy."
Sam smiles. "I think you're right. Question is, what're we gonna do about it?"
"What d'you mean?"
"We can't--keep it, can we? That's…it's a cabin, Dean."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? Didn't you just ask me if I like it here? Don't you like it here?"
Sam sighs. "I love it here. But it's." He shakes his head. "Bobby's giving us a cabin? That's not weird?"
"Maybe? But does it really matter?" Dean's not sure what Sam's problem is. "He wouldn't have done it if he didn't want to." He shuffles through the papers, and a small slip of notebook paper falls out, fluttering down to the dock. One look at the chicken scratches has Dean handing it off to Sam. "Not even gonna try reading it. You burn your eyes out."
Dean's sure Sam rolls his eyes, but it's shadowy enough now he can't tell for sure. He definitely hears the sigh of I'm-humoring-you.
"'Sam and Dean. Hopefully this will keep you boys out of trouble for a good many years to come, since I'm getting too damn old to keep haring off across the country to get you out of it. It's been in the family for a while, passed down through a few generations. I don't have any family of my own, but the two of you are close enough. Take care of it, and pass it along to someone else who might need it one day, when you don't need it any longer. Signed, Bobby.'"
The silence draws out after Sam finishes reading the note while they both process it. The sound of scuffling pulls Dean out of his contemplation of the lake, and the way the setting sun makes it look purple in places, and he glances down at Sam, stretching out on the dock.
"Comfy, princess?"
"Screw you," Sam answers, no heat in the words. "So--do we stay?"
Dean's quiet for a minute, thinking of the twitches he still gets when he realizes he's settling…and of the peace that comes more and more often. "I'd like to," he says, finally. "You?"
Sam tugs on his arm until Dean lies against him -- carefully, mindful to keep his head on Sam's chest and not his abdomen -- and Sam can card his fingers through Dean's hair. "Yeah," he says, the word soft, almost too soft to be heard, if Dean weren't right there. "I want to stay."
The sunburst expanding inside Dean's chest burns a little hotter, a little brighter, and increases when Sam twines their fingers together and whispers, "I want to stay here, with you."
Dean squeezes Sam's hand. Right here, with Sam. Sounds perfect to him.
~Fin~
