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Sam’s face is burning. Hell, Sam’s entire head is burning, all the way up to the tips of his ears. Dean, by contrast, looks annoyingly relaxed, leaning back in his hair and picking salt out from under his nails.
“This is so stupid,” Sam says.
Dean looks up for a brief second before returning his attention to his nails. He shrugs, one shouldered. “We’ve done stupider.”
“Still.” Sam shifts in place, self consciously playing with his hair, which has been combed and styled and sits nicely behind his ears. Dean reaches over and slaps Sam’s hand away.
“You’re gonna mess it up.”
“Don’t care.”
“Try to look decent for like two seconds, Sammy.”
Sam rolls his eyes.
He and Dean are in their sole pairs of nice clothes; for Dean, that’s black trousers and a white button down that they ironed this morning with the kettle. For Sam, that’s khaki pants and a stupid blouse that has shoulder pads of all things. They really need to get him some new shit, but Sam knows the next Goodwill run won’t be until all available clothing is torn and/or bloodspattered.
He could arrange that.
Sam huffs and goes silent, crossing his arms. He wants to say how stupid it is again, but his complaints are falling on deaf ears. Dean sees nothing wrong with their current predicament.
The kitchenette table has a sheet from one of the beds on it. A godforsaken, actual, suspiciously stained sheet. Atop that sheet is a rose they stole from someone’s garden stuck in a beer bottle. They have paper plates with Dean’s famous mac and cheese piled on top, and a can of soda each.
The room has been set up with “mood lighting,” meaning all the lights are off, but the sodium light from the streetlights outside soak in through the front window, and the bathroom door is cracked open, spilling in some spears of additional warm light. Sam can only see because Dean lit one of the storm candles with his lighter and stuck it next to the wilting rose.
They’re on a date.
Not a real date. A fake date.
For a case.
John set it up.
Sam has to reiterate the facts to marvel at their sheer absurdity. John is hunting a monster that targets new couples. Sam and Dean are going on a fake date, pretending to be in a budding relationship, as bait, so John can kill the monster before it hurts anyone else.
When John usually barks orders, it has to do with adhering to their strict physical fitness regimen or getting ready to pack up everything and hit the road in 10. Today, Sam was woken up by the strict orders to look presentable, make the place look nice, and smile at Dean all night.
No smiles have been exchanged so far.
Sam sighs and eats another bite of the mac. It’s the one saving grace of this whole experience; Sam does love Dean’s cooking.
Dean looks over at Sam. “Come on,” he says.
Sam keeps eating. “Come on, what?” he asks past a mouthful.
“Brighten up,” Dean says. “This ain’t something new, really. Besides the rose.”
When Sam doesn’t respond, Dean kicks Sam under the table. “You love mac and cheese, you love a clean house, you love an excuse to chatter my fuckin’ ear off,” Dean says. “Embrace the stupidity.”
Sam can’t help but crack a smile at Dean’s bid for Sam’s happiness, and Dean visibly gets happier, and well, they get stuck in a little bit of a smile loop, which Dean jokes about, taking Sam’s mind off things for a little bit.
John does the special knock at the door, startling them both. Dean shooks Sam a look and gets up to answer the door with one hand on his hip, where a knife rests. John brushes past Dean, dropping his things on the couch and pacing the small room in an aggressive fashion. Sam and Dean share another look behind John’s back.
“It’s not working,” John says. “Have you boys been playing the part?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, as if they haven’t all paraded right down to wonderland.
“We have to try something else,” John says, more to himself than to them. “Something more specific.”
Sam blinks. “Like?” he asks, using that single syllable to highlight the strange direction of John’s thinking.
***
Like this, apparently.
Sam’s wearing a cardigan now, too, and he’d call that extra stupid, but he actually kinda likes this one. It’s soft. And warm, which is what he needs on an Ohio December night like this, where the air is as sparkly and sharp as the stars above.
They’re sitting in a diner.
They usually sit next to each other, all smooshed up like two peeps in a marshmallow package, but this time they’re across from each other, and they’ve ordered a Cupid’s Diner special called the Honeymoon Waffles.
John suspects all the now-dead couples partook in this particular exercise.
What a monster might have to do with heart-shaped waffles, Sam has no clue.
They are delicious, though.
“Sammy,” Dean groans the two syllables like he’s in pain. He knocks his fist on the formica tabletop. “Please get out of your own head.”
Sam sticks his tongue out. “Make me.”
Dean’s eyebrows squish together then, which was Sam’s secret plan all along. “Dude,” Dean says, “one night of no knife fights, no monster brains on your favorite plaid shirt, no worrying everybody’s gonna die. One night of eating good food. Of hangin’ out. Truce? Please?”
Sam rolls his eyes and smiles. He shakes Dean’s outstretched hand--which Dean’d licked at some point, mashing his saliva-covered palm against Sam’s, much to Sam’s disgust--and they sign a formal armistice agreeing to commit to one night of Stupid Fun.
Dean does dumb things in the diner, like feeding Sam waffle bites or chopping strawberries into heart shapes and handing them to Sam with much ado. He writes Sam vulgar poems with a bleeding pen on the starchy paper napkins.
It’s still not enough. No news from Dad. They see him at one point, lurking in an alley like a fucking creep, and obviously not successful in his mission. Sometimes, Sam hates the hunting life, finds it dark and horrifying. Other times, the weirdness, lack of rules, and outside-of-society-ness of it make it absurd. Logically, he knows this monster killed people, but he feels like he’s living in a cartoon where no one ever dies and the laws of physics abide by a bored screenwriter, not science.
Dean has had an odd look on his face for about eleven and a half too many minutes, and Sam gives up looking out the window and flashing the middle finger at trash bags that might be John in disguise to huff at Dean. Dean looks at him, odd look in tow.
“What,” Sam asks.
Dean’s frown gets deeper. “What what.”
Sam points an accusatory finger Dean’s way. “What’s that face,” he asks.
Dean swallows. There’s some strawberry syrup on his chin, next to a place he forgot to shave. “I have an idea,” he says, and the way he’s careful around the word “idea” like it’s a dangerous spell has Sam leaning forward.
“And?” Sam asks.
“And, if it, uh, finishes the case, it’s worth a shot,” Dean says, and he’s so unsure of himself that Sam’s curiosity reaches Full Peakage. Unusual Dean behavior always leads to interesting shenanigans, both good and bad.
Sam shrugs. It’s not often he gets a moment to push Dean. “Then let’s do it,” he says, so casually he almost does a hair flip, checks his nails. “We gotta help Dad.”
Dean’s eyes go big. “Okay,” he says. He stands, tossing some crumpled bills onto the table. “Follow me.”
Sam wordlessly follows Dean up and out of the diner.
Dean brings them to a little park half a block from the diner, sits Sam on a bench in a nice puddle of lamplight and moonlight. Dean’s knee jiggles, his hands folded primly in his lap.
“What’s the plan?” Sam asks. Dean’s coat is too thin so Sam unwraps his scarf and loops it around Dean’s neck.
“Maybe the monster is triggered by a different couples activity,” Dean suggests. “Something that all the couples definitely did.”
“Okay…” Sam sounds out. “What?”
Dean shrugs, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. “They kissed.”
Sam blinks. “Oh.”
Dean finds the sidewalk immensely interesting. “Yeah.”
Well, okay.
That’s not what Sam was expecting.
Sam weighs the merits of embarrassing Dean versus actually helping the case versus trying to gauge the feelings in his stomach that he can’t quite define. It’s all a whole mess but the answer seems kind of easy. Maybe too easy.
“Okay,” Sam says.
Dean looks at him. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dean looks young and lost, then, so Sam laughs for his benefit. “Dean, come on,” he said. “It’s for Dad.”
“You just made it a thousand times worse.”
Sam makes a “hurry up” gesture with his hand. “Then let’s get it over with,” he says. “You’re right, we have to try.”
Dean snorts, smiling. “I hate you,” he says. “You and your… psychology and shit.”
Sam doesn’t respond, smiling back at Dean, and Dean sobers and turns toward Sam. Squares his shoulders. Rubs his hands together like he’s trying to spark some kindling. A moment later and Dean is leaning forward, tilting Sam’s chin up, and lightly, chastely kissing him.
It’s over right after it starts, just the lightest amount of pressure against Sam’s lower lip, like a frickin’ leaf had blown past his face. He opens his eyes and looks up at Dean. “Well?”
“Well, we ain’t dead yet,” Dean says. “Where’s Dad?”
Sam points through the trees. “Over there,” he says. “Don’t think he saw,” he adds for Dean’s benefit.
Dean rolls his eyes. “He’d probably praise us for pulling one for the team,” he says, “can you say something to change the subject, please?”
Sam laughs, and, as is tradition, seizes any opportunity to make fun of Dean and help Dean feel less weird.
Sam doesn’t feel weird, his lips abuzz, and he pretends it’s a Life Or Death matter to hold Dean’s hand tightly as they walk out of the park.
***
Dean’s next idea is even better.
Dean takes Sam to a bookstore, awkwardly shuffling and explaining that maybe the monster knows when it’s genuine, when the couple is happy. He hands Sam a ten dollar bill and tells him to go nuts.
Sam peruses the shelves with zeal, reading book jackets and sniffing binding glue, weighing a thick paperback, then a hardcover, flitting from genre to genre like a bibliophile butterfly.
He settles on the first book in a new sci-fi series, something that Dean would like, too, so the book can get its proper mileage. They usually rent from libraries, so it’s not often they have books of their own, though Sam is a firm believer that certain books should be treasured, like their nearly destroyed copy of The Silmarillion .
Dean takes him to an ice cream shop next, and damn Sam’s sweet tooth and extreme passion for the yellowyest french vanilla bean ice cream he’s ever fucking seen, and people shouldn’t discriminate against sprinkles, okay?
By the time they go see a movie Sam’s been looking forward to, Sam’s flying high, the ulterior motives behind the night barely a thought as he sits in the back row with Dean’s arm slung over his shoulders.
It’s good.
When the movie ends, Sam stuffed full of the butteriest popcorn ever, courtesy of a theater worker who enjoyed Sam’s “triple extra please, pretty please,” Dean holds Sam’s hand and leads him out into the cold.
It’s snowing harder now, a veritable flurry, and Sam hugs his jacket around his body.
Dean draws Sam over to a bench sitting under the eaves of the theater and crowds up against him, keeping him warm. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
Sam smiles up at Dean. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks. It was really fun.”
Dean softens at the genuine rasp of Sam’s voice. He ruffles Sam’s hair. “I had a good time, too.”
Sam’s still smiling; he suspects his face broke like that somewhere around Dean surprising him with a cute bookmark at the bookstore.
Before he knows it, Dean is leaning in and holding Sam close, but it’s not a hug, it’s a kiss.
It’s a real kiss this time.
Dean nudges Sam’s mouth open, presses a firm kiss to Sam’s bottom lip. Stops. Kisses him again deeper. Sam gets with the program and kisses back. He loses himself in it. He’d fantasized about first kisses a lot, and wow, the real thing definitely isn’t mediocre.
Dean pulls back. He uses his glove to wipe spit from Sam’s chin. “Fun date?” he asks.
Sam’s brain is in an odd spot. He blinks, hoping the kiss hasn’t permanently turned him stupid. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah.”
Dean smiles. He helps Sam up. They walk toward the Impala. Sam still has it in his sights when his side erupts with blinding pain.
He has no time to react, Dean screaming his name and the world flipping upside down. He hits the ground hard, something sharp and thorny around his ankle dragging him down an alley faster than any human should be able to move, but Sam knows it’s no human.
He gets with the program and starts flailing out, trying to grab at something, anything--trash cans, fire escapes, bricks in the wall--but ends up scraping his hand and making something in his right arm burn like crazy, like it’s on fire.
Gunshots. John’s voice. The monster snarls, taking a corner so hard that Sam doesn’t see the wall coming before it slams into his temple and the lights go out.
***
When the world comes back, it’s soft and blurry and achey enough to pull Sam from an underwatery place into full consciousness pretty quickly.
A weak groan escapes him. His body feels stiff as a board. He tries to move, just to stretch his toes, and a deep, bruising pain in his side freezes him in his tracks.
“Sammy?”
Sam coughs, turning his head. Dean’s in a chair at his bedside. When their eyes meet, Dean’s face morphs from twisted up concern to sheer relief, and Dean comes to sit on the edge of his bed. Dean runs his hand through Sam’s hair and Sam’s eyelids flutter. “Thank god. You really got knocked around out there.”
“D’we…” Sam swallows copper and grime. He hopes he isn’t missing any teeth. “D’we geddit?”
Dean laughs. “Yeah, I got the monster. Spattered its brains everywhere with my knife.” Dean makes a slicing motion with his arm. “Right after you got knocked out. You were conscious for a bit, long enough to complain about the burn.”
“Burn?”
Dean’s smile fades a little, but he tries to keep it up. Dean holds up his hands, fingers curled into rakes. “Sharp little monster claws,” he says. “Took a whole piece out of you. You’re gonna have a cool scar, babes go wild for that.”
Sam frowns. He pats his side, where a thick pad of gauze rests.
“Speaking of,” Dean says. “We gotta change your dressings.”
Sam says nothing as Dean helps him upright, propping pillows behind his back. By the time he has a good look at himself, he’s winded.
He has a broken arm with a crude splint on it, Winchester style. That’s right. They don’t have any good fake insurance at the moment, so it’s all motel medicine. His hands are covered in cuts that glisten with antibiotic ointment. Dean probably stole that. And, of course, his side, which is beginning to hurt enough that Sam can’t ignore it. It’s bad enough to distract him from the lump on the left side of his head and the ringing headache that’s powering up.
Sam muscles through it while Dean cares for him. Dean’s professional with the cast, tinkering with it and replacing some gauze, being gentle enough with Sam that he barely jostles him, and when he does, they hiss in sync, Dean’s mouth downturned in sympathetic pain.
Sam applies more ointment to his cuts while Dean carefully peels back the bandage on Sam’s side. Sam gets a look at himself for the first time and goes a little lightheaded, grateful he’s sitting down and that Dean is pretending Sam didn’t just grip his hand hard enough to bruise it.
It’s really bad.
Sam’s skin is a collage of bruise colors; a rainbow, really. The stitches are thick and awkward, made of double-threaded floss. The cut is jagged. The skin is red and inflamed, and the area hasn’t fully healed, Sam face-to-face with red insides where he pulled a stitch a little.
It’s long, too, from his hip to his ribs.
And it hurts. The more he looks at it, the more he hurts. He turns away, closing his eyes and breathing in and out slowly. His headache thickens as saliva simmers in his mouth.
“Hey.” Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just hold on for a sec, okay? I’m gonna fix your stitches, sterilize the area.”
Sam grimaces. “Gonna hurt.”
Dean laughs in empathy. “Gonna hurt a lot.”
Sam takes a shuddery breath. “Do it,” he croaks.
A pause. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Brave boy,” Dean murmurs. “Okay, on three. One…”
Pain.
Sam cries out. He bites his tongue, hissing through the weird, slippery burn of Dean stitching him up, then bites down a long groan when Dean pours whiskey over the wound. Dean’s murmuring the whole time, an even rhythm of comforting nonsense, and Sam tries to focus on it.
Before long, Dean’s applying ointment and applying a new bandage. Sam breathes out, shaking just a little, the burn still there, worse than ever. When Dean comes back a moment later, Sam swallows down the water and the pain meds so fast he coughs, thanking Dean while panting.
Dean squeezes his shoulder. “How you doin’? Okay?”
“Five and a half,” Sam mutters, which Dean knows means it’s at least a seven or above.
“Okay, good job, kiddo,” Dean says. “A few days of rest, huh? No school, no work, no case? Sound like a good time?”
Sam draws the blanket up over his chest. He’s nodding off a little, the pain still there but distant. “Don’t wanna be alone.”
“You won’t be, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “You won’t be.”
***
A kiss.
Several kisses.
Floating, soft, silk.
Comfort, good smells, warm touches. Calloused fingertips.
Deep kisses, wiggling down Sam’s throat to his tummy to a place lower, a lot lower.
He moves. A body moves with him.
It builds until it overflows.
Sam wakes up to drool on his pillow and a lead weight arm across his chest.
His cheeks burn, still coming down from the dream. He wipes at his mouth and carefully levers Dean’s arm off of him. Dean’s out cold next to him, also drooling. Sam rolls his eyes before focusing on the Herculean task of getting out bed.
He ambles to the bathroom, pees. He looks down at his underwear. They’re wet. Really wet. Stupid dreams. He tries to dab at it with toilet paper but it’s not much use. He grimaces from pain and discomfort as he tugs his underwear and shorts back up.
His chest is bare under his sleep shirt. He looks longingly at the binder on the bathroom floor, but his side twinges extra hard just then, a reminder.
Sam pops some more pain pills before crawling back into bed.
Dean snuggles closer in his sleep, and Sam begs his body not to be stupid.
It was for a case. It didn’t mean anything. Stop thinking about it.
Stop frickin’ thinking about it.
***
Dean is a good caretaker.
Sam does not heal quickly. John is gone for a long time, and their landlady comes by to check on them, saying three months deposit has been paid. Sam misses school. Dean reaches out to administrators and faculty, and Sam gets a bouquet, a teddy bear, and a library book the next day.
Dean makes all of Sam’s favorite foods, which, after a few days of ice cream and mac and cheese, lands them in a bit of trouble. Having tummy troubles while a Frankenstein-esque incision on your side burns and complains is not ideal.
Sam lets himself be coddled, deep in his thoughts while Dean helps him to the couch and drapes a blanket over his shoulders. Dean’s being nicer than usual. Sam accepts a steaming cup of hot cocoa with a nod of thanks, absentmindedly blowing on it.
They have both gotten seriously injured before, though Sam’s never been slashed, just illness or broken bones. They’ve been dropped somewhere by Dad before while he’s in the wind, somehow magically reappearing the moment the sick son feels about fifty percent.
That doesn’t happen this time.
Sam watches his scar go from red to sticky and yellow to pink. He sits on the toilet seat while Dean pulls the stitches out. The cuts on his hands heal and scar in equal amounts. The cast stays on, but it’s not long for this world. Then, physical therapy.
Dean’s still nice. He’s stern, but nice, letting Sam gradually acquire more responsibility and physical mobility. He’s sweet, though, sweeter than usual.
Sam is kinda miserable.
It’s because of the stupid monster. Dean took Sam on a perfect date and Sam was already in a tender place about Dean, about the big brother who stood by him when he knew who he was, even when Dad didn’t, when Dad thought he was pretending, stealing boy’s clothes for nothing.
That date pushed Sam somewhere weird, crestfallen, hazy, a piney, achey place of desperate crush that Sam has never felt before.
Sam thinks about Dean’s kisses.
He thinks about them a lot.
Dean is a good kisser. Sam had thought he might be rough, but Dean was careful and conscientious. Dean’s hands moved with confidence, knowing where to touch, knowing Sam so well but applying that knowledge in new ways.
Now, Sam daydreams about Dean’s mother henning going somewhere different. He pretends that every night is date night, that Dean crushes on him, too, even though he knows the concept is flawed in two critical points.
One, Dean would have to be into boys, and two, Dean would have to be into little brothers.
Sam doesn’t know which point is more laughable.
He tries not to let it cloud him up, but it’s hard. He knows he’s crush blind, seeing everything in pink and rose. He hopes that, like the tear in his side, it will just take time before he feels okay again.
He’s quite committed to muddying through it when Dean just has to mess everything up.
They’re in the bathroom and Dean is unwrapping the makeshift splint and cast from Sam’s arm, eyes glued to Sam’s side with medical precision, when he asks, “so, what’s bothering you?”
Sam’s caught off guard. He blinks at Dean, watching Dean work. Dean’s face is neutral as he yanks medical tape away from Sam’s skin, taking some arm hairs with it. “Well?”
“Uh.” Sam swallows. “I’m okay,” he says.
Dean rips off the last of the medical tape. Sam looks down at his arm, which is pink and crusty but otherwise looks like a normal arm.
“Bull,” Dean says. “How’s it feel?”
Sam’s getting whiplash. He tests his movement, bending his elbow, finding it stiff but not necessarily painful. He bends it a few more times before his arm gets tired.
“That’s good,” Dean says. “We’ll keep working on it. Now, what’s bothering you?”
Sam sighs. Of course Dean isn’t going to let this go. Of course after being Sam’s primary caretaker for weeks Dean would be able to sniff out anything in Sam, any small changes.
“I’m just… adjusting,” Sam tries. “Things are a little weird now. But I’ll be okay.”
Dean squints at him, and it’s unnerving, overly perceptive, and Sam holds back a shiver. Dean had always said Sam had “owl eyes” when he wanted to find something out that Dean didn’t want him to know; Sam knows what Dean means now. “Sammy.”
“Dean,” Sam says with a hint of exasperation. “I swear I’m just being a moody jerk.”
Dean smiles at that. “If you say so, jerk,” he responds. “Gonna have to work on that too, you know.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever, jerk.”
Dean ruffles Sam’s hair and stands, leaving the bathroom. Sam sits on the toilet seat for a minute, just processing. He stares down at an elbow he hasn’t seen in weeks. The skin is all scrunched up and weird.
He flexes his arm, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
***
They watch a movie that night.
Sam gets to pick.
Sam never gets to pick.
He tests his limits, asking for a Disney movie, but Dean puts on Snow White without much of a complaint. It turns out to be a decent decision, ‘cause Dean’s half interested, half mocking commentary is hilarious. Sam ends up looking at Dean more than he looks at the screen, stifling restless giggles when Dean makes an absolutely disgusting joke about the seven dwarves.
Sam’s watching the blue light of the T.V. screen flicker on Dean’s freckles and reflect in Dean’s eyes when Dean’s face scrunches up. “Eugh, that witch,” Dean says. “Someone was never hugged as a child.”
It’s not even that funny, but Sam giggles like an idiot anyway. He’s just been perpetually grinning throughout the movie. His face is starting to hurt. Dean looks down at him, a confused smile on his face. “What are you looking at, you little weirdo?”
Sam shrugs. “Nothin’,” he says, still smiling.
“Face is gonna get stuck that way,” Dean mutters, then presses his thumb into Sam’s dimples.
Sam knows it’s supposed to be teasing. He’s supposed to lean back, or push Dean away, or laugh, or something, but just. The amount of times in the last week he’s fantasized about Dean’s calloused fingers on his face, and now this.
His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch.
“Sammy,” Dean’s voice is weird. “What are you doing?”
Dean’s hands linger. Sam’s eyes snap open and something locks up in his chest. No. He was supposed to deal, to tamp it down. Not to act like an idiot around Dean.
Sam untangles himself from Dean and levers himself over the couch, sprinting for the bedroom.
Once inside, he locks the door and flops against it, chest heaving. His side--shit, his side fucking hurts. He slides down into a sitting position, legs out, side twinging. He hides his face in his hands.
Dean tries the knob. When it doesn’t give, he knocks on the door. “Sammy?” Dean calls. “Sammy, what the hell?”
Sam doesn’t know how to respond. He feels like he acted a little rashly, now, both on the couch and his ensuing freakout. But he’s dealing with a lot, okay? He just has to find some excuse to give Dean. Something rational.
“Look, I’m… sorry for touchin’ you,” Dean rasps, and Sam realizes Dean’s sitting against the other side of the door. “I didn’t mean to freak you out, okay? I’m sorry.”
Wait. Dean thinks he freaked Sam out? Dean’s not disgusted with him?
“I know I’ve been touchy since the monster, so if that’s what you’ve been worryin’ yourself over, I’ll stop,” Dean offers. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam would rather die than have a Dean that doesn’t touch him.
“It’s not that,” Sam rasps. He leans his head against the door. “It’s the opposite of that.”
Dean’s quiet.
He’s quiet for a long time.
Sam starts to get worried. His brain goes to paranoid places. What if Dean left? What if Dean’s disgusted? What if Dean can’t deal with things, left for a bar? What then?
Sam loses himself in morose thoughts. He rubs at his scar, moves his sore arm. He hears some noises coming from the main room of the house but tunes them out. Maybe Dean getting drunk would be a good thing. Maybe they could both pretend this never happened.
“Sammy?” Dean’s voice breaks through his musings. “Can you come out?”
Sam’s not sure about the request. Dean didn’t sound angry or disappointed when he said it, only a little concerned, like Sam just yelled at Dad and stormed off to pout or something.
Sam takes a shaky breath and stands on wobbly knees.
He unlocks the door and walks out of the room.
It takes him a moment to process what he sees.
It’s the fake date setup from before, a little improvised--the blanket from the couch thrown over the kitchen table, a few flowers from outside the front door in a fish bowl, shitloads of candles, enough that Dad would be pissed with Dean if he knew Dean had lit them all at once.
There’s food set out on the table--peanut butter and banana sandwiches, potato chip bags, two cans of beer, vegetable noodle soup. Basically their whole cupboard of readily available foods.
Dean leans on the table, perched awkwardly. “Sammy, don’t freak out,” Dean rushes out. “Can we just--try again?”
Sam steps forward, taking in the room. Dean goes to a little portable radio on the side table by the door and turns it on, cycling through stations until he hits one with classical music. He looks at Sam with a worried frown. “Is this okay?”
Sam nods. He’s drawn to the table, to Dean. All he wants to do is smooth out the wrinkles in Dean’s forehead.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Is this for real? Do you mean it?”
Dean bites his lip and nods. “You know, I coulda misread things, but something’s telling me I didn’t.” Dean swallows. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Sam breathes out, the knot in his chest finally loosening. “You did this for me?”
Dean’s dorky smile returns. “Who else? Here, sit down.” He pulls out the chair for Sam.
Sam sits.
Dean sits across from Sam. Dean offers a tentative smile. Sam kind of doesn’t recognize him. Dean is so much softer around the edges. He’s always been caring, but the sweetness in him now is enough to melt Sam’s heart.
He kind of wishes Dad would stay gone and he could live in this cramped house with Dean for the rest of his life.
They dig in.
The food is delicious.
Sam helps Dean clean up.
Dean rinses and Sam dries. They’re close enough to be hip to hip, and Dean knocks into Sam every once in a while, smiling down at Sam and making Sam’s heart go crazy.
When they’re done, Dean flicks a soap sud off Sam’s cheek with his finger. He’s in Sam’s space, his breath puffing out against Sam’s face. “Hey,” Dean says, almost in a whisper, “can I try something?”
Sam just nods. He doesn’t move when Dean’s fingers tentatively cup his chin, and his eyes close when Dean gets into his space and kisses him firmly on the lips.
The kiss deepens.
They break apart just far enough--and long enough--to gauge the desire in each other’s eyes.
Then they’re back to kissing.
It’s… energetic.
Dean’s hands scrabble at Sam’s back; Sam’s explore Dean’s chest. Dean crushes Sam close to his chest, lets out a sigh/grunt into Sam’s mouth.
They kiss and kiss and kiss.
Sam’s body reacts.
He feels his dick twitch, his panties soaking, and he jerks back, blushing furiously, eyes focused on the grout between the kitchen tiles. He wipes at his mouth. “I, uh,” Sam doesn’t know how to speak anymore. “Ah.”
Dean chuckles. “You wanna stop?”
“No,” Sam replies immediately, and they both laugh at his expense.
“Then…” Dean trails off. “Do you wanna…? Could we…?”
Sam swallows. His dick is begging him to comply. His eyes flick up to Dean’s. “Is that what you want?”
“God, yes,” Dean breathes out. He catches himself. “I mean--if that’s okay with y--”
Sam cuts him off with another rough kiss, using Dean’s shirt collar to drag Dean down to his level. Dean grunts then gets with the program. He gets his arms under Sam and lifts Sam into his arms.
Sam hisses in pain.
Dean disengages from the kiss with a wet pop. “What was that? Are you okay?”
“My side,” Sam says.
Dean swears and starts to lower Sam, but Sam clings onto him twice as hard, a koala on a branch. “Just be careful,” Sam assures.
“If you’re sure,” Dean says, but he goes back to kissing Sam, walking them--slower this time--to the bedroom.
Instead of being roughly dropped onto the bed, Dean leans down, depositing Sam with a familiar tenderness.
What’s not familiar is when Dean follows Sam down, straddling his skinny hips. Sam looks up at Dean with moon-big eyes. Dean’s hands rub lightly at Sam’s good side.
Dean goes in for another kiss. Sam wraps his limbs--with as much flexibility as he can, he’s not 100%--around Dean’s body and gives himself over to making out with Dean.
Dean moans into Sam’s mouth, his hips jerking forward, and Sam feels Dean’s hard cock brush against his mound.
It makes things real. Real, and bright, and right now, all of Sam’s senses waking up, his breaths coming sharper. He’s dizzy with it (and with a little pain), but it’s not bad.
Dean’s tongue pushes into Sam’s mouth, and Sam presses his own against Dean’s. The kisses get wetter and sloppier until Dean’s biting Sam’s lips in little growly nibbles, and they’re rutting up against each other in short little thrusts.
Dean breaks from the kiss, staring down at Sam.
Dean bites at Sam’s throat and Sam shivers, his eyes rolling up in his head. Dean seeks out a sensitive spot beneath his ear at the same time Dean pops the button on Sam’s jeans. “Can I?” Dean whispergroans into Sam’s skin.
Sam can’t nod fast enough.
Dean chuckles, and gets back to sucking hickeys into the column of Sam’s throat and collarbone, tugging Sam’s shorts down past his ass and tossing them off the bed.
Sam’s undies are next.
Dean goes to Sam’s shirt and Sam stops him with a hand on the wrist, flushing. “Can we leave that part on?” he asks.
Dean takes it in stride. He massages Sam’s tummy through his shirt. “‘Course,” he says easily. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
Dean kisses him, his mouth buzzing, red and sensitive. He hears and feels Dean get out of his shirt, jeans, and boxers, and then there’s a naked Dean kissing him.
Sam forces himself to pause the kiss so he can look his fill. He almost chokes, eyes roaming Dean’s chest, first, his pert nipples, his belly freckles, his happy trail, the thatch of hair below, and then--then Dean’s cock, curving up against his tummy and clearly interested in their activities.
He looks up at Dean, expecting to see Dean gloating over Sam’s obvious admiration, but Dean’s doing the same thing to him, looking and looking and looking. Sam doesn’t feel like he’s quite the same sight as Dean, not with a shirt and pubes obscuring a lot, but the gaze on Dean’s face is pure worship.
Dean’s eyes flick up to his and Sam stops breathing. “Can I suck your dick?” Dean asks.
Sam wishes he could speak. He’s rendered just to hitched gasps and hip twitches.
He nods.
Dean curls his warm hands around Sam’s ankles and pushes Sam’s knees up, spreading his legs. Dean crawls forward until he’s down by Sam’s dick, and Sam feels stupid to crane his neck and watch Dean, so he lays back, staring at the ceiling.
Dean’s hands rub around his dick, not touching that area yet, and Sam jumps. Dean rubs at his hips until he calms down.
Then Dean’s mouth is on him.
Dean flattens his tongue against Sam’s cock and moves it in broad strokes. Sam’s body jerks, and Dean uses his hands to press Sam flat, holding him still while he explores Sam’s cock, rubbing his tongue around the edges and drawing the whole thing past his lips.
Sam loses himself in it. Dean dares to go further down, where Sam’s dripping right now, trembling, and Dean’s tongue pulls cries out of of Sam. Encouraged by Sam’s moans, Dean switches between Sam’s pussy and his dick, laving the skin, swiping in deeper, pressing kisses.
Sam’s sweating, in a haze of pleasure, Dean bringing him close to the crest of a wave before denying him, teasing him, making Sam writhe under Dean’s hands.
When Sam comes, it blindsides him, and he chokes out senseless syllables, whimpering and groaning while Dean unwinds him. It’s a long orgasm, a trembly, sobbing one, and Dean licks him through it until he’s way too sensitive and he cries out, trying weakly to bat Dean away.
Dean laughs, coming up for air. His eyes are dark and his mouth is shiny with slick. He grins up at Sam. “Havin’ fun?”
Sam groans again, covering his eyes. He hears the sheets rustle and then Dean is back up in his space. Dean kisses him, and Sam can taste himself on Dean’s lips. God.
He hears a wet noise, and looks down to see Dean jerking himself off. Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut tight, and his lips blindly seek Sam’s. Sam kisses him, letting his hand wander down to where Dean is busying himself.
He strokes Dean and Dean’s desperate, reedy whine is music to Sam’s ears. They work together, Sam’s hand more tentative and explorative, Dean’s quickly growing desperate.
Dean grunts over and over, choking on nothing, and Sam feels warmth hit his chest as Dean comes all over him. He jerks Dean through it, milking every last drop from him, before Dean collapses against his chest.
It takes them a moment to recollect themselves, then Dean’s levering himself off Sam and dropping onto the bed beside Sam. Before Sam can protest, Dean is carefully but firmly drawing Sam into his arms, mindful of Sam’s side. He holds Sam close and lets out a deep sigh.
“Dean…” Sam trails off. Dean’s come is drying on his chest.
“Later,” Dean murmurs. “Just wanted you here.”
Sam doesn’t have it in him to protest.
***
The next day is the best day of Sam’s life probably.
He wakes up cleaned up, spooned by Dean, like old times, before John said they were both too old. He drifts back to sleep, and the next time he awakes, it’s to Dean standing bedside with a plate full of warm pancakes.
Dean helps him with his wounds and physical therapy. After that, they laze around, eating potato chips out of each other’s mouths and watching cartoons while lazily making out.
Dean goes out for groceries; Sam calls the school about coming back, maybe in a week or so. It’s kind of bittersweet, but it can’t bother him too much when Dean hangs up the phone and touches his butt, so.
They have more sex, too desperate and horny now that the barriers have been pulled down to do anything with near as much foreplay as the night before, Dean pushing Sam down onto the couch and rubbing off on him until they both come.
Shower sex. Impala sex. Kitchen sex.
It’s all good. Sam’s lips hurt.
He’s never been much of a sexual person, but something about the way Dean touches him in a way that’s both loving and rough, like Dean can’t control himself, gets Sam all fired up. He goes through about three pairs of underwear a day.
Time goes by. Sam heals. The sex gets rougher, more athletic, though late night sessions are still tender and sweet. Dean takes Sam on more dates, teaching him how to ice skate. Sam goes back to school, is back on track within a matter of weeks.
They develop a new routine, a new normal, Dean going to work and Sam going to school. They come home to each other. They whisper secrets into each other’s stomachs with quick kisses.
Neither of them are ready to let it go when the call from John comes just before Christmas.
Three days, John says, three days to tie off loose ends, pack, and get ready to meet back up with him. A new hunt. Sam’s fine, right? Of course, sir, Dean says, hollow.
They stare at each other after Dean ends the call.
They pack in silence.
Three days later, they jump at the sound of a familiar engine rumbling down the dirt drive. Sam hops over the couch and throws himself into Dean’s arms with a desperate noise, pressing a demanding kiss to Dean’s mouth.
Dean holds Sam by the hips, giving into the kiss with all his might before pushing Sam away with a pained look. He cards a hand through Sam’s hair, looking down at Sam with shiny eyes.
“We’ll have time,” Dean promises in a croak. “We’ll find time.”
Sam nods. “You better be right,” he says.
The door opens, and Sam almost misses the look of grief of Dean’s face when John steps inside.
Almost.
The End