Everything is wrong. Nothing is right.
The music is all wrong. It’s not an AC/DC night, or Metallica, or even a night for Zeppelin. Dean aches for some music he can almost feel, something he’s never heard. Something bluesy from a smoky bar somewhere. A woman with a whiskey-dark voice singing about a love who’s done her wrong.
The road should be dark, wet with rain; the reflections of the red tails lights like spilled rubies on the ground. Instead there is only fog. Fog that gathers in the depressions of this undulating road while the Impala plunges into the mist and rises out it over and over. Dean imagines her roof surfacing like the back of a killer whale.
The last long decline slides them into a pea-soup fog that doesn’t dissipate. After a mile or so, Dean capitulates, admitting defeat, and pulls the car over to the side of the road. Only an idiot would keep driving in this. Zero visibility and no real destination. Nothing to see, nowhere to go.
Dean props his arm up on the window, rests his head in his hand, and sighs. He turns and looked at the empty passenger’s seat. Still empty. One year down the road. And that’s what it is. Tonight is one year since Sam slammed out of the house and out of his life.
Dean feels restless and reckless and he wishes he had something to kill. Maybe he’ll get lucky and a wendigo will come crashing out of the dark strand of trees, through the fog.
He rubs his hands on his thighs, trying to calm himself down. When that doesn’t work, he palms the steering wheel. He finds himself flipping his cell phone over and over in his hand. He flips it open and scrolls down the list of names. He stops at Sam.
White fog presses against all the windows. Maybe it’s the end of the world. He looks at the phone, full bars. Probably not the apocalypse then. He taps the phone against his teeth, staring out at the nothing. The buttons are smooth under his thumb. Oh fuck it, what can it hurt? They’ve talked a couple of times since. Just casual. They can keep it casual.
The window is cold against his temple as he listens to the phone ring.
Sam’s voice is rough with sleep, and Dean realizes he has no idea what time it is. He’s not quite sure what day it is. “Hey,” he says back. “Did I wake you up?”
He can practically see Sam blinking as he tries to orient himself. Sam never wakes up easy. “Uh, yeah,” Sam answers. “I guess. I was studying.”
Chuckling a little, Dean changes hands with the phone, shifting so his back is against the door and his legs can stretch out across the seat. “Not the first time you’ve fallen asleep studying. I remember when you fell asleep on that spiral notebook and had lines pressed into your cheek for hours. Not to mention drool on your math notes.”
Sam snorts a laugh, and Dean hears the scrape of a chair as Sam stands up. “Yeah. Passed the test though.”
Dean runs a hand through his hair and stares into the dark. “Well, yeah, Sammy. You passed them all. Fuckin’ genius, remember?”
There’s silence for a minute and Dean hears the pop of a refrigerator door opening, then the clinking of beer bottles. It reminds him he’s got some stashed in the back seat. Not like he’s going anywhere anytime soon. He wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear as he reaches into the paperbag in the back. He drops back down into the seat to hear Sam’s tinny voice.
“Yeah, just grabbing a beer. Heard you getting one, sounded like a good idea.” He pops the top off with his ring, holding the bottle out in a silent toast he knows Sam can’t see before taking a swig. “So,” he says, settling in deeper against the door. “How you doing? One year down.”
Sam’s sigh flows through the phone. “It’s...it’s different. It’s good. Yeah, good. I’m doing good.”
Dean scoffs. “Yeah, sounded great there, kiddo. How about you try again.” Dean’s heart speeds up just a bit. He hates himself for enjoying hearing that things might not be perfect in Sam’s perfect world. “I thought you’d be teacher’s pet and neck deep in hot co-eds by now.” He’s waiting for the bitchface-sigh and probably something along the lines of ‘no one says co-eds anymore, Dean.'”
What he gets is a long stretch of silence, and then his name whispered so low he’s not sure he didn’t imagine it. He sits up a little straighter, ready to jump into action, take care of whatever is hurting his little brother. “Sammy? You okay?”
Sam’s voice is low. “I miss you.”
It’s a confession, an admission of something Dean can’t understand. He chokes down the sentences fighting to spill from his mouth. Things like you left me and the phone works both ways, and, worst of all, please come home. Home. That’s a joke. There’s no place for Sam to come home to.
“Dean?” Sam sounds worried. Like he’s heard all the things Dean hadn’t said. He probably did. They know each other in ways that aren’t normal or healthy.
Dean sighs, and rubs a hand across his face. “Yeah.” He finishes the last of the beer and reaches over for the bag. The bottle of cheap whiskey is cool in his hand. It’s going to be that kind of night. Dean hopes the cops don’t mind people parking along this stretch of road. “Yeah,” he repeats. “I miss you, too.”
“I know,” Sam pauses. “I mean. I know I don’t get to say that. I’m sorry.”
Dean bangs his head against the window. “Don’t, Sam. You got nothing to apologize for.” The night has closed in completely now. The odd nighttime fog still lingering, pressing against the glass in places like it’s reluctant to leave. It’s quiet and dark and Dean is alone and no one is around to see or hear him. Sam’s a voice on the phone, an abstraction of the force of nature that is Sam in person. And Dean lets himself feel the heartache he usually keeps down under lock and key. Maybe it’s safe, now, to let some things out.
“I know I...hurt you.” Sam sounds thin, as stretched and hollow as Dean feels. “I wasn’t trying to get away from you.”
“I know,” Dean answers. He takes a long swallow right from the bottle. “Hey, you got anything stronger than beer there?”
He can feel Sam’s puzzlement. “Yeah. Why?”
“Go get it. I hate drinking alone.” He doesn’t hear any movement. “Go. We’re gonna have a heart to heart, okay? And I ain’t doing it with both of us sober.”
“Really?” Sam sounds nervous.
“Really, really,” Dean answers. He’s not so sure about this either. But maybe none of this is real anyway. Maybe he’s asleep. “It’s a limited-time offer, Sammy. Now or never. Chop chop.” Silence is Sam’s only reply. Shit. He’s an idiot. Sam doesn’t want to talk to him. He takes another long slug. “Or not. I can let you - “
“No! No.” Sam cuts him off. “No. Please. I...I want to. Give me a second.”
It’s longer than a second, but Dean doesn’t mind. He hears Sam moving around and tries to picture him in an apartment Dean’s never seen, surrounded by things that have nothing to do with Dean. He hears the groan of a mattress and then Sam’s saying “back” into the phone.
“In bed already?” he asks.
“Seemed like a good idea. What about you? Where are you?”
Dean looks out into the night. “God only knows. Trapped on the side of the road in Illinois somewhere I think. Freak fog situation. Probably gonna just sleep here tonight. It’s not too cold.”
“Like Roanoke,” Sam answers. “Worst fog I’d ever seen.”
“Yeah, just like that. But this time I won’t have your snoring to keep me up all night.”
“Whatever. At least I don’t hog the covers.” Dean can hear Sam swallowing. “So,” Sam is saying hesitantly. “Talking?”
“Yeah. It’s a new thing I thought I’d try out. I drink, and say something. And then you do it. Okay? Our very own drinking game. We say anything we want. No holds barred.”
Sam laughs. “Yeah. Sure. Sounds just dysfunctional enough for us. You first. What do you mean I have nothing to apologize for?”
Dean shakes his head. That’s easy. He’s had time to think about what Sam did and why. “I get. You had to go. This life, it’s ... you’re too good for it. I’m glad you got out. I’m proud of you.” He drinks a long shot. “Your turn.”
“Dean,” Sam sounds pained. “Fuck. It’s not...”
Dean taps out a rhythm on the dashboard waiting for Sam to say something else. “C’mon, Sam. Talk and drink. Doesn’t work if it’s just me.”
“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause while Sam drinks. “I miss you, man,” he finally says.
“You already said that. Doesn’t count. I miss you, too. That’s a gimmie.”
He hears static and imagines Sam shaking his head like he does, phone rustling against the pillow. “No. Like, I really miss you. Like a ... a fuckin’ phantom limb. It took me months to sleep through the night.”
Dean barks a short laugh. “Just like when you were a baby. Wouldn’t sleep through the night for forever. Just cried until I crawled into the fucking crib with you.”
“Yeah,” Sam’s sigh is a lost, lonely thing. “Yeah. Like that.”
They both drink. Dean’s not a lightweight, but he hasn’t eaten in a while, and the Jack is going to his head quicker than normal. It’s all part of this surreal night.
“Can’t sleep without you, Dee,” Sam is saying.
“Want me to come crawl into your crib again, baby boy?” And fuck Dean didn’t mean for his voice to sound like that. Fuck.
Sam inhales through his teeth, and Dean rests his head against his clenched fist.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “I do.” His laugh has no humor in it. “Jesus. I need a long drink for this. Hold on.”
Dean can’t process that just yet, so he counts the seconds while Sam drinks. Seven seconds before Sam’s back on the line. Damn. Sam’s going to be wrecked for sure. He’s always been a lightweight. “Sam?” he says. He’s going to need some more explanation.
“I keep thinking,” Sam says voice oddly flat. “I just keep thinking that if you could just crawl into my bed, where...where you belong, I could sleep.”
“Jesus,” Dean exhales. “Sam. I...” He remembers nights sleeping with Sam’s breath on his neck, mornings waking up twined together, way past the ages where it was acceptable. He remembers Sam pressed hard and hot against his back, and he feels a completely inappropriate stab of lust.
So maybe he’s not alone in this, alone in feeling like he’s been torn in half. He pushes his feet into the passenger’s seat. “I can’t stop thinking of you in my car, where you belong.” Fuck, he must be getting drunk.
Sam makes a soft hurt sound that makes Dean want to pull him into his body. It’s been so long since he’s felt Sam against him. Felt his hands on Dean’s body, fixing him, stitching him up. Sam should know that. Know how Dean misses him. “It’s been a year since you touched me, Sam.” Dean closes his eyes, leans his head back against the cool glass. “I keep thinking of your hands. You have great hands.” Dean drinks again, head spinning. He thinks of Sam’s hands on him, and he clenches his teeth against a moan, shifting his hips to relieve the pressure on his dick.
Sam’s breathing a little heavy into the phone and it echoes in Dean’s ear. “I, uh, I miss your mouth,” he says, almost too softly for Dean to hear. Almost.
“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice dropping down deep and husky. “You been thinking about my mouth, little brother?”
Sam’s moan goes right to Dean’s dick. He presses against it, dying to yank down the zipper on his jeans and relieve the pressure, but he can’t. He won’t. This is not going like he’d thought it would. His brain is providing him with so many, many wrong mental pictures of how he could use his mouth on Sam. He’s got to stop. He draws in a ragged breath. “I...Shit. This whiskey is going right to my head. Your’s too, I bet. Never could drink, Sam.”
He can hear Sam shaking his head. “No. No, Dean. One-time offer, remember? Don’t ...don’t hang up on me.”
“Never,” Dean interrupts. “I could never.” He takes a slow pull off the bottle, letting it roll around his mouth. He licks his lips tasting the whiskey. He wonders what it would taste like off Sam’s lips. “You drinking?” he asks.
Sam laughs. “Yeah. Part of the game. And it’s your turn. Say something.”
Dean caps the bottle, nestles it between his legs, glass hard against him. “Okay.” His voice has slipped back down. “I was just wondering what the whiskey would taste like if I licked it off your lips.”
“Dean,” Sam whines.
And Dean really hopes this is all just a dream but he doesn’t try to take it back.
“Dean,” Sam repeats in a whisper. “Come here. Please. Come to me.”
Dean groans. Every cell in his body wants to, except the voice deep in his head telling him it would be the worst idea ever. “I can’t, Sammy. I’m drunk and the fog and I’m two fucking thousand miles away. I can’t.”
“But you want, too?”
“Every damn day. Every day.” He pinches the bridge of his nose tightly, fighting back the tears
“Tomorrow. Come tomorrow.” Sam is begging. “I need to see you. I need to feel you.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes. John is god knows where, and Dean is so lonely. And so tired of being alone. He’s tired of not getting what he wants. And he wants this badly. “Yeah, just give me a few hours sleep.”
“God,” Sam exhales. The silence stretches as the reality of what they’re saying settles in. “I want..,” Sam says. “Dean, I want. You. I mean, do you...”
Dean lets his hand drift down to his cock, rubbing it gently through the denim. It’s so wrong, but he can’t stop thinking about Sam now. “Yeah,” he growls. “Yeah, Sam. I want. I’m going to go to hell for it, but I want.” He slips his hands under the waist of his jeans, his breath harsh in the confines of the car.
“You want my hands?” Sam asks, voice honey-thick like Dean has never heard it. Sam's just a kid. How can he sound like that? “Dean,” Sam almost snaps. Dean’s dick jumps at that. “Tell me. Do you want my hands on you when you get here?”
“Yeah. God, yes.” He pulls down the zipper of his pants and wraps his hand around his hard cock. His voice hitches. “My turn,” he rasps out. “You been thinking about my mouth? Been picturing it around that monster cock I know you’ve got?”
Sam just whimpers in reply, and Dean smirks. “I want that, too.” He slides his hand up and down, imagination running wild. “Yeah, can’t you see it, Sammy? I’m gonna push you up against the wall. Kiss you until you can’t breathe.”
“Promise?” Sam gasps.
“Promise,” Dean says. Asked and answered like a million time before, and yet nothing like before. “Gonna take good care of you. You still on that bed?”
Dean hums his approval. “Good. Are you touching yourself yet? I want you to jerk it nice and slow while I tell you what I’m gonna do to you in 24 hours.”
“Twelve,” Sam barks. “Twelve. Gonna, gonna steal a car. Meet you in Denver.”
Dean laughs low and dark. “That’s my boy. Well, then, In Denver. I’m going to push you up against that wall, and take off whatever stupid shirt you’re wearing, Can’t wait, huh? Can’t wait til I’m on my knees in front of you? Got your cock out and your fucking huge hands on my head, holding me.” Goddamn. Dean can’t wait for that either. Can almost feel it. He strokes a little harder, a little faster, breath catching in his throat. He gasps out a moan.
“God,” Sam groans. “You will, won’t you? Just, just drop down for me. Your fucking mouth on me.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees around a moan. “You gonna try and fuck my mouth, aren’t you? I know what a pushy bitch you are. Gonna hold my head and just shove it in?”
“Dean!” Sam’s cry is ragged. “Shit, Dean.”
“Don’t come yet, little brother.”
Sam bites off a sharp cry. “Don’t, don’t call me that. I can’t...”
Dean’s grip tightens and he shudders with the effort of holding off his orgasm. “Jesus.” Being brothers just takes what they’re doing from hot to incendiary. Hell. They’re both going. But what a way to go. “Just..just hold on. I’m not going to let you. I’m still stronger than you. Gonna hold you again the wall. You’re gonna have bruises on your hips for days. I’m gonna make it last, just suck you until you’re whining and begging for me to let you come. Begging for me to - “
“Fuck me,” Sam cuts him off. “God, Dean. Want you to fuck me. Please. Please.” Sam’s voice trails off into huffed pants, curses, and soft begging.
Dean’s hand on his cock speeds up. That’s it, there’s no going back now. Anybody would come from Sam’s voice in their ear, begging them to fuck him. “Yeah, shit. Fuck, Sam. I’ll take good care of you. Fuck you, ah, ah. Fuck you so slow and hard and so good. Wanna see you, feel you coming on my cock.”
Sam’s cries are getting higher and faster. Dean can tell he’s close and he would sell a kidney to be able to see Sam’s face as he comes. ‘’Come on, Sammy. Come on, baby boy. Want to hear you. Come for me.” He groans deep and hard.
“Dean!” Sam shouts. “God, Dean.” Sam curses a steady stream of fuck, fuck, fuck as he comes.
Dean grunts as his orgasm shoves all the air out of his lungs. He twists against the seat as he comes painfully hard all over his hand, his stomach, and the back of the seat.
When he comes back to himself, he throws an arm over his eyes and tries to slow his breathing. He can hear Sam panting on the other end of the line. Eventually, they both get their breath back enough to talk.
Dean’s the first to break the silence. “Sammy?” Everything always seems different post-orgasm. He’s not going to hold Sam to anything he’s said when his dick was hard.
“Still here,” Sam sounds happy and sleepy. “Fucking feel goooood,” he drawls out.
Dean laughs. He reaches over, pulls some napkins out of the glove compartment, and starts to clean off with a grimace. “So, tomorrow?” He leaves it hanging there.
“Denver,” Sam slurs into the phone. Dean can tell he’s almost asleep. “Going to meet you in Denver. Twelve hours?”
“I need some sleep. Let’s make it sixteen.”
Sam makes a sound of sleepy agreement. “Hmm. Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?” He reaches in the back for the spare blanket. The steering wheel is annoying, but he’s too wrecked to bother getting into the back. Besides, he’s only going to sleep a few hours.
“I don’t think you’re stronger than me anymore.” Sam’s breathing is getting deeper and smoother.
Dean smiles into the phone. “Well I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Denver?” Sam asks.
“Denver.” Dean balls up his jacket for a pillow. “Go to sleep, Sam.”
Dean keeps the line open until he hears Sam fall asleep, then slides down into the seat dreaming of Denver.