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Let the Good Times Roll

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The first time Sam forgot, he got punched. In his defense, he'd been at the library all day, then gravedigging half the night, and then Dean rabbited into the shower while Sam wavered on his feet. By the time Sam himself was clean enough to contemplate falling into bed, he was working on maybe two brain cells.

Dean hadn't bothered to put a shirt on afterwards, and the line of his back was so inviting that it just seemed natural to slide in behind him, wrap an arm around him and pull him close.

Sam had no idea how Dean managed to twist fast enough to bop him on the jaw. All Sam knew, from his place on the cold, hard floor, was that his face hurt more than his ass, but neither were feeling good.

"What the fuck?" they asked simultaneously, at which point the clouds parted far enough for Sam to remember his present situation and feel himself flushing to match the mark he'd just been given. Dean stared down at him, then scrubbed angrily at his mouth.

"Go to bed, Sammy," he said, voice crumpled at the edges.

Sam got up, moving carefully, and found his place in the other bed.


The second time Sam forgot, he didn't get punched, though that was most likely because Dean didn't notice.

They'd found a professional rhythm more easily than Sam would have believed, maybe because professional was the lowest common denominator between them. Sam kind of felt like the wolf and the sheep in that one cartoon, where they punched out after a long day of kill or be killed and then just chatted, colleagues. The cartoon played it for laughs, but the wolf and the sheep should've felt the wrongness, like Sam did. Dean got angry, Sam knew it, but instead of yelling he'd find someplace to set up a target and practice with his knives. He wouldn't let Sam participate, and he wouldn't spar with Sam instead, so Sam ended up doing a lot of reading on the side of the road, sitting in the car or on the shoulder if the weather was good enough.

Plus, even when Dean wasn't making his continuing displeasure known, Sam was always glancing over to check on Dean and finding him jerking his gaze away, like if they locked eyes they'd poison each other.

They were doing the job. Sam had to believe that the other stuff would get better eventually.

Sam was on his way back from interviewing the hairdresser who'd heard Angela Brown's account of the mysterious incidents surrounding her in the weeks before her death when he came across the little candy store. He stopped in on a whim. He filled up a bag for Dean, all Dean's favorites: red Swedish fish and sugar-roughened gummi peaches; tiny, individually wrapped square Snickers; candy pumpkins out of season; yellow and green M&Ms only; the execrable Bit O'Honey (Bits O'Honey? Sam kind of hated devoting even a second of mental effort to the question); and a handful of chocolate kisses.

It was only after he'd handed them over and watched Dean devour about a thousand calories in thirty seconds that he realized: those were all Dean's new favorites, carefully curated from Dean's constant experimentation. Dean before hadn't been picky, but he'd tended to go for the basic candy bars, king-sized if possible, tossing the wrapper and eating while driving before licking his palm clean of the leftover chocolate smears.

Dean finished half the bag, then carefully folded the top over and stowed the remainder in the glovebox. "Dude," he said, smacking Sam on the shoulder, "finally you're learning to do your job."

Sam was stiff with tension, but he tried to play along. "If you mean 'cater to your every whim,' you're sadly mistaken. And you're welcome."

Dean snorted. When he started the car, he was humming.


The third time Sam forgot was because their waiter was hitting on Dean when Sam returned from the bathroom. Deconstructing it later, Sam figured he'd forgotten because the waiter was a guy. Dean macking on a waitress was familiar enough that he shouldn't have gotten confused, but Dean tended to do the sorry-not-interested thing pretty quick with guys, always had. Always until the amnesia, anyway.

Sam recognized the intent in the waiter's stance, leaning in too close. Dean had his head tilted up, not exactly flirting but not not flirting, and with Dean's face that was enough to count as invitation in most people's books. Sam felt a hot pulse of—fuck it, it was jealousy—shoot through him and he brushed close enough to the waiter as he took his seat to send the guy stumbling back.

"Excuse me," he said. "D'you think I could get a refill?" He gestured at his full coffee cup.

The waiter took a quick look at Sam, who sat up straight and subtly flexed his arms, and nodded agreement before scurrying away.

Dean looked at him, then looked away. "Real subtle, Sam," he said.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" He knew what he sounded like, he just couldn't keep the words in.

But Dean only shook his head, like he was taking the question seriously. "So," he said, pushing his own plate away, "I say we do the job in North Carolina next; that spirit might be coming due for another victim."

Sam nodded, struck dumb with wanting Dean to say something just for him, some inside joke from any time before the Trickster had reversed the amnesia.

If Dean could tell what Sam was thinking, he gave no sign.

But before they got to North Carolina, he stopped the car and they spent an hour wrestling, all the holds and falls Sam remembered learning from Dean, until they were both covered in grass stains and sweat and Dean made them put down towels before they got back in the car.


When Dean forgot, he was dopey with painkillers, bright-eyed and smiling as he slumped against Sam while Sam struggled to keep him upright and finish stitching up his bicep.

"Dean," he kept snapping, and Dean would just drawl Sam's name in response, like one of those annoying kid's games. Except that he was saying "Samuel," and it made Sam feel hollowed-out, breakable.

When Sam finished and got up to dump the debris, Dean reached out and snagged his wrist. "Hey," he said. "Thanks."

Sam's skin lit up, like Dean's touch was a jolt of static electricity. He cleared his throat. "Next time, think about zigging instead of zagging, okay?"

"'kay," Dean agreed, leaning back on the bed lazily, his T-shirt pulling up to show his belly, still strongly muscled even as he was starting to fill out the way a man in his thirties did.

When Sam looked up, Dean was watching his face, brows lowered in exaggerated concentration. "I, uh—" Sam began, then fled to the bathroom where he could repack the medikit and pull himself together.

We're doing fine, he told himself, barely able to face his reflection.

He'd hoped that Dean would have passed out by the time Sam returned to the main room, but instead Dean was supine on the bed, eyes narrowed but still glittering with intent.

"C'mere, Sam," he ordered, and Sam didn't feel anything like the automatic rebellion that used to accompany hearing his brother's demands. He grabbed on to the doorframe to keep himself from crossing the small stretch of carpet between them. Dean was altered, and if Sam said that Dean would just get more insistent, as if he was supposed to be immune to things like opiate-impaired judgment.

"I'm tired," he said, and steeled himself to get into the other bed.

"Not all of you," Dean said, his eyes flickering over Sam's crotch.


And like that Dean was furious, pushing himself up despite the accompanying flinch. "What, I'm not good enough for you any more?"

"No!" Sam practically yelled the word, because that was the worst thing Dean could possibly think, and Sam hadn't been trying to explain that to him because he'd been too afraid to talk about what he'd done at all. "No. But I—I want you to want it. If that's what you want, I mean."

Dean let his whole body drop back to the bed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Jesus, Sam. I want it, all right? I can't—I remember it. I know what you taste like. It's not going away, so—fuck, can't you just for once in your life listen to me?"

Twisted as it was, it was that last part that convinced Sam that he was hearing the real Dean.

"Okay," he breathed.

The next few minutes were a blur—trying to be careful with Dean's arm while stripping the shirt off him, mumbling crazy things into his mouth, how much Sam had missed Dean, Dean slurring back how he'd been right there. Maybe that was a lie or maybe Dean even believed it now, but Sam didn't care, rutting against him like a sixteen-year-old after the junior prom, fumbling with Dean's jeans and his own, pressing his hand over Dean's when Dean wrapped his hand around their cocks. Sam kissed Dean frantically, raining kisses over his cheeks, his temple, his nose and back down to his mouth, until he came in long shuddering pulses that marked them both.

Dean rolled them over and straddled Sam, jacking himself while Sam watched, dizzy and mesmerized. Dean's lower lip was caught in his teeth; he slid his hand down Sam's chest, slicking his palm before returning his hand to his cock, thumbing the gleaming head, working himself fast and hard. The bed shook beneath them and Sam managed to get his hands up to hold Dean's hips, feeling the flex of the muscles in his ass.

When Dean came, so beautiful the sight nearly stopped Sam's heart, he slumped down right on top of Sam, getting them both even messier. Sam slid his arm around Dean and rubbed at the back of Dean's neck, right below his hairline, reassuring himself that this wasn't some wish-fulfillment dream.

"I'm still kinda mad," Dean said, so low Sam had to strain to hear him as he spoke into Sam's tattoo. "But I'm figuring I can just take it out of your hide."

Sam sighed and kissed Dean smack in the middle of his forehead, just to watch Dean roll his eyes at the tenderness. "Wouldn't have it any other way."


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