Dean did his nightly circuit of the Braeden house at 11.17pm, which was two minutes earlier than the previous night, and five minutes later than the night before that. Sam watched him appear in the living room window, glass in hand. He checked the salt line in the window ledge and drew the curtains.
“Goodnight, Dean,” Sam said, and walked down the street to his car.
Sam stopped at the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way to the motel and ordered a burger and fries. He waited until he got to the motel to eat the food. The smell of it lingered in the car and was not pleasant in the morning.
Dean was getting sloppy, he thought as he sipped his coke. He’d been watching his brother for five days now, and Dean hadn’t noticed. The guy who’d stood up to Lucifer was now a house cat, weak and soft and domesticated.
Sam balled up the greasy bag and napkins and tossed them in the trash, thinking idly about going back to watch the house while they slept. The alternative was staying here and calling up some company, a paid professional to scratch the itch that thoughts of Dean always inspired. He closed his eyes, remembering Dean's mouth, his ass, his cock, his mouth on Sam’s cock, a quick truck-stop blowjob while Dad gassed up the car, his spunk on Dean's eyelashes. He smirked and cupped his dick through his jeans, enjoying the sensation of it swelling under his palm.
Someone knocked on the door.
He frowned and reached for his Beretta. He checked the sights, released the safety, and padded to the door. There was no eye in the door, and he cursed himself for renting a room without one. This town and his mission here was having a bad effect on him.
He turned the handle, keeping his weapon hidden. The door crashed open, and smashed into his face. Sam reeled and collided with the card table. He hit the floor ass first, but before he could spring to his feet someone was on him, a knee on his chest, fingers wrenching the weapon from his hand, and a hand on his throat.
Dean’s face swam into view. “Hey, asshole,” he said. He grabbed a handful of Sam's hair, wrenched his head up and smacked the back of his skull against the rock-hard floor.
Sam blacked out.
Sam came to tied to a chair. He lifted his head and blinked, cursing as the room spun. His head throbbed, he was nauseous and he was pissed. He’d been unforgivably sloppy, and he’d let domesticated, house-cat Dean get the drop on him.
“Hey, little brother,” said Dean.
He was pacing the room, his old Colt gripped in his hand and a scowl on his face. He stopped in front of Sam and waved the gun at him. “See. I knew someone was watching me. I could feel it.”
Sam worked his mouth, trying to get feeling back into his numb face.
“But you…” Dean broke off with a hiss of breath. “I’ve done all the tests. Not a shifter or a demon, or even a fucking angel. So…” he dropped dramatically to the edge of the bed, keeping his hand curled tightly around his revolver. “You’re human, far as I can tell. So, what the fuck is going on? What’s with the stalker routine, Sam? Are you... are you back?”
Underneath the anger and tension, Dean looked hurt. Of course Dean would be hurt. He was jonesing for the big-hug-and-make-out-I-missed-you-so-much-and-I-can’t-believe-you’re-back routine. Which meant it was probably best to leave out exactly how long Sam had been topside, and just go down the wounded little brother route. Dean was a total sucker for that.
Sam licked his lips, taking his time before answering. He’d been watching Dean for five days, but he’d forgotten what Dean looked like close up. Sam ran his eyes slowly over his brother, lingering on the V of his legs and the way the denim pulled tight over his firm thighs, his hand resting on his knee and his strong blunt fingers gripping the Colt. Sam felt his skin grow warm with arousal.
He blinked, letting the tears gather behind his eyes before he spoke. “Dean, I’m sorry, I just… I don’t know what happened, I don’t remember. I have no idea how I got out. I remember the cemetery and Lucifer and then…” he broke off at Dean’s flinch. His brother had always sucked at hiding any emotion from him. “I promise you, it’s me, Dean, it’s really me. I’m sorry for following you but I thought… well, you got it good here with Lisa and Ben, and you're out, Dean. You got out. You have a life now and me showing up would just fuck all that up. So I thought... I thought it might be best if I stay away."
“Why would you ever think that?” Dean stared at him, eyes wide and dismayed.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.
Dean dropped to his knees in front of him, Colt discarded on the bed. He put his hands on Sam's thighs. “Sammy..."
“You looked so happy,” Sam said, making his voice crack over the words.
“Sam, you idiot, you fucking idiot," Dean muttered, but he was smiling, sad and fond, and looking at him in that way that Sam remembered, the way that was so often a precursor to sex. Dean cupped Sam's cheek and leaned up to kiss him. Sam groaned and kissed back hungrily, yanking at his restraints when Dean pulled away.
Dean chuckled at his impatience and slid into his lap. He palmed the back of Sam's neck, tangling his fingers in the ends of his hair and tilting Sam's head back for another long kiss. Sam hissed and bit Dean's lip, feeling Dean draw away to pant hot, damp breaths into his neck. Dean's lips worked across his throat, dragging on his stubble, and Sam squirmed and shifted. He wanted to tip Dean off him, to ride him down to the floor and hold him down, to fuck him hard, and leave bruises that would make Dean blush in the morning.
Dean untied the restraints, and Sam surged to his feet, taking Dean with him. He threw Dean onto the bed and loomed over him, staring into his slick bitten mouth.
“Sammy,” Dean said. He put his hand to Sam’s face and ran his thumb over his cheekbone. “Is this real? Am I dreaming?”
“You dreamed about me?” he said.
“Yeah,” said Dean, colour flooding his cheeks. "Of course I did. Thought about you all the damn time."
“Did you think about me when you were fucking Lisa?”
Dean blinked. “Sam?"
“You did, didn’t you?” Sam felt pleased. He slid his hand over Dean’s, prying it away from his face and squeezing Dean’s fingers. “You thought about me when you were fucking her. That's okay, Dean, I thought about you all the time too."
It wasn't completely true but he knew Dean would like hearing it, and true enough Dean was blushing some more and looking pleased. He watched Dean swallow, tracked the slide up and down of his throat, and felt his dick swell to full hardness. He climbed on the bed, pinning Dean down with knees either side of his hips. Dean gasped, and bucked up, rubbing his erection into Sam's. Sam stared down at Dean's flushed face and parted lips, and couldn't remember wanting anything as much as this for a long time.
He unbuckled Dean's jeans and jerked them over his ass and down his legs, cursing when they met his steel-capped work boots. Dean snorted a laugh and made to sit up. Sam snarled and pushed him down, growling, “Stay down, Dean.”
Dean stilled instinctively, good little solider boy, and watched through heavy, lidded eyes as Sam unlaced his boots and threw them aside. He yanked off Dean’s jeans, throwing them after the boots and then he was tearing at Dean’s flannel, buttons flying, and Dean was speaking again, but Sam couldn’t hear him, his head was white noise and he was so close to getting what he wanted. He stripped Dean of every unnecessary layer, and then he sat back and looked his fill. Dean looked vulnerable without clothes, torso and shoulders comically white next to his tanned arms, his naked skin pebbled with gooseflesh and his cock hard and red, the tip drooling pre-come. Dean wanted him badly.
Sam didn’t undress, just unzipped his jeans and took out his cock. He slid the condom from his pocket and sheathed his dick.
Dean looked almost offended, propping up on his elbows to watch him. “Dude, come on, I’ve only been with Lisa.”
And who knows where she's been, Sam thought, but instead he put his hand over Dean’s mouth and shoved him down. “From now on, don't speak unless I ask you to," he said.
He watched Dean swallow, noting with amusement the twitch of his dick. Dean did so like being ordered around, and Sam hadn’t forgotten how much he liked doing it.
He bent Dean’s knees, lining up and sliding inside with barely any prep. He luxuriated in the pained hiss that escaped Dean’s lips. He wanted Dean to feel it. No one else fucked Dean like this, and he wanted Dean to remember that. He rolled his hips and Dean groaned, reaching for and gripping Sam‘s arm.
“Good?” Sam said, leaning down and staring into Dean’s face. "Feel good, Dean?"
Dean nodded and licked his lips. “Yeah, God, so good. Give me more.”
He fucked Dean hard, holding him down with one hand on his throat, leaving marks that would bruise later. He wondered how Dean would explain that to Lisa and the thought make him pump harder and squeeze harder, revelling in every pained gasp escaping Dean's lips.
"You want it. You want me," he growled, and Dean moaned and murmured, "yeah, yeah, Sammy, I want you..." hazy and lost to the pleasure and pain.
They didn't last long. Dean's eyes flying open and fixing on Sam's face, looking like he was staring right into Sam's head as he came, ass muscles clamping around Sam's cock and his own cock spurting in Sam's fist. Sam came a moment later, a shudder through his entire body, that itch completely vanished for a few glorious seconds.
He collapsed beside Dean, panting for breath, sweaty and satiated. He watched Dean get to his feet and walk gingerly to the bathroom. The toilet flushed, the tap ran, and Dean came out, not looking at Sam as he gathered and pulled on his boxers, jeans and undershirt. He picked up the torn flannel and raised his eyebrows at Sam.
"Sorry," Sam said with a shrug. He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and took a swig, eying Dean over the brim. Dean was watching him back, something in his expression that Sam couldn't read. Sam shifted, reassured by the Beretta under his pillow.
Dean balled up the shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. He put his hand on Sam's ankle. “So you really remember nothing about being there? About the cage?"
"Really," said Sam, resisting the urge to push Dean away, irritated by the tender brush of Dean's fingers over his ankle bone. "But I figure that's for the best."
"Mmm," Dean said thoughtfully, but he didn't say anything. He stood and reached for his boots, and Sam was pleased to see the flash of pain on his face. Dean would be feeling him for days.
"Are you leaving?" Sam said.
Dean hesitated before turning around. He looked torn, licking his lips guiltily. "I should get back. Lisa's a light sleeper."
Not as light as I am, Sam thought, but that was a conversation for another day. Instead he made his voice soft and pleading. "But you're coming back?"
Dean kept looking at him, an agonised expression on his face. "Sam."
"There's a hunt in Missouri."
"A hunt," Dean repeated. His mouth twisted. "I haven't been hunting for months. Have you been... how long have you been out, Sam?"
"Just a few weeks. I came here first but you looked so happy that--"
"Happy?" Dean interrupted. "Fuck, Sam, you weren't looking very hard. How could I be happy with you..." He broke off and bowed his head, covering his face with his hands. He turned away from Sam, shoulders shaking, moving up and down. When he spoke his voice was tight. "I can't talk about this now. I gotta go."
"'Cause Lisa's a light sleeper," Sam said.
"Right." Dean's voice was thick, and this wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Sam frowned and slid off the bed. Dean turned and watched him, his expression almost guarded as Sam approached. Sam cradled Dean's face in his hands.
"People are dying. This is what we do, Dean, the family business. "
Dean's mouth twitched. "Nice move, Sammy, throwing my own words at me like that."
"I'm going to hunt. It's what I - we - are." He slid his hands down, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling their bodies flush, kissing him and staring into his eyes, the kind of girly shit Dean had always liked. "I want you, Dean. I can't do this without you."
Technically he could do it without Dean, he had been doing it without him for weeks. And then there were the Campbells, but he wasn't going to tell Dean about them until he had to. Whatever crap old Samuel talked about being hunting royalty, John Winchester would hand his ass to him every time, and after what happened in Texas, Sam never wanted to see any of them again. Dean would never have let that happen to him. Dean was Sam's hunting partner, he'd been bred to it. Sam's body and all of his instincts responded to Dean better than anyone else, and the fact he was also the best fuck Sam had ever had just made it even more right.
Dean had had his fun, his little domestic break, but it was time for the two of them to get back to real life.
"Dean? You okay, man?"
Dean sighed, "Give me a couple of hours."
"I'll be here," Sam said.
Dean held on, not letting Sam go yet, breathing into the side of his face. He pulled away reluctantly, staring at Sam for one last time before he ducked out of the door.
Sam watched Dean's truck pull out of the parking lot, and then he dropped onto the bed and grinned. Dean was coming back, he could never say no to Sam.
He picked up the bottle and toasted the empty room. Mission accomplished.