It's too early in the season to be this chilly, and Sam scowls as he looks himself over in the haphazardly-hung mirror. Tight jeans, ripped tank, eyes lined just enough to make them seem bigger, darker, more. He runs his fingers across his chest and shivers slightly when his nipples tighten, the newly-healed piercings pulling just enough to make him feel them.
He swore last winter he wasn't going to trick any more, but it's hard to pay the rent on just tending bar, especially when your roommate takes off without even the courtesy of a "hey, I'm outta here".
So, desperate times, and all that, and it's not like he's fourteen anymore with no other choice, but Sam can't help the curl of anger that flickers through him when he thinks about how, no matter how hard he tries, he keeps ending up in the same place.
"Get a grip," he tells his reflection, and glances at the clock. He has time to pick up a couple of tricks, then come back and change for work. At least it won't be quite as cold now, as it will be once the sun's all the way down, and once he's at the bar he'll be busy enough he'll be sweating.
He still wishes for his hoodie as soon as he steps out of the small house, though, or better yet, a winter coat.
But no coats while hustling, because the johns aren't gonna spring for what they can't see. At least not any more. When he was thirteen, fourteen, even fifteen -- particularly those years, because he was so skinny he looked more like thirteen, until the summer after his fifteenth birthday, when he shot up three inches overnight. It still boggles Sam's mind when he thinks about it, how many sick fuckers are out there, wanting to fuck a kid.
The best place to hustle is down on the corner by Olive and Chestnut, just a few blocks from home. Sam hunches his shoulders against the wind and hopes he manages to get a couple tricks who have cars, or will spring for a rent-by-the-hour. It's too fucking chilly to be trying to give head out here – much less do anything else – and no way he's bringing anyone back to his place.
That's been his number one rule since he's had a place, and even if his place isn't the greatest, it's his private space, and he's not going to violate that by taking a trick home with him.
He's not quite to the corner when he hears the rumbling purr of a big engine, and a minute or so later an absolutely gorgeous classic Chevy pulls up alongside him. Sam leans in toward the window, making sure to smile so his dimples show, because some guys really dig that.
"Hey, there. Lookin' for a good time?"
The guy behind the wheel is almost too pretty to be real, with full, pouty lips and high cheekbones. He's got gorgeous green eyes that widen, then move as he looks Sam over, head-to-toe. He smiles and shakes his head, and for half a second Sam thinks maybe the guy is going to say yes, even as his lips are forming the word 'no'.
"I wish, man. Just looking for an address—you know the area?"
Sam snorts. Just his luck, and probably how his afternoon's gonna go. "Yeah, whatcha looking for?"
"Vine is a couple blocks over—" Sam gestures to his right. "Make a right up here at the corner, then take a right onto Vine, and go three blocks, and it's the midway up the fourth block." He smiles at the way the guy's eyes keep moving over him. "Sure I can't interest you in a good time, first?"
Dude's eyes crinkle when he smiles. Sam finds that kind of cute. "Nah, but thanks for the offer. See you round, man."
Sam nods and watches the car drive away. He's reminded briefly of the fantasy he used to have, thinking somewhere 'out there' was someone who was looking for him, who wanted him, loved him, would take him away and give him a home and hugs. He ditched that fantasy years ago, when it became more of a liability than anything, and he seldom revisits it, now. He doesn't need a knight in shining armor (or gleaming steel and chrome) to rescue him. He's doing just fine, thank you very much.
He can't get the guy out of his head, though, and later when he's on his knees in front of some older, pudgy, balding guy, he lets his thoughts wander to brilliant green eyes and a lush, pouty mouth. No one – including the john – is going to know, so it's no harm done.
It's not a real busy night for the bar, which is disappointing, but Sam keeps busy anyway. Seems like there's always something to do: cutting up lemons and limes, wiping down counters, refilling the bowls of pretzels and peanuts. He's half-listening to the television that's tuned to the weather when a low, kind of familiar voice asks what's on tap.
Somehow he's not surprised to see the guy from earlier sitting here at his bar, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth when he sees – and recognizes – Sam.
"You stalking me, dude?"
Sam snorts. "I'm the one working here, so if anyone's stalking anybody—" He sets his bar towel down and leans against the edge of the bar. "So what can I getcha?"
"Budweiser on tap?" Sam nods, and the guy smiles. "That'll do it. Unless you guys got a cook in the back?"
"Just burgers and the occasional grilled cheese."
Sam laughs. "Because every growing boy needs his veggies?"
"Damn straight." The guy lifts his beer and takes a healthy swallow. "I'm Dean, by the way."
"Sam. How d'you want your burger?"
"Medium-well, fully dressed."
"Got it. Back in a second." Sam draws another beer for the guy – for Dean – and takes the order back to the kitchen. They don't do a lot of food orders, but Benny doesn't mind manning the grill when it's slow out front, and whatever doesn't end up selling he and Sam will split and take home anyway. He likes the onion rings, too. "So, did you find your address okay?"
Dean's still sipping at his beer, eyes focused somewhere off in the distance, but Sam feels it down to his toes the minute Dean settles his attention onto him. "Huh? Oh—yeah. Thanks. No problem, once I knew which way to go on Vine."
"It's easy to get turned around over in this part of town. I think the people who laid out the streets were taking drugs when they planned this area."
Dean laughs and gives Sam a once-over. "Yeah, but at least I got some nice scenery to look at while I was driving around."
"So why were you looking for that house?" Sam gives up on trying to look busy. There's exactly one other person at the bar right now – Crazy Eddie, down at the far end, who could care less what anyone not inside his head is doing – and the manager left an hour ago.
"Oh, thinking of buying it. I work with a company, we fix up houses, then rent 'em out."
"Uh-huh. Well, you might want to reconsider on that one."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Why?"
"That house? It's kind of hinky." Benny comes through the door with Dean's burger and onion rings, and for a split-second Sam's jealous of the plate, because Dean's looking at it like it's the best thing he's ever seen. Ugh.
"Hinky?" Dean's reaching for the burger almost before Sam sets the plate in front of him, and the look on his face when he bites into it actually makes Sam feel hot and bothered. He reaches for his glass of water, ignoring Dean's blissed out expression as best as he can. "In what way?"
"Hinky in that it's supposedly haunted," Sam says. "Anyone who lives around here will tell you that. People going by say they hear things, moans and shrieks, and the last person who rented the place left in a big hurry – like, didn't bother to take their furniture, hurry."
"Huh." Dean shrugs, wipes his thumb across his lower lip, sucks the ketchup off it, and takes another bite of his burger. "Well, I don't scare easy. Besides, I was in it all afternoon, I didn't see or hear anything weird."
It's Sam's turn to shrug. "Just tellin' you what I've heard, man. Maybe you need to like, spend the night in there."
Dean sucks another bit of something off his thumb, and Sam bites his lip to keep from offering to do that for him.
It gets a little busier as the evening wears on, since a lot of the folks who get off-shift at the canning plant at eleven come in to wind down before heading home. Dean stays and has a couple more beers, but Sam can't chat with him as much once the bar is full, as well as some of the tables, and in a lull between rounds Dean reaches over and hands Sam a couple of bills. "For my tab, and keep the change," he says, and then he's gone before Sam gets a chance to say anything beyond, "see you later."
For the first time in longer than he cares to think about, Sam wishes he'd gotten the guy's phone number.
Sometimes Sam feels like his life can be summed up by, "second verse, same as the first", like that Henry the Eighth song.
Today is one of those days. It's still chilly outside, still cloudy and gray, and he's down practically to his corner when he hears the rumble of that big Chevy engine behind him.
"Didn't we do this already?" He asks, when Dean pulls over against the curb. "You don't need directions again, do you?"
"Nah." Dean smiles at him, eyes crinkling up, then reaches out through the open window and hands Sam a big, steaming cup. "I didn't know how you take it, so I just added some cream and sugar – you look like a cream-and-sugar kinda guy."
Sam stares at him for a minute, then wraps his chilly fingers gratefully around the nicely warm cup. "Thanks—I think. I mean, thanks for the coffee, definitely." He flashes Dean a quick grin, then holds the cup up to his face and breathes in the warm, rich coffee-scent.
"Kind of a brutal day to be out, isn't it?" Dean tips his head toward the passenger seat. "Wanna sit a while, warm up?"
Sam hesitates, looking down toward his corner, then back up the street – the fairly deserted street. "I—"
"Dude, how much work can you pick up in the middle of the afternoon, seriously? C'mon, get in the car, warm up a while, then go back to work."
Sam opens the door gingerly, and settles himself, sighing when the heater kicks in and his toes start defrosting. "Thanks. Definitely not lookin' forward to winter."
"You should think about flying south for the winter, man."
"Yeah, maybe. But I got a house and a job, here. I mean, besides this." Sam blows on his coffee, then takes a sip. It's just right, sweet but not too sweet, with just enough creamer in it to neutralize the bitter under taste coffee usually has. "How 'bout you? You got a place down south when you're done looking at your haunted house?"
Dean shakes his head. "I—travel a lot. For my job. Don't call any one place home, really." He runs a hand over the steering wheel, and smiles. "Just this, really. This is home."
"Your car?" Sam blinks. "Had it a while, then?"
"She belonged to my dad; now she's mine. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but the car was the one constant."
"That's cool." Another swallow of coffee adds to the warmth spreading through Sam. Or maybe that's Dean's easy smile and relaxed attitude. "It'd be nice to have something like that, I guess. Something that belonged to your parents, to connect with them," he clarifies, when Dean gives him a questioning look. "I was fostered a lot as a kid. Don't know who my folks were," Sam adds.
"Ah, gotcha. That'd be kind of rough," Dean says, giving Sam one of those once-over looks. "Why do I get the feeling you didn't stay in the system as long as the state planned?"
"What gave it away? My awesome career choice?" Sam makes a face, then smiles half-heartedly. "I didn't. Life on the street wasn't great, but I gave it a higher survival chance than staying in the foster home I was in at the time, so when I had the chance, I split."
"How long ago?"
He hasn't thought about it in a while, so Sam has to count back in his head. "Lessee…that was… seven years, and three states ago."
"Wow." Dean looks surprised, maybe even shocked. Sam isn't sure, since he doesn't know him well enough to say for certain, but yeah. Definitely surprised. "So you were—"
"Thirteen," he finishes, taking another long swallow of coffee. It burns his throat going down, still a little too hot to drink quickly. "Not many career options at thirteen."
Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his, and gives him a small smile. "I hear ya. But more at twenty, yeah? Or are you twenty-one? If you're tending bar—"
"Ah, what you can do with a fake ID," Sam says, and gives Dean a grin. "But let's keep that our secret, huh? And yeah, there're more options at twenty—but I didn't finish high school. So that narrows the field down again. I thought I was done, doing this—" he gestures toward the street, and his corner, "but my roommate split without warning, left me kind of tight. Bartending only goes just so far."
"You ever hustle pool?"
Sam shrugs. "A little. But I'm not very good at it. Better at hustling other stuff." He looks down the street again and recognizes the little blue Escort pulling up to one curb. It's Frank, who likes sloppy head, and always calls him 'Mark'. "Speaking of which. I should—go."
It's hard to leave, though, and after he gets out of the car Sam hesitates a moment longer, leaning on the door, looking at Dean who's looking down the street.
"You working tonight? Um—at the other place, I mean."
"My shift starts at seven."
Dean gives Sam a smile and a wink. "See you at seven, then, Sammy."
Sammy? Sam blinks, then shakes his head, and yells at the car as Dean pulls away, "Sammy's a little kid's name!"
But somehow, he can't bring himself to mind too much, and he's still hearing that warm, gravelly voice calling him 'Sammy' over the gasps his latest trick makes when Sam sucks him down.
True to his word, Dean's at the bar, mug in hand, chatting comfortably with Alice, who waitresses on busy nights, but does a little bit of everything (as they all do) when it's slow or they're short-handed, when Sam breezes in a few minutes before seven.
Sam clocks in and ties an apron around his waist, then reaches for the bowl of limes. It's two-for-one Coronas night after nine p.m., and once the factory lets out, they'll probably be swamped. Better to get some prep done now than wait until later.
Alice is telling Dean a story about her cat, and Dean is laughing and nodding in all the right places. When she leaves to take an order, a wide smile curves her mouth up, and Sam has the feeling that's probably the reaction Dean gets from about 99 percent of the female population.
"Making friends?" He asks with a smirk.
"Jealous?" Dean counters, reaching for a lime wedge. Sam makes an aborted chop motion with the knife toward Dean's fingers, determinedly not thinking about tequila and lime juice, and body shots.
"Of Alice? Pretty sure she's old enough to be your grandmother." Sam frowns when Dean reaches for another wedge. "Hands off my limes, dude, or you're in serious trouble."
"Please tell me you don't use that as an actual pick-up line." Dean licks lime juice off his fingers, and just like last night, Sam's left with the urge to offer to do that for him.
"Not many chances to use pick up lines," Sam says, corralling the lime wedges. "Unless you count 'hey, looking for a good time'?"
"Work doesn't count." Dean finishes off his beer and glances at the clock hanging over the television. "What time do you get a break?"
"Probably about ten, before it gets busy. Why?"
"Eh. Figured I could stick around, have a bite to eat with you. Otherwise, it's just go back to my motel room and stare at the television, and this is more entertaining than anything on TV is gonna be."
Well, that's more direct than either of them have managed so far. Sam slices down into another lime, then looks at Dean from under his bangs. "Why, really?" He asks, softly.
Dean shrugs, and picks at a spot on the bar where the fake wood has lifted slightly, warped from too much moisture seeping down into it. "I like you," he says finally, then looks up at Sam. "You're interesting to talk to. I don't get to talk to many people outside of my, um, business stuff. Job stuff. It's a nice change."
"Yeah. It is." Sam doesn't talk to too many people, himself, aside from Hey, looking for a good time or What can I get you to drink, so it's been a rare treat, talking to someone who's interesting to talk to and who treats him like an actual person, and not an object. "So, uh. You want another Budweiser? And a burger for dinner?"
"That'd be awesome, Sammy, thanks."
Sam rolls his eyes as he fills Dean's mug. "Dude, it's Sam. Seriously."
"Whatever. Sammy." Dean waves his hand and winks, and Sam actually thinks about asking him to forget the motel and just go home with him, when his shift ends.
Dean sticks around for the rest of Sam's shift, retiring to a seat at the far end of the bar, once the place fills up. He spends most of the evening thumbing through a worn-looking, leather-covered book, pausing at different points to read pages, or make notes. He has a folder with some newspaper clippings and pictures, and when he's not reading in the leather-covered book, he's making notes in a regular notebook while he goes through the clippings.
Sam deposits a Corona, with lime wedge, and a shot of tequila in front of him, and smiles when Dean looks up, eyes slightly glazed but grateful. "Thanks," he says, and reaches for his wallet, but Sam shakes his head.
"On the house. Well, on me." He looks at the scribbles Dean's making and frowns. "Can you even read that?"
"What? Of course I can." Dean scowls at him. "It's my own writing, isn't it?"
"Whatever you gotta tell yourself, man." He turns away to hide his smile, but not before he sees Dean look down and squint at the paper, like he's willing the squiggles to turn into actual letters.
"A ride home's the least I can do," Dean says to him, stretching and yawning before gathering his stuff up. Sam shakes his head, but zips his hoodie up and follows Dean out to where the Impala's parked, gleaming black under the wavering light of the streetlamps.
"You're insane, you know that? You could've gone home hours ago."
"Right. To that empty motel room?"
"Whatever, man. Just sayin'." Sam directs Dean away from the bar and toward his little house, but it isn't until the Impala's idling in front of it that he looks at Dean. "You, um. You want to come in? To a not-empty, not-motel room?"
It's quiet beside him for so long that Sam's tempted to pretend he never said anything, and just get out of the car, forget Dean Whoever He Is ever existed. He's reaching for the door handle in fact, when Dean shifts beside him, hand closing over Sam's arm.
"I want to," he says, low and soft, and a curl of heat winds its way through Sam at the intensity in those three words. "But I gotta get up early, got some research to do in the morning, and if I come in, ain't neither one of us gonna get much sleep."
It's been a long, long time – Sam can't remember the last time, in fact – since someone's promised something like that and made Sam actually believe it, and want it.
"Okay," he says, hoarsely. "Okay. But—before you leave town, alright? Promise me."
Dean nods, then reaches out and touches Sam's face; brushes his hair back and out of his eyes. His fingers are warm, and a little rough – calluses, Sam thinks – and feel so good just stroking lightly. Sam closes his eyes when Dean rubs the pad of his thumb across Sam's mouth; he shivers at the soft sound Dean makes when he opens just enough to lick at it, warm and salty, with an odd metallic tang underlying.
It's not enough. Not even close.
Dean's eyes are wide open, but it's dark, not even streetlights right here, and Sam wishes he could see Dean's eyes clearly. Wishes he could see how dark they'd be, shaded with hunger, pupils blown wide, drowning the green.
"Shh." Sam doesn't want to talk; doesn't want to hear whatever Dean's about to say. He closes the distance between them and kisses Dean, brushes his mouth against Dean's.
It's meant to be a quick kiss, nothing more, but Dean opens his mouth and he tastes sweet and warm, his mouth slick and yielding to Sam's, and so much for quick. Sam needs to taste Dean, needs to drink him in and fill up on him. He presses closer, swallowing down the quiet sounds Dean makes, shuddering when Dean cups the back of his head, trails his fingers through Sam's hair to hold him tight. The car is full of the wet sounds of their kisses; of the fast, frantic gasps for breath in between each kiss.
Dean pulls back first, but not far. Just enough to lean his forehead against Sam's, his breath still ghosting warm and moist against Sam's lips.
"What is it—about you?" He asks, the words low, hardly more than a whisper. "Do you feel it, too?"
Sam nods, and leans in for one more kiss, this one the chaste, brief touch he'd intended to start with. "Yeah. Like." He closes his eyes, and all he sees is Dean. "Like there's a connection. Between us." He smiles, and feels Dean's lips move against his, mirroring it. "Like I've been waiting for you."
That gets an actual snort of laughter, and Dean leans back. "Corny."
"But not wrong."
"No." Dean scrubs one hand over his face, and again Sam wishes for light – lamplight, moonlight, whatever – so he could see Dean's eyes. See the expression in them. "Go on inside," Dean says, trailing his fingers once more over Sam's cheek. "And I'll see you tomorrow. You gonna be down the street?"
"I dunno. Check here first?"
"Will do." One last touch, and Sam wills himself to move, to get out of the car, ignores the voice inside him screaming that he should stay.
Walking away from Dean is the hardest thing he's ever done in his life, and Sam thinks that's really saying something.
Sam wakes up exhausted, with a weird, nagging feeling pulling at him.
He didn't sleep well, dreaming about fires off and on all night, and at one point, of a woman dressed in a white nightgown pinned to a ceiling, flames shooting out around her before engulfing her. When he wasn't dreaming about fire, he dreamed about Dean, about green eyes staring at him, and Dean shouting soundlessly.
He's only been up for half an hour and he's already finished off a pot of coffee and an entire box of pop tarts – not his favorite breakfast (or any time) food, but they were in the cupboard and he was hungry.
Busy work is usually the best way for Sam to work off nervous energy, so he throws himself into it. He changes the sheets on his bed, and in the other bedroom (though calling it a bedroom is a generous use of the word, since it's hardly more than a closet nailed on to the back of the house), and runs the vacuum, then washes up the few dishes in the sink. He needs to do laundry, but isn't in the mood to hike down to the laundromat.
All the while there's a feeling, some weird kind of electrical buzzing, rippling through him. A sense that something is wrong.
And Dean hasn't been by, yet. Not that Sam is going to start banking on someone he met a couple of days ago, but he's willing to bet that when Dean says he'll do something he follows through.
It's just past ten, the house is as clean as it's likely going to get, and Sam's still drowning in exhaustion and weird something-is-about-to-happen feelings, and he needs to do something. Be somewhere else, maybe.
He decides to go for a walk after all, though not to do laundry. Just to get out, get some fresh air, clear his head.
Later, when he tries to recall it, Sam can't say what it was that made him head in the direction of Vine Street, and the so-called haunted house Dean's looking at. But that's the direction his feet move him, long legs eating up the sidewalk quickly as the weird, nagging feeling coalesces inside him into something like a sense of panic, that he needs to find Dean, and right now.
Dean's car is parked in front of the house, and Sam staggers slightly from the relief that pours through him. That relief is short-lived, though, because he hears a shout from inside the house – not words, just a loud yell, but it sounds like Dean – and then what sounds like doors slamming.
Sam's up the front walk and through the door almost before he processes that he needs to move, and he's just in time to see…something…shove Dean down the stairs.
He's shouting and running, and there's a growing sense of noise, some sort of hum that's rising into a shriek. Cold all around him, moving over him and through him, and Sam feels like he's trying to run through honey, or syrup, all thick and viscous and holding him back.
"Sam—get out of here--"
"Not without you—c'mon, man," and he's tugging on Dean, trying to get a shoulder up under him and get him to his feet.
They get out of the house just before the door blows – slams – shut behind them, the wind shrieking and howling inside, still audible through the walls.
Sam lands on his back, half on the asphalt of the front walk, half on the grass beside it, with Dean landing on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. When he can breathe again he gasps, "What the hell was that?"
"That," Dean says, grimacing when he moves, "was a fucking vengeful spirit, and not the damn poltergeist I thought was in the place."
"So, lemme get this straight: ghosts are real?" Sam rummages around in his freezer, finally locating the small cold pack he knew he had, tucked away behind a stray package of pizza bites. He hands it to Dean, sitting at his kitchen table, then goes in search of a dishtowel to wrap it in.
"Ghosts are real, yes. So are demons, and vampires, and all sorts of other supernatural shit. Nightmare, monster-under-the-bed type stuff, all of it's real. Except Bigfoot." Dean's dabbing at his forehead with a damp washcloth, face drawn up in discomfort, and Sam just doesn't even know what to say or do at this point.
"And you hunt them."
"I—yeah." Another dabbing with the washcloth, then Dean lays it aside in favor of putting the cold pack on his ribs. At the first touch he sucks in a deep breath, then winces from the motion. Sam shakes his head and tries to look anywhere but at what's already becoming a brilliantly-colored bruise.
"You sure you don't need to go to the hospital? Your ribs could be broken."
"No hospitals." Dean's been adamant about that since Sam got him into the Impala and asked where to take him. "And they're not broken. I've had enough broken bones to know what they feel like. I'm just banged up some."
"Some. Right." Sam reaches out and very gently touches Dean's mouth, swollen where he'd bitten his lower lip at some point, or possibly got hit by something. Or both. "You're gonna be nothing but black and blue in a few hours."
"But they're good colors on me." Dean tries a smile that ends up as a grimace. "It's okay, Sammy, really. I'm okay. I been hurt a lot worse before, and lived through it."
"And you do this, this hunting thing, this is what you do? For a living?" He rests his fingers on Dean's pulse point at the base of his throat, the steady thump beneath his fingers oddly reassuring.
"Well, it doesn't pay very well. 'S why I asked you about hustling pool. That's how I pay for a lot of stuff."
"Ah. So the whole buying houses to fix them up--"
"One of a thousand different cover stories. Gets me in, around; most of my jobs involve some kind of research. Gotta figure out what's going on, then why, and how best to fix things."
"Do I even want to ask?" Sam's pretty sure he knows the answer to that; he sees it reflected in Dean's eyes even before his lips form the words. "No. You don't."
"Actually, I think I do--but later. Right now, you should rest." There are actually a lot of things Sam wants to ask Dean: how'd he get started doing this, why does he keep doing it, is Sam ever going to see Dean again after he's done here.
That last one catches him by surprise, and he thinks it must show on his face, because whatever Dean was about to say to him -- his mouth was open, words forming -- it changes, and Dean's face softens. "C'mere."
"Come. Here." Dean stands up and pulls Sam closer, and God. Yeah. This is what Sam wants, Dean close, in his personal space, forever and ever. Dean's eyes widen a little when Sam presses against him, and he tips his head back, looking up at Sam. "Christ, you're big."
"You should see the rest of me." It comes out dirtier and more with more intent than Sam maybe meant, but once the words are out, there's no calling them back. And Sam doesn't want to. "You should. See the rest of me," he breathes, leaning in so he can brush his mouth against Dean's.
"God, please." Dean's big in his own right, solid against Sam, and he shifts to press one leg in between Sam's thighs. It feels fucking awesome, and Sam groans and kisses Dean hard, mouth open and seeking, desperate to taste Dean again. "Sam--yes. God, yes."
"Bed," Sam manages in between kisses, nuzzling at Dean's jaw. "Perfectly good bed, we don't have to stand up--" He licks at the swollen cut on Dean's lip; shivers at the tang of blood that spreads over his tongue. "Kind want you laying down, man."
"You gonna fuck me?" Dean slides a hand down from Sam's waist to cup between his legs, and Sam's growing erection throbs. He groans when Dean squeezes again, cupping and rubbing and stroking him through his jeans. "Gonna lay me down and fuck me, Sammy?"
Dean's voice is hoarse, the words thick and rough, and hungry-sounding. Sam grinds himself against Dean's hand and growls, "Jesus Christ, yes."
It's difficult, stumbling through the tiny house while kissing, but they manage, mostly, only bumping into the walls and furniture a couple of times. Sam tries to lead the way -- backwards -- so he's the one who bangs into things, and not Dean, who already has enough bruises. By the time they get to the bed Sam wants to rip Dean's clothes off with his teeth, he's so ready. It's like they've had three days of foreplay and enough's enough.
"Wanted to go slow," Sam mumbles, reaching to pull his shirt up over his head, "but I don't think I can. Not this time." He fully intends there's going to be more than just this one time, even if it means he has to tie Dean down to the bed to keep him around awhile. Which is not an unattractive idea, actually. "How d'you feel about bondage?"
"I dunno, I--holy shit!" Dean reaches out and tugs on the ring through Sam's right nipple, and he grits his teeth against the wave of desire that washes over him. "Somebody's a kinky little bitch."
"Wait 'til you see the rest." Sam gives Dean a smile that probably comes out more feral than friendly, but he's feeling pretty damn feral right now, actually. He pops the buttons on his jeans and shimmies out of them, hand coming down to stroke up his dick slowly, root to tip, to where the Prince Albert gleams, polished gold dampened by the droplets of pre-come beginning to leak.
"Fuck me," Dean breathes, sitting heavily on the bed, which hey, puts him right at the perfect level with Sam's dick. "Not so little, then."
Sam laughs, the sound turning to a low groan when Dean reaches out and rubs over the head of Sam's dick before pulling gently on the piercing. "Was planning to."
He watches Dean stroking him, fingers easing up and down tentatively at first, teasing lightly over the swollen head, smearing the fluid into his skin. Each bump and push of the ring makes Sam tremble, the touches too light and gentle to give him any real friction; just enough to drive him near insane with need.
"Suck me," he says roughly, pushing forward toward Dean. Dean's mouth is sinful, gorgeous, lips plump and swollen, shiny where he's been licking at them, and Sam wants to feel those lips curve around him, wants to feel the wet heat of his mouth surrounding his dick. Wants to pull out and fuck back in, and pull out again, be all slick with Dean's spit.
Dean takes him in, licking around the piercing first, hands reaching up to Sam's hips to hang on when Sam pushes in. It's every bit as good as he imagined, Dean's tongue dragging along the length of his shaft when Sam pulls out, flicking at the ring at the tip.
"God, the things I wanna do to you," he says, hunger coiling hot inside him. Sam takes himself in hand and rubs his dick across Dean's mouth, shuddering when his ring catches on the split in Dean's lip and Dean whines. "Wanna come on your face, and lick it off you. Wanna fuck you bare and watch my come leak out of you, then lick it up and eat you out. Tie you up and tease you until you're screaming."
"Christ, Sam." Dean's flushed, red spreading down his throat, but Sam doesn't think it's embarrassment. Given the way his dick is drooling, thick drops of pre-come welling up and sliding down, Sam's pretty sure Dean's about to come just from this, without Sam ever even touching his dick. "Yes. To all of that."
Sam leans in close enough he can practically feel the heat rising off Dean, and takes his dick in hand, stroking it slowly while he whispers, "you just bottom, or you like to top, too? Want me sliding down your dick, riding you hard? I know I wanna see you on your belly, your pretty little hole all slicked up and open, begging for my fat cock."
"Okay," Dean says, and moves back on the bed. "That, right now." He moves a little slowly, stiff from the bruises decorating his body. But on his belly he's fucking gorgeous, the long line of his back calling to Sam to lean down and lick the full length of it, ending at the cleft between his ass, with a nip to each cheek.
It takes just a minute for Sam to reach out and grab lube and condoms, and then he's rubbing slick fingers over Dean's hole, teasing at it, pushing gently until it starts to give. Two fingers slide in slowly, Dean groaning and twisting beneath him, pressing back and panting, "more, more, now," in a ragged voice.
Three fingers has Dean gasping, working his hips to move back onto Sam's fingers and forward, down, to rub his cock against the bed. Sam could stay like this forever, watching Dean begging with his body, with each bead of sweat that springs up and each rough whisper of a moan. Except for how he's about to come even before he gets inside Dean, because fuck, he wants him.
"Enough fucking foreplay, fuck me already."
Sam smacks Dean once on the ass and reaches for one of the condoms. It's tricky to open with slick fingers, but he's perfected using his teeth to rip open the package without nicking the rubber inside. He rolls it down over himself and slicks on more lube, then leans forward to press in.
Dean's head is bowed, and the back of his neck makes him look oddly vulnerable, and makes Sam feel suddenly protective. "You gonna be okay like this? I won't hurt you, your ribs?"
"'M fine, Sam, just—Jesus, fuck me, I'm dyin' here."
Even after stretching him, Dean's body balks at opening fully, and he groans low and deep when Sam pushes, electricity swirling through him as Dean takes him in, surrounds him, so hot and tight.
He holds still there, giving Dean a chance to adjust and get used to him. Sam thinks he says something then, something really stupid like, "God, I could do this forever," but he's not sure of anything right now except how good it feels to be buried deep inside Dean with Dean wriggling beneath him, rocking his hips in increments, squeezing and relaxing around him.
Dean mumbles something that sounds like "move", so Sam shifts, draws himself up so he can. He pulls Dean up and hangs onto his hips, keeping clear of his ribs, and begins thrusting slow and smooth until Dean's shoving back at him, growling "fuck me harder, c'mon, give it to me."
He knows the instant he hits Dean's prostate when he feels Dean go rigid beneath him, air rushing out of him in a shocked gasp. Then it's mewls and whimpers, and Dean shifting around to get a hand on his own dick while Sam pounds into him, hitting that spot over and over.
They move together perfectly in synch, and Sam doesn't remember the last time he honestly enjoyed sex at all, much less this much. He wants to bury himself over and over inside Dean until both of them are slick and wet with spunk. He wants to wrap his arms around Dean and hold him close, kiss him until their mouths are swollen and sore, then kiss him again. He reaches around and twines his fingers with Dean's, stroking his dick fast, hard, feeling blurts of pre-come oozing up and dribbling down, making their hands sticky-slick. Each press forward makes Dean shudder, and Sam's already trying to hold back coming until he can feel Dean squeezing hot and hard around him, but his balls are drawing up, need coiling tighter and tighter, burning hot in his belly.
Dean stiffens up, erection throbbing harder. "Oh, god—"
"Do it. C'mon, give it to me. Wanna feel you come, Dean." Sam bites the words into Dean's skin, licks over each bite, and growls when he feels Dean come, warm, sticky fluid spilling out and over their joined hands in thick pulses. He throbs in response, feeling each pulse echo through him and then out of him, and Sam comes with a low, pained cry, shoving forward through each spasm, trying to get deeper, deeper, bottom out completely.
They end up falling face-forward onto the bed, and Sam scrambles to get off Dean before he hurts him more, but Dean just pulls him close mumbling about how good he feels, and what bruise?
"You're insane," Sam tells him, then raises both their hands to lick Dean's come off, lapping in between fingers, and sucking each digit into his mouth. He feeds it back to Dean in a kiss, then licks the taste out again until Dean tastes like nothing in particular and everything Sam never knew he wanted.
"Mmm. We have so got to do that again," Dean says, shifting onto his side. He reaches out and runs his hand down Sam's chest, pausing to tug on both nipple rings before moving lower, where Sam's still wearing the condom. "Got more of these?"
Sam gives him a wicked grin. "Plenty. Just give me a few minutes to catch my breath."
Dean lifts his arm up and pretends to check his watch. "Alright. Clock starts ticking now."
The sun's long since gone down, so the only light in the room is coming from the lamp still on out in the living room. It's mostly dark in the room, the golden puddle stopping at the door, leaving the room in shadows. It's getting chillier, too, since Sam turned the thermostat back earlier, but he's not about to get out of bed for something that trivial. He can turn the heat up a notch whenever they actually get around to moving. Hopefully that might be some time next spring.
"This is what's nice," Sam says finally, shifting so he can curl closer to Dean. He rests his head carefully, not wanting to chance bumping the spreading bruise, and listens to Dean's heart beat slow and steadily.
"What's nice?" Dean's combing his fingers through Sam's hair – time to get a haircut, pretty soon – and it feels so good Sam thinks about purring. That might be a little weird, though. At least for the first time.
"Cuddling after." Sam nuzzles Dean's jaw, tastes the salt left there from sweat and probably spunk, his tongue tingling from whisker stubble. "Sex is great, don't get me wrong. But I miss—this."
"Mmm." Dean tilts his head back and makes a low, pleased sound in his throat when Sam licks over a mark he put there earlier. "We are so not cuddling, bitch."
That makes Sam smile. "Totally are, jerk."
"Whatever. This is just—sharing body heat. We'll both probably fall asleep any minute now."
"Uh-huh." Sam goes back to licking at the bruise he sucked into Dean's throat earlier, smiling every time Dean shivers. When Dean closes his eyes and pretends to snore, Sam pokes him in the belly, then leans down and blows a raspberry there, which gets him a snort and a poke in the side.
"You are so weird." Dean resumes combing his fingers through Sam's hair, smoothing it back behind one ear. "You gotta work tonight?"
"Nope. Wednesdays and Thursdays are my nights off – not busy enough. Once winter gets here, I'll probably be off on Sundays, too." That's not a cheerful thought, because it means he'll likely have to work the corner more, to make up for it.
Dean's stomach growls then, and Sam snickers and pokes him again, then traces gently over the bruise he can't see now, but knows is there.
"Ah." Dean winces, so Sam draws back.
"Little, yeah." Dean rubs the back of Sam's neck, then leans in to kiss him. "Kinda forgot about it, there for a while."
They trade lazy kisses back and forth until Dean's stomach growls again, with Sam's following suit shortly after. Sam doesn't want to move, doesn't want to leave his bed ever again. Doesn't want to break whatever spell this is, or change things. He's happy right here, right now, in bed with Dean. Dean, who he didn't even know existed three days ago, and who breezed into town and into Sam's heart; who's probably going to take Sam's heart with him, when he leaves again.
"Hey." Dean cups his cheek, fingers warm and steady. "Where'd you go, Sammy? What's goin' on in that head of yours?"
"Nothin'," Sam manages, feeling like he almost sounds nonchalant. "Just trying to remember what I have in the house that's edible."
It's pretty clear from the noise Dean makes he doesn't believe Sam, but he doesn't call him on bullshit, either.
"We could get dressed, go out." Dean's shifting around now, and that's that. Spell's broken, moment's gone. Sam misses it already.
"It's cold and dark out, man." Sam shakes his head and reaches for the lamp beside the bed. "I'm pretty sure I have a pizza in the freezer—that work for you?"
"Pepperoni?" The hopeful note in Dean's voice makes Sam smile.
"Yeah, probably. You wanna get the shower started while I get the oven going? We could share, conserve water."
"Or we could share, and I could blow you under the water." Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam feels a new tingle of heat spread through him.
"Or that. I could even return the favor." He grins at Dean's expression. "Towels are in the closet in the hallway; help yourself."
"Will do." Though Dean doesn't appear to be planning to actually move right away, judging by how he settles back against the pillows to watch Sam move around the room.
"It'll take about ten minutes for the oven to heat up, before I can put the pizza in." Sam pulls on a pair of sweatpants left hanging over the closet door, and straightens up, stretching the kinks out of his back. "The water takes a few minutes to warm up, just so you know."
"Or, we could always shower after we eat, instead." Dean says casually, eyes lowered, face arranged into an innocent expression. Sam's not fooled by that at all.
"What, make sure the pizza doesn't burn while we're conserving water?"
A smug smile spreads across Dean's face, and he opens his eyes to wink at Sam. "Absolutely."
"All right. But we are eating first. Now I'm up and moving around, I'm starved." Sam hopes he has two frozen pizzas in the house, otherwise they might end up ordering some in, later. "There's another pair of sweats in my closet, if you want to put those on instead of your clothes. Until you've showered."
"Yeah, I might do that."
It occurs to Sam then that Dean might be stalling so Sam doesn't see him wincing and shaking once he starts moving. He frowns, considers offering a hand, then rejects that idea. He hasn't known the guy that long, but Dean doesn't strike him as the type who likes anything to show that could be perceived as a weakness—even if it's something like being sore and stiff after getting the crap kicked out of him by a, well, ghost.
That whole ghost business is going to take some getting used to. And a lot of answers from Dean.
"Oh, when you use the toilet, you have to jiggle the handle after you flush, or the chain gets stuck. See you in a few."
Sam's puttering around the kitchen, waiting for the red light to go off so the pizzas can go in. Maybe if he works a couple of extra nights – days, whatever – on the corner, he could get a little money saved up, and then maybe he could take a couple days off from everything and hang with Dean. Heh. Hang out in bed with Dean, fucking each other's brains out.
Or maybe Dean would just want to hang around here for a little while. If there's one…ghost…in town, there might be others, and he'd have something to hunt while Sam worked at the bar. And if Dean's as good at pool as he says, Sam might not need to work his corner for a couple weeks—
A hard hand lands on his shoulder and whirls him around; Sam almost knocks them both over trying to catch his balance, and glares at Dean. "Dude! What the hell?"
"Where'd you get this, Sam?"
Dean's holding up a picture Sam keeps stuck on the side of his dresser mirror. It's two boys – well, one boy, holding the other, who's just a baby. The little boy is grinning at the camera, looking proud and happy to be holding the baby. The back of the picture, Sam knows because he studied it over and over looking for any hints or clues about his family, says simply, "D & S, 10/83".
"It's mine," he says, staring at Dean. "That, and a note with my name on it were the only things with me when I was dropped off at the hospital. Why?"
"What's your name? Your full name?"
"Samuel John Winchester," Sam tells him, a weird sense of unease beginning to crawl through him. "Why, Dean?"
Dean sets the picture down on the kitchen table and fumbles his wallet open, then hands Sam a picture.
It's not the exact same picture – but it's close. Same room, same chair, same general feel. The same two boys, but this time there's a man in the picture as well, tall, with dark hair and laugh lines around his eyes like the crinkles Dean gets when he smiles, Sam thinks numbly. He's leaning over the back of the chair, big hands on the boy's shoulders, protective. Loving.
"Turn it over," Dean says, his voice sounding like it's far away and under water.
The back of the picture reads, "John, with Dean and Sammy. 10/83."
"Who—" Sam has to stop and clear his throat, and his voice still comes out rusty, uneven. "Who's John?"
"Our father." Dean clears his throat. "Our father, Sammy. Sam. You're—"
"—my brother," Sam finishes, staring down at the picture. When he looks up at Dean, he feels completely numb inside, though there's a wave of hysterical laughter climbing up his throat. He swallows over and over again until it's pushed back down again, though the effort makes his chest feel like it's going to burst open, trying to contain it.
In the space of three days' time, Sam's met the first guy he's ever felt an actual connection with, who treats him like a real person and not just some stupid kid who sucks dick for a living because he can't do anything else. He met Dean, who's smart, and funny, and dead sexy, and fucking hunts ghosts for a living. He met Dean, and he fell in love…with his brother.
Sam's ribs ache with the effort of breathing in and out.
"…thought you were dead," Dean's saying, when Sam can focus again on something besides breaking down. "He told me you were dead."
"What? Why? When?" Sam's glad there's a chair behind him when his knees give out, otherwise he'd be on his ass on the kitchen floor.
"Dad, told me you died. A few—few months after mom died. I dunno, you'd been sick, I think. Or he said you were sick. And we had to take you to the hospital—"
"Saints Mary and Elizabeth, in St. Louis, Missouri." Sam knows that name; he spent the first seven years of his life in and out of the orphanage by the same name, alternated with stints in foster homes.
There's so much information coming in, incomplete information like, their mom died? Of what? When? Obviously his dad -- their dad -- survived, lived, so why was he put in foster care? And Dean mentioned he had the Impala because his dad died, when and how did that happen--and God. Sam feels like his head's going to explode.
"Yeah." Dean puts the picture back in his wallet, fingers brushing tenderly over it. "Jesus. All those years—"
"I wondered," Sam says, thinking of dark days and darker nights. "I made up names for the boy. For you. Daniel, Douglas, David, Derrick. I never thought of 'Dean'—I don't know why. Guess I went with the names I heard, or knew." He glances up at Dean, at the beautiful face with brilliant, gorgeous eyes and the mouth that had kissed him and made him feel alive, at his brother, and sighs. "I used to pretend, for a long time, that someone was going to come. That there'd been a mistake, and someone was going to walk through the door and say, 'that's my brother!' and I'd get to leave wherever I was. I'd look at boys on the street and wonder if one of them was the boy in my picture, looking for me."
"I'm sorry, Sammy."
It's said quietly, almost a whisper, and it breaks Sam's heart more than anything else that's been said so far tonight.
"It's not--your fault," he says, blinking against the tears stinging his eyes. "You didn't. You didn't know."
Sam thinks Dean is the kind of guy (boyfriend, his mind whispers) who would be there, be good in a crisis. Clear-thinking, strong, take-charge. He'd be someone a person could lean on, count on.
And Sam can't lean on him. Can't have him.
"I'm gonna go--" Dean gestures toward the back of the house, and Sam nods.
"You can still shower, if you want. I'll--I'll stay out here."
Dean just shakes his head and leaves the room. He returns a few minutes later, quiet as a shadow, even wearing boots. He moves slowly, carefully, holding himself stiffly. Under the layers of clothes is a black-and-blue bruise that spreads over half his right side; Sam remembers tracing it, kissing around the edges of it, the muscles of Dean's stomach twitching and jumping under his lips and tongue.
"I don't want you to go," Sam says, standing when Dean just stays in the doorway. "Don't--don't go."
"I can't stay, Sammy." The look Dean gives him stops Sam in his tracks. "I want--I want things I can't have. I can't have you, not--we're brothers," he finishes, tone bleak.
"I know." And it's not fair. It's the most unfair thing in his life ever, because he's being robbed twice. Losing the brother he just found, and losing the lover he never knew he wanted.
"Here. If you need…anything. At all. Call me, okay?" Dean hands him a scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it, then reaches out and cups Sam's face. "Anything, any time. Sammy."
One last touch, a whisper of a caress, and Dean's gone. Sam can still feel the warmth of that touch even after the sound of the Impala's engine has faded.
He doesn't call Dean. He wants to; he wants to badly. But the thought of talking to him, listening to that low, warm voice that he remembers saying his name with passion, with intent, it's too painful. So Sam texts him, instead. Not often, no pattern, just little random things from time-to-time.
Alice still talks about you. I think she's going to name her next cat 'Dean'.
Saw a black Chevy today. Like yours better.
Winter sucks. Going south next year.
I wonder if squirrels ever are afraid of heights?
Miss you. Think about you all the time.
Catch any ghosts lately? R u being careful?
Saw a guy today & thought it was you. He didn't turn around when I yelled your name.
He gets one text back in the midst of all of those, that simply says: miss u 2
The envelope shows up a couple days before Christmas, sent priority mail with a signature requested. Sam signs for it, curious, because the return address is somewhere he's never heard of out in Arizona and he doesn't know anyone from Arizona.
Inside the envelope are several stacks of bills, and a single sheet of paper, folded in half. Sam sets the money aside and opens the paper with shaking hands.
There's four thousand dollars in here. I want you to use it, so you can stay off the streets. Not because I don't think you can't take care of yourself. I know you can--and you did a damn good job of it for a whole lot of years.
Just use it to make things easier for you. Please.
It'd be really easy to let stubbornness get in the way here, and push the money aside. He can take care of himself, and he's done a perfectly fine job of it for years, now. Sam doesn't need Dean, or anyone else, coming in like that mythical knight-in-shining armor.
But. It's also a way to break the cycle he's been caught in for almost half his life, and Sam's not so stubborn that he can't see that.
He grabs his phone and hesitates, torn between wanting to call Dean, to hear his voice and talk to him -- ask him, hell, beg him to come back here. Come back not as a brother, but as the man Sam met and fell in love with. The man Sam still wants.
He types thank you. love you. come back please? and hits 'send'.
The GED test is in two days, and Sam's pretty damn sure he's going to ace it, no problems. He has brochures for about a dozen different colleges and universities, as well as some vocational programs spread across the kitchen table, Stanford and Harvard vying for space with Texas A&M, Ohio State and DeVry Technical Institute. His counselor at the Adult Ed Center assures him that student financial aid is available in a variety of different forms, from Pell Grants and scholarships, to student loans and work study programs.
It's been four months since Sam sent the text message to Dean. In that time he's had two more envelopes show up -- neither one with as much as the first one, but more than enough to help Sam make the bills and buy groceries on just his bartending salary, without having to work the corner any more. The last envelope had a piece of paper in it, as well, with just three words: love you, too.
No sign of Dean, though, and Sam struggles daily with the urge to send text after text, begging him. He did call once, and got Dean's voicemail, but no call came in return.
Next step after his exam is applying for college, and while they all look good Sam's been eyeing Stanford. California will be expensive as hell, but it's also a lot warmer in the winter than here in the glorious Midwest.
Occasionally, when he allows himself to get lost in romantic notions and ideas, or just plain old flights of fancy, Sam will imagine himself enrolled in classes at Stanford, and maybe working in the library or a local coffee shop. He imagines coming home after a long day of work and school to an apartment he shares with Dean, where they fix dinner together and argue over whose turn it is to do laundry, and fuck on every available surface in their home, then go to bed at night curled around each other.
It's a fanciful notion, maybe, but it's as vital to him right now as the idea of someone finding him was when he was younger. More vital, maybe, because the someone isn't nameless or faceless this time; Sam sees Dean constantly in his dreams.
He's lost in contemplation of the different schools -- Stanford is his first choice, but it doesn't hurt to consider the pros and cons for all of them -- and trying to figure out how much he'll need to meet monthly expenses in Palo Alto against financial aid prospects, when there's a sharp knock on the door.
Sam absolutely isn't expecting to open his door and see Dean standing there, hands in his pockets, a hopeful look on his face.
He's pretty sure Dean isn't expecting Sam to just grab him and pull him into a tight hug, nor to slam the door shut by way of pushing Dean up against it and kissing him frantically.
It's an absolutely perfect kiss, too, and Sam wants to drown in it. Wants to drown in the heat of Dean's mouth, in the quiet noises he's making in his throat, in the way his hands feel, cupping Sam's face and holding on tight. Sam whimpers when Dean draws back, but he doesn't go far, just settles better against the door and kisses Sam again, slow and gentle, tongue stroking and teasing and promising until they're both breathless.
"I'm so glad you came back," Sam says, biting at Dean's jaw, licking at each spot he nips. "Never shoulda let you go."
"Sam. God, Sammy." It's the way Dean says it, voice hitching, that breaks something open inside Sam, and he kisses Dean again, trying to pour into it everything he isn't sure he can say with words. "Wait--wait. Sam. Wait." Dean pushes him away just a little, just enough that he's looking straight at Sam, fingers tight around Sam's arms. "I just--I should've come back sooner, but I." He shakes his head. "This, I shouldn't want this. You're my brother, it's wrong, it's--"
Sam meets his gaze steadily. "I don't care. I want you, man. The rest of it? The world can go screw itself. We're not hurting anybody." He believes that, too. No one will ever have cause to know they're related, and it's no one's business but theirs anyway.
Dean blows out a breath, but nods. "Like I said, I shouldn't want this…but I do. And fuck everyone else."
"How 'bout I fuck you, instead?" Part of Sam wonders if it's too soon, throwing that out there, but the rest of him, the part that's pressed up against Dean and can feel how much Dean wants him…that part knows it's not.
"Yes." The word is barely audible. "Now." Dean's already reaching for his belt, and Sam realizes his hands are trembling when he reaches for his own.
"Bedroom," Sam says, jerking at the buttons on his jeans. "I wanna fuck you hard and fast, then lay you out and do it again slow." He pulls his shirt up and off, heat winding through him when Dean does the same. He's just as gorgeous as Sam remembers, long and lean, body strong and muscled. "No bruises," he says, reaching out to touch where the bruise covered Dean the last time. "That's good."
"I've been careful." Dean's pushing Sam backwards, one hand already working down inside Sam's jeans. "Fuck, I forgot how big you are."
They bump into the door frame, then clear the bedroom and hit the bed, Dean following Sam down so he's straddling him.
"Gonna ride you, Sammy," Dean says, shifting around so he can pull Sam's jeans off. "Suck you wet and then slide down on your dick. Jack myself off and come all over you when you shoot inside me."
Sam swallows roughly and pulls Dean down for a kiss, all teeth and biting, until he tastes the sharp tang of blood. Dean sucks his lip until Sam feels the sting where Dean's teeth nicked him. "You want me—"
"Bare." Dean nods.
Green eyes meet his, Dean's gaze steady. "Got any reason we shouldn't?"
For just a minute the trust Dean's putting in him makes it hard for Sam to breathe, and he has to focus on that, on drawing a breath in and letting it out, before he can answer. "No."
"Good." Dean pauses, then leans in closer, mouth brushing against Sam's ear. "I won't regret it." He backs downward, holding Sam's gaze, until he reaches Sam's dick, rising up thick and hard, swollen head shining with slickness. "Fucking huge dick; felt it every time I sat down for days afterward, last time." He leans forward and licks over the head, teasing the ring with his tongue, flicking at the slit with just the tip until Sam wants to grab his head and grind up into his face.
It must show on his face, because Dean laughs, low and rough, and just that soft touch has Sam arching upward, straining to get that mouth on him again.
"Please," he says, hissing the word through his teeth. "Dean—"
"Patience, Sammy." Dean licks again, then leans back and laughs when Sam whines, "fuck patience, c'mon."
This time when Dean leans forward, he doesn't tease. He fits his mouth around Sam's dick and sucks him in, wet and sloppy and so good. Sam fucks his hips upward, gentle thrusts so he doesn't gag Dean, and whimpers when Dean just takes him deeper.
His head's spinning by the time Dean pulls off, and it isn't until Dean's moving over him and raising up that Sam realizes Dean's already ready -- body open and slick with lube, and holy shit.
"You got—you, before you got here—" He can't even make the words come out in any kind of sense, but it seems like he doesn't have to. Dean nods at him and shifts, and then he's sliding down, letting gravity help fit Sam inside him.
"Oh, Jesus," he moans, and Sam echoes it, because God. Like this he's completely bottomed out, filling Dean completely. Dean's so hot around him, the slick easing the way just enough for movement, but still tight enough for delicious friction. And every time Dean shifts Sam's ring moves, rubbing inside Dean, but rubbing Sam, too. It's almost like fucking and getting fucked all at once, and it makes hunger throb inside him, thick and hot.
Dean rides him slow and steady, then faster, each slide downward making both of them gasp. Sam holds Dean steady with one hand and strokes his dick with the other, feeling it throb with each stroke. The faster they fuck the faster Sam strokes him, until Dean's swelling, lengthening, his balls drawing upward toward his body. Sam holds Dean down on his dick while Dean comes, each spurt spattering across Sam's chest and belly, coating him in thick, creamy streaks of spunk.
He shakes through his own orgasm a few minutes later, Dean groaning above him while Sam thrusts up hard and fast. They hold still like that afterward, Dean laying forward, smearing his come between them while Sam's leaks out of Dean.
It's the first time he's ever had sex bare with anyone. Ever. Just the idea of it makes Sam feel a little dizzy, and a lot loved. Trusted.
"So glad you're back," he murmurs, sleepy and sated. He feels Dean's smile against his neck.
"So what do you think about California?" They're having a late-afternoon snack of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup – snack, because Sam still has to work in a couple hours, and he'll have dinner then.
"What do I think what about California?" Dean's slurping his soup out of a mug, because Sam only has one bowl and Dean insisted he didn't care what the soup was in, so long as he got some.
"Well, as a place to stay. Live. I was thinking—looking at schools there."
Dean pauses in his slurping and gives Sam a sharp look. "You were? Since when?"
"Since somebody sent me money and said 'stay off the streets'." Sam dunks his sandwich into his soup and ignores Dean's audible gagging noise. "I went and talked to a counselor at the Adult Ed Center, and enrolled in their GED program. I take the test in a couple days, and if I pass – which I totally will – I'll get my GED and I can go to college."
"You—really? For real?" Dean looks absurdly proud, which makes Sam feel warm all over. His faces falls, then, a small frown replacing the smile. "Huh. I guess I just assumed—"
"What?" That frown makes alarm grow inside, replacing the warmth with icy fingers. "Dean, what?"
"Oh, that you'd want to go with me. Hunt with me?"
Sam blinks. "I…can't do both? Go to school, and hunt?"
"You do remember me telling you I didn't settle anywhere, right? That my car's home?"
"Well…yeah. But why does it have to be that way?" More importantly, Sam wonders why anyone would want it to be that way. Why move all around all the time, when you could have a home base, or something. "Couldn't you, I dunno, get a place and hunt like, on weekends?"
Dean frowns. "Dad—dad did it all the time."
It's going to take them both some time to get used to some things, like the word 'dad'. "What'd you guys do for money?"
"Hustled pool, played poker, um. Credit card fraud."
Sam shakes his head, sure he heard that wrong. "Credit card fra—on purpose? That's what you did for a living?"
"We'd get odd jobs sometimes, but yeah. Hunting was pretty much dad's main focus." Dean sounds defensive, maybe even a little angry, and Sam really doesn't want to end up fighting with him over something like this.
"Okay, but you don't have to do it like that anymore, do you? I mean—I'm not saying give up hunting." It even feels weird to say that, 'hunting' like it's a real thing, though Sam has to remember that to Dean, it is. "But maybe it doesn't have to be the only thing? I really…want to go to college, Dean. And for the first time in my life, I feel like maybe I can. Like it's a possibility."
"Yeah." Sam pushes one of the brochures over to Dean; the one about Stanford, with all its different colleges and programs, and the prestige of the place. "It doesn't have to be California, I got school brochures from a bunch of places. But it's warm out there, and the ocean's nearby, and it's far from here."
"What would I do while you're at school?"
Sam shrugs. "Get a job? Take up macramé? What do you want to do?"
For a second, Sam isn't sure Dean heard him, because he's just staring down at the picture of Stanford's administrative building, fingers moving lightly over the faces of the students in the picture. "…no one's ever asked me that, actually."
Dean shakes his head. "It never really came up. Dad hunted, so I hunted with him…and that was that."
"Do you—do you want to hunt?"
"It's all I've ever done."
Sam reaches out and traces over Dean's hand with the tip of one finger. "That's not really an answer, you know."
That gets him a half-smile, and Dean turning his hand over, palm up, and twining their fingers together briefly before letting go and going back to his soup. "I don't know anything else, Sam. I mean, I can do basic stuff, busboy and fry cook type stuff, I can wash dishes with the best of 'em, and I know my way around the engine of a car. But I dunno that any of those are really screaming 'life's work'. At least with hunting, I'm helping people."
"You can keep on doing that. I'll help you with that. I'm just saying, maybe there's more that you can do, too."
Dean nods. "Can I—sleep on it? Think about stuff?"
"Well, yeah." Sam returns to his soup, gone cold now. "It's all academic 'til I take the test, anyway. Then I have to apply to the schools, and see what's offered for financial aid, stuff like that. I'm not going anywhere for a few months yet, anyway." He hesitates, then sneaks a glance at Dean from under his hair. "You're not—gonna leave again, are you? I mean. If you go on hunts, I could come with, watch and learn, on my days off. But. Would you stay here? With me?"
Relief moves through Sam when Dean nods, a smile spreading across his face. "I've kind of been waiting for you to ask me, dude. Been here how many hours now, and you're just getting around to it?"
Sam smacks Dean on the shoulder. "It's not like we weren't busy doing other stuff—"
"Like fucking each other's brains out?"
"Something like that." Sam raises an eyebrow. "So? Will you stay?"
Dean gives him a grin that makes the smile lines around his eyes crinkle up, and says, "I'd love to, Sammy. I'd love to."
It's late afternoon, and the early spring sun is already starting a downward slant, but to Sam it feels like the beginning of a brand-new day, bright and rich with promise.