"How were you gonna do it?" Sam asks.
They're in the backseat of Mary's blue car after almost thirty minutes of stunned silence following Billie's death. Nobody spoke while they took care of the body, but Dean insisted Sam sit with him in Mary's tiny car while Mary drove them back to the bunker. He can't stand the thought of sitting next to Castiel right now. Dean needs to process what happened, figure out their next move, decide how the hell to proceed going forward.
Sam's murmured question takes him by surprise, but he understands immediately. He digs out the switchblade he snatched from the soldier he took out of commission back at the cabin and lets Sam see it.
"Straight to the heart," he says quietly, gesturing with his fist. "Dirty, but it works."
Sam's lips quirk and his eyes skitter away, and even in the gloom Dean knows that look. It makes him feel suddenly sick to his stomach, because he knows. He doesn't know why it didn't occur to him before, but now he knows.
"Sam?" He growls a warning, and Sam huffs out a breath through his nose. He slides his hand into his own jumpsuit pocket, lets Dean see the handgun.
"Fast and final," Sam says.
Sam doesn't have to say he would've knocked Dean's hand aside and shot himself in the head before Dean could've driven that blade into his own heart. Dean's so done with how well Sam planned this. Dean hadn't even considered that Sam would try to beat him to the kill. He'd refused to talk about it earlier, so sure he already had his plan and there was no way Sam could jump in and take the bullet for him, so to speak.
But of course, Sam had almost done exactly that.
Sam shifts on the seat next to him and now it's Dean's turn to smirk. This car is way too small for Sam, which is why he sat in the front seat before the whole Billie thing went down. He's cramped and uncomfortable and Dean's just a tiny bit overwhelmed at the moment, thank you very much. They're alive. They made it. Sam's right here next to him without a death sentence over their heads for the first time in more than six weeks, strong and healthy and smelling to high heaven, and it's good.
It's better than good. If it wasn't for their mom, glancing worriedly at them in the rear-view mirror every few minutes as if she can't quite believe they're still there, Dean would totally grab his brother and show him exactly how grateful he is to be alive. Cas doesn't count because he knows about them.
Cas can go to hell for saving their lives like that. Damn him, anyway. Who does he think he is, risking "cosmic consequences" for them? Dean had it under control, damn it. He didn't need Cas busting in and playing the big hero.
Sam shifts again on the seat, and now his knee is pressed against Dean's and Dean shoots him a glare. Sam shrugs.
"It's a little tight back here, Dean," he says, completely unapologetic, the bitch.
Because now Dean's got a raging hard-on to deal with, on top of everything else.
"Oh, I know it is," Dean growls in that voice that always gets Sam going, just to watch Sam blush, which of course he does. Sam gives his head a little shake and lowers his eyes, his face splitting open in that stupid dimpled grin that makes Dean's heart pound almost painfully in his chest. Dean's tempted to slide his hand across Sam's thigh and squeeze.
He doesn't, though. Just settles for spreading his legs a little wider, to give Sam less room and guarantee that now their legs are pressed together from hip to knee.
Six weeks apart and Dean can feel his arousal coursing through him like a drug; he knows Sam's feeling the same way. Combined with the adrenaline rush from what just happened with Billie, plus their general state of exhaustion after their resurrection and escape, Dean's bloodstream is flowing with a veritable cocktail of over-stimulation. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths through his nose in a mostly-useless effort to calm himself. It helps, but now he's even more aware of Sam, his overripe smell, his overheated body, his breathing. Dean lets himself drift on fantasies of spreading Sam open, of making room for himself in Sam's arms, of entering and stretching Sam's body so he can fit inside, right where he belongs.
Pretty much the thoughts that kept him sane these past few weeks in solitary confinement, really. Not that much different, except now he's got Sam right here, next to him, and they're free. They're free and together again and alive without the threat of imminent separation by death or imprisonment and it's almost more than Dean can bear.
By the time they reach the bunker, he's almost unconscious, horny and tired at the same time. He's only vaguely aware that Mary isn't staying, that she's just dropping them off, because Sam's pleading with her.
"Come on, Mom," Sam says. "You must be exhausted. At least come in and have something to eat."
"No, I need to get going," Mary shakes her head. "You and Dean need some time to recover from everything. I just need to go for now. I'll check in with you tomorrow."
"Wait." Dean's out of the car, Sam at his back and Castiel hovering somewhere nearby and Mary's leaving again. She's always leaving, and that pisses Dean off so much he doesn't know what to do with it on top of everything else he's feeling right now. "You're leaving? Mom, what happened back there with Billie isn't just going to go away. We need to figure out a plan."
"A plan, huh?" Mary blinks up at him from the driver's seat. The motor's still running. "You do that, Dean. Meanwhile, I'm going to go get some sleep. Alone. And you should do the same. We'll figure it out in the morning."
Or not. Dean has a feeling he won't hear from her for a couple of days, at least. She seems to need to do that, just disappear. It reminds him of his dad.
Then she's gone, and it's only later that he finds out she stayed in the bunker while they were gone. She took over one of the guest rooms and slept alone in this big, empty place, wallowing in the silence and isolation like she was doing some kind of penance for not being there to prevent their capture. For not being able to find them and rescue them. For being a lousy hunter as well as a lousy mother.
No wonder she doesn't want to sleep here now that they're back.
In the bunker Sam and Dean barely make it out of the library before they're grabbing each other. Dean's actually pretty proud of himself for holding off so long. He even managed to look Cas in the eye and say, "I could kill for a shower right now."
Cas didn't get the hint, of course. "I don't believe that will be necessary," he said with a slight frown.
Leave it to Sam to slap a hand on the angel's shoulder and turn on his most sincere face. "I think we're both pretty beat, Cas. We'll see you in the morning, okay? We'll get a fresh start on things then."
Castiel nodded. "Yes, I'm sure that's best," he agreed. "You both must be very tired."
"That's right," Dean snapped. "Good night."
As Sam turned away from Cas, his hand brushed Dean's, and sparks flew instantly up Dean's arm and across his chest, making his nipples hard. His skin tingled and goosebumps formed beneath the collar of his jumpsuit, spreading up into his hairline and over his scalp, shooting down his back. Dean's dick had been half-hard since he resurrected in the prison morgue, adrenaline pumping a low-level arousal that spiked whenever he glanced at Sam. Now his cock was painfully hard, throbbing between his legs so that he was walking even more bow-leggedly than usual.
It was their first skin-on-skin contact in over six weeks.
As soon as they step around the corner, just out of sight, Dean shoves Sam into the wall and presses against him, tangling one hand in Sam's hair and grabbing Sam's collar with the other. Sam grunts softly as his back hits the wall and he angles his mouth down over Dean's for a deep, hungry kiss.
"Damn you, Sammy," Dean pants as he pulls his mouth away after only a moment or two, too desperate and heated to continue the kiss. He nips along Sam's jaw, shoves his knee between Sam's legs. "Coulda lost you. Barely got you back and almost lost you, you bastard."
He's babbling mindlessly, so worked up he's almost blacking out, delirious with need.
"Shut up and kiss me," Sam gasps, yanking Dean's head back so he can plunge his tongue into Dean's mouth again. He pulls on Dean's jumpsuit with his other hand, then works both hands down between them in a frantic effort to push the material out of the way, seeking bare skin. In seconds he gets the jumpsuit unzipped and works his hands inside, finding the hem of Dean's tee-shirt so he can thrust his hands up underneath.
Everywhere Sam's dirty, grubby hands touch him, Dean's on fire. He knows he's just as dirty, smells just as bad as Sam does, but it's like an aphrodisiac of the most intense kind precisely because it should be really disgusting. Neither of them has showered in weeks; they've been wearing the same clothes, same underwear. They've never been so dirty and Dean's never been so turned on.
Sam manages to work the overalls off Dean's shoulders, and Dean stops trying to do the same to Sam so Sam can push them all the way off. He yanks his own tee-shirt off over his head and lets Sam kiss him again, moaning into Dean's mouth as his big hands span the width of Dean's bare chest, squeezing Dean's pecs and brushing Dean's nipples into tight peaks with his long thumbs.
Meanwhile, Dean's pushed the zipper down on Sam's jumpsuit. He practically has to slap Sam's hands away to get him to hang his arms down by his sides while Dean yanks the coveralls off his big shoulders. Then Sam takes his tee-shirt off with one fluid motion and they're both naked from the waist up and all of that glorious, dirty, sweaty skin is Dean's again. He buries his face in Sam's neck and ruts against him, pushing him hard into the wall as he shoves a hand down the front of Sam's jumpsuit, groping for his cock. Sam grunts and gasps, holding on to Dean's biceps as Dean jacks him.
"Come on, Sammy, come on," Dean growls, and apparently that's all it takes. Sam makes a strangled sound and his head tips back against the wall, eyes half-closed and lips parted on a silent cry as he comes all over Dean's hand. Sam's body's taut like a bowstring and his grip on Dean's biceps is almost painful.
He's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen, dirt and all.
As Sam comes down, Dean takes his weight, holds Sam against him with one hand on the back of his head, the other still trapped between them, milking Sam through his aftershocks. Sam wraps his arms around Dean so their chests rub together, holding him tight for several seconds with his cheek pressed to the side of Dean's head, breathing deep.
"Missed you, man," Sam murmurs against Dean's ear, and Dean nods but he doesn't speak because he doesn't want to cry right now. He pulls his hand free and wipes it on Sam's coverall, then tangles his fingers in the waistband at the small of Sam's back, yanking Sam's body against him.
"Just so we're clear, I wouldn't have let you die alone," Dean says into Sam's neck. It still rattles him that Sam out-thought him on their deal with Billie.
"I know," Sam sighs, and just like that, Dean forgives him. Dean doesn't even have to imagine the moment back on that Colorado road after Sam managed to shoot himself in the head and Dean grabbed the gun away from his dead hand to shoot himself as well, doing if fast without thinking and with tears in his eyes. Sam already knew that was how it would go. He'd already worked it all out.
They'd be together. Dead, but together.
"So much for one of us going on fighting," Dean mutters as he clutches Sam even tighter.
"Yeah," Sam agrees, and Dean can feel Sam's dimpled smile against his ear.
"Bitch," Dean mutters, shoving Sam away, but only half-heartedly
Sam lifts his head, eyes blurred with emotion, lips turned up in a grin that becomes a smirk as Dean's hard-on rubs against his thigh.
"Oh yeah?" Sam murmurs, turning them so that it's Dean's back pushed against the wall now, Sam's big body pinning him there firmly. "Is that all you've got to say, you big jerk? Huh?"
Dean takes a stuttered breath as Sam works his hand down between their bodies, into Dean's jumpsuit, and Dean lets him, almost sobs with relief when Sam finds his dick and wraps his long, talented fingers around it. He presses his forehead against Sam's collarbone and breathes in the smell of sex and dirt and sweat as Sam jacks him. The angle is off, and when he opens his eyes for a moment all he sees is Sam's sweat-soaked chest, dark hair matted and damp. Sam's belly looks a little sunken, ribs showing beneath his normally sun-kissed skin, paler now than usual. Sam's confinement has made him lose weight, whereas Dean's pretty sure he's put on a few pounds.
"That's it, big brother, I got you," Sam pants against his ear as he swipes his thumb over Dean's slit and that's it. He's whiting out with the force of an orgasm that shouldn't be so blinding, shouldn't take Dean clear out of his body and straight into that place he shares with Sam where there's no thought, no words, just sensation. Just pleasure.
But it does. Sex with Sam has always been overwhelming, bordering on other-worldly, like it's an expression of something that isn't quite real, like it's part of a mythic ritual from some ancient place that Dean can't quite perceive with his limited human senses.
Whatever. It's definitely the best sex ever.
For a moment or two Dean sags against his brother, lets Sam's hands slide up his back and cradle his head, pulling it back so Sam can kiss his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" Dean slurs, sleepy and relaxed and smiling like a complete idiot.
"You love my asshole," Sam mutters against his lips as he kisses him, slow and deep and thorough.
"You're not wrong there," Dean mumbles with numb lips as soon as Sam releases his mouth. "I'm gonna fuck it."
"Yes, you are," Sam agrees. "But first, we need a shower."
They stagger down the hall to the bathroom together, and Dean tries to ignore the mess in his pants until they shut the door behind them. He sits on the chair in the corner of the huge communal space and takes his boots off while Sam turns on the water, gets the temperature just right. Dean's grateful, not for the first time, that the Men of Letters based their bathroom design on the men's locker rooms being installed in YMCAs and colleges across the country in the 1930s. No individual stalls with shower curtains and the kind of institutionalized modesty that became the norm by the late 1950s. Of course, there's a separate but smaller facility for the women who might inhabit the bunker, but at the time this place was built, it was clearly intended for groups of men who would be expected to live practically on top of each other, the way they did in the army.
At any rate, there's plenty of room for two taller-than-average grown men to shower together, and Dean's grateful for that as he steps out of his soiled coveralls and into the solid spray of perfectly-heated water. He's got his face up to the shower-head and his eyes closed, so when Sam comes up behind him and slides a warm hand around his middle Dean sighs with pleasure.
"Good?" Sam murmurs against his ear, and Dean hums appreciatively.
He leans back against Sam's chest and lets Sam wash him, soaping up his chest and neck, then his arms, one at a time. When Sam's soapy hand slides down his belly and between his legs Dean smiles, widening his stance a little to give Sam more room. He's careful with Dean's over-sensitive dick, washing his balls gently, making Dean feel like a big, beloved baby, which he kind of is sometimes with Sam, so suck it.
He lets Sam wash his hair, luxuriates in the feel of Sam's fingers messaging his scalp, then lets Sam turn him around so he can wash his back. Sam's big hands slide down to cup his ass, squeezing as Dean buries his face in Sam's neck, licking and sucking the wet skin. Warm arousal flows through him, making his dick twitch, making him hum contentedly against Sam's throat.
"Dean," Sam breathes as he presses his erection against Dean's belly, ready to go again the way a little brother should be. Dean tips his face up and Sam cradles it in his huge hands, swiping his thumbs under his eyes, his gaze intense and full of emotion. Dean blinks up at him and Sam's gaze drops to his mouth, so Dean licks his lips.
"I couldn't remember you," Sam says, swiping his thumbs across Dean's cheekbones again. "I forgot what you looked like."
Dean frowns as Sam's words sink in, as he understands the lost look in Sam's eyes, the greedy way he's looking at Dean.
"Okay, Sasquatch, time to get you cleaned up and into bed."
Dean grasps Sam's wrists firmly and pulls his hands off Dean's face, then grabs the soap and concentrates on washing Sam thoroughly, ignoring his memories of the little boy Dean used to bathe. He doesn't stop to consider that he probably forgot Sam's face during his own confinement. He just doesn't let himself think about that. Sam's here now, that's what matters.
Once Sam's face and chest are mostly clean again Dean pulls him close, so they're chest to chest as he washes Sam's broad back and firm ass while Sam kisses him, long and deep and thorough. Then he turns Sam around and presses up behind him, letting his hands roam over Sam's chest and stomach before grasping his cock.
"Fuck," Sam breathes as he tips his head back and spreads his legs to compensate for their height difference. He reaches one arm up over his head to cup Dean's cheek and turns his face for a kiss as Dean jacks him, slow and steady. Sam ends up leaning on his arms against the slippery tiles of the shower with Dean pressed up behind him, giving him a solid reach-around while Sam moans and shivers and comes again with Dean's half-hard cock sliding between Sam's wet thighs.
Eventually they're both completely clean and they stand under the warm water together a few more minutes just because they can. Dean's had a chance to inspect practically every inch of Sam's body because he's anal that way and besides, Sam is undeniably the most gorgeous man on the planet. Dean would be a fool not to take advantage of those rare occasions when Sam just lets him touch and explore to his heart's content.
They stumble down the hall to Dean's room, towels wrapped around their waists, leaving their soiled prison clothes to deal with in the morning. They'll probably burn them, hoping to permanently wipe out all trace of this particular chapter of their lives. Except for the reunion sex, there's nothing worth remembering about it anyway.
Dean's bed remembers them, as it always does. It welcomes their combined weight like an old friend, giving and enveloping them as they build a cocoon of blankets and pillows around themselves. Lying together on Dean's memory foam mattress is one of two places where Dean and Sam feel truly at home. The other is parked safely in the garage, as Castiel assured Dean almost immediately after he found them.
Dean takes his time opening Sam up, using his tongue and lips to make Sam writhe and to elicit those soft keening gasps that Dean loves so much. Sam clutches the blankets with one hand, pulls back a knee with the other, giving Dean room to work as he eats Sam out thoroughly before inserting a lubed finger, then two. By the time Dean lines up his slippery dick, Sam's a sloppy, leaky mess. It's the hottest thing ever, watching Sam come apart as Dean pushes into him. Moving inside Sam's hot sheath, making Sam squirm and cry out as Dean hits his sweet spot, never gets old. Imagining this, believing they would have this again, is probably the only thing that kept Dean sane all those weeks in solitary. Only when Sam's face began to fade did Dean decide that death was his only recourse. Bad enough living without Sam, worse living without even a memory of his face, the way he looks right now, head thrown back, long neck muscles strung tight, soft mouth slack with pleasure.
And when Sam's body seizes up, when he sucks in a stuttered breath and holds it as his eyes slide open half-way and his lips form a round "oh," Dean's sure he's watching perfection itself. Heaven couldn't possibly have anything to offer that would be better than this, his mind insists as Sam shoots long white strings onto his belly, his chest. Sam comes on Dean's dick like it's everything he's ever needed.
Dean gives a few more shallow thrusts, watching Sam's face relax, watching him positively glow, for God's sake. He leans down to lick the come off Sam's chest and the bitter, salty taste sends him over the edge, like it does every damn time. Taking part of Sam into himself always makes Dean lose it, and he doesn't really want to understand what that's about.
Sam rolls them onto their sides afterwards, facing each other. Dean's mostly asleep by then so he's only vaguely aware of Sam wiping himself off, then pulling the blankets up around them. Sam's staring at him again, he can feel it. Sam's drinking in Dean's features as he gently strokes Dean's cheek, his brow, the shell of his ear, and Dean allows it because he's too sleepy to protest.
Then Dean's stomach growls, and Sam barks out a low chuckle.
"Jus' wanna sleep," Dean mutters. They stopped at a drive-through several hours ago on their way to the bunker, plus Mary picked up some groceries for them at a convenience store when they stopped for gas, although both times she made them wait in the car. The prison jumpsuits and their state of uncleanliness might have drawn unwanted attention.
"First time I've ever heard you pick sleep over food," Sam comments. "Must be getting old."
"Shut up," Dean growls, but he's too sleepy and cozy to give Sam more than a half-hearted shove as Sam scoots closer and scoops Dean's body against him, rolling onto his back with Dean nestled against him.
Dean doesn't tell Sam how he imagined Sam's suffering, how every moment in that prison cell he thought about how Sam was feeling. Dean could feel it, Sam's hatred and fear of confinement. He could feel how it reminded Sam of the Cage, of all the years being tortured in ways only Lucifer could do. Dean doesn't tell Sam how guilty he feels about Sam's suffering, after all he's been through, whether or not it was Dean's fault they were captured. He felt responsible.
He doesn't tell Sam because Sam knows. Sam was in his head more than once during Dean's long, isolating imprisonment. Sam was there, bucking him up and filling his mind with his faith in Dean, his bottomless well of hope. Dean couldn't give up, couldn't stop trying to figure out a way out of there because Sam believed in him. Sam was sure Dean would get them out.
Dean falls asleep with his head tucked under Sam's chin and his ear pressed against Sam's chest, listening to his heartbeat. He thinks he can feel Sam's blood flowing through his veins sometimes, feels his heart beating in perfect sync with Dean's. As he drifts off he feels a vague sense of weightlessness, like he and Sam are floating, buoyed by slow rolling waves, out on the ocean in a lifeboat made just for them. It's a familiar feeling, like it's something he dreamed, or maybe it's where they were during that hour when they lay dead in their cells, waiting for their chance to escape.
Maybe it's the rolling motion of the car, rumbling beneath them, heading down a dark road with only the headlights to guide them. Maybe they're out on the highway, looking for trouble, getting ready to raise a little hell.
Wherever it is, it's right. It's home. And it's the only place Dean ever wants to be.