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The Last Memory of the Impala

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Dean said nothing, but after a few moments he gave a tight, angry nod. Sam saw the shine of dammed tears in his eyes.

Silence fell. Sam turned his gaze on the road ahead and for a while he absently watched the white lines as they disappeared under the hood of the Impala. A couple of times he opened his mouth and took a breath, but the subject he wanted to raise remained stubbornly lodged in the pit of his stomach. Half formed opening phrases flitted through his mind, and images gathered around them, memories tantalizing and ephemeral as ghosts.

He glanced toward Dean and found himself gazing at his hands, his fingers curled around the steering wheel. His focus moved up the bare forearm to the point where the cuffs of Dean’s shirt folded over his elbow, up to the curve of his shoulder, and finally resting on his face where the attention became fixed on every detail of it. This would be Sam’s last opportunity to marvel at those features, that remained incorrigibly boyish despite the years and the cruel experience they’d endured, at the light stubble Dean always sported to draw attention from the almost feminine sensuality of his soft full lips, from those wide multi-hued eyes and their impossibly long lashes.

Dean caught Sam’s eyes for a moment, frowned briefly, then returned his attention to the road. “What?” he asked.

Sam couldn’t answer. Neither could he drag his gaze from his brother’s face.

Dean glanced at him again, out of the corner of his eye, and shifted in his seat. Sam knew he was making him uncomfortable but still couldn’t help himself. Last time. Last chance, he reminded himself. He must speak now.

Was it his imagination that there was a tension building in the silence that was more than simply awkwardness, more than just the tightness that was growing in his own thighs, or the heat prickling his skin. Was Dean feeling it too?

What, Sam?” Dean demanded again, this time with a distinct edge in his voice.

Sam drew a quick breath. “Dean, would you pull over for a moment?”

Dean gave him a hard look, half suspicion, half concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Dean, just – just pull over would you? Please?”

Another searching look then Dean steered to the side and off the road. “O.K. Sam, what’s eating you?

Sam glanced back at Castiel. This was an awful thing to do to him, but . . . He reached back and shook his knee. “Cass? Wake up, Cass.”

Castiel stirred then woke abruptly, his intense stare focusing instantly on Sam’s face. “What is it?”

“I . . . need to talk to Dean for a minute . . . alone.”

“What?” Dean interrupted, incredulous.

“I just need half an hour – quarter of an hour – ten minutes . . .”

Castiel’s expression never changed as his eyes bore into Sam’s for long moments. Then he opened the car door. “Take all the time you need,” he said, and was gone.

“Are you out of your mind?” Dean cried. “We’re in the middle of nowhere! He doesn’t have his powers. Where’s he going to go?”

Sam’s heart was racing now, his breath coming fast and hard. “There’s something I need to ask you, Dean.”

Dean looked wary now. He turned his attention frontward and appeared to study his own fingers as they traced nervously around the rim of the wheel. “O.K. Spill it.”

“Dean . . . all the years we’ve been doing this – all the things we’ve hunted, demons we’ve ganked . . . you know there’s something we never . . . confronted . . .” Sam watched Dean’s jaw tighten. “In that motel, Dean, outside Rivergrove”

“I can’t believe this!” Dean interjected, so quickly it was clear he’d anticipated where Sam’s thought was headed. “You’re going to bring that up now?!”

“Yes, Dean, now! Of course, now!” Sam’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “I have to know - ”

“It wasn’t me, Sam.”

Sam reeled physically. After everything that had gone down between them, the blunt denial was like a blow to his gut. For a few moments the wind was knocked out of him. Then the fire of anger burned in his veins. A frown creased his eyebrows and forehead, and his nostrils flared. “Dean, don’t do this to me,” he croaked. “Not now. Not tonight . . . I don’t know what happened to you that morning, when it started, but we both know how it ended. I let you inside me, Dean. I gave myself to you completely. You must know I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t known, if I hadn’t been a hundred per cent certain, it was you!”

Dean’s lips were pressed tightly together. He was still staring at his own white knuckles.

“For fuck’s sake, Dean,” Sam pleaded. “All the years I had Azazel riding me, then Meg and Ruby . . . I didn’t have any choice then – or I thought I didn’t . . . and tomorrow I’m gonna give my ass to Lucifer . . . are you gonna let me do that thinking - ” Sam swallowed, tried to bring his voice under control. “Are you going to sit there and tell me what happened between us that night was just another demon making me his bitch?”

The sound of Sam’s ragged breathing made the silence loud.

“Dean, please!” He hesitated, searching for words that didn’t sound trite, but could only think of the obvious. “This is my last . . . our last . . . Oh god, Dean, you’ve got to give me something!”

Dean’s arm was trembling. Still tight lipped, he gave the briefest nod, then another. Then he suddenly opened the car door, got out and slammed it behind him.

The sound of the shutting door numbed Sam’s body. Tears were beginning to sting at his eyes when he heard the rear door open. For a moment he thought Castiel had returned before Dean’s voice startled him.

“Well, are you joining me back here or not?” he demanded, bluntly.

Sam turned swiftly and stared at Dean. His eyebrows were arched challengingly, half mocking, but in his eyes Sam saw the trace of a mute appeal that revealed he was only half as sure of himself as he was making himself out to be, but it was enough. Sam almost fell out of the car. His legs felt so weak they barely supported his weight and as he tumbled into the back beside Dean his heart was hammering against his rib cage.

It was awkward at first, as if neither of them had ever had sex before. They both reached for each other at the same time and got in one another’s way, their arms knocking so that Dean wound up slapping Sam’s jaw and Sam nearly poked Dean’s eye out, but then Dean took the wheel. He grabbed Sam’s wrists and drew him forward until their foreheads touched. They were so close they were sharing the same quickened, trembling breath, and their lips were all but touching. There was a pause, like the moment when a pearl diver stands at the edge of the cliff before plunging into the ocean. Sam waited, and ached, and waited.

Their lips met and Sam was falling, swimming, drowning, and it was wonderful. Dean’s lips, their warmth, their silk-cushion softness, the touch of Dean’s tongue against Sam’s – every cell of his body ached, craved more. Then Dean changed gear; he made a tight little sound – like a moan – his fingers closed around the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and suddenly his kiss was hungry, fierce, passionate, driving Sam back against the seat in its eagerness as Dean thrust his tongue deep into Sam’s mouth, exploring and drinking him in. And the only two things in the world that Sam knew about were the taste of Dean and the hot demanding throb in his own jeans that was screaming to be released.

And when the kiss finally broke they were both gasping for air, and then they were getting in each other’s way again in their haste to undress each other until Dean snatched Sam’s hands and fairly threw them out of the way to clear his route to Sam’s shirt front. Then he was fumbling the buttons, his hands were shaking so much. Growling an obscenity he grasped the material in his fists and tore the shirt open and while he was peeling it off Sam’s shoulders, Sam was pulling Dean’s shirt and tee over his head. It wasn’t graceful but it got the job done in the end, and then they were kissing again and Dean was raking his fingers through Sam’s hair while Sam ran his hands feverishly over Dean’s chest, shoulders and back, relishing the feel of it, the tautness of the flesh that was slick with sweat. And Dean’s hands were sliding slowly and sensuously down Sam’s chest, over his abdomen, until they closed over his belt buckle. Sam drew a sharp breath in through his nose and his hips lifted, almost of their own volition, to ease Dean’s task. As he unhooked the clasp and popped the button Sam was exhaling in hard gasps and when he slowly drew down the zipper it sent an electric thrill through Sam’s groin that vented itself in a loud quavering moan of anticipation. Dean drew a quick sharp breath in response and Sam looked down to catch him grinning.

“Just fucking get them off, Dean!” he gasped.

With that Dean hooked his fingers into the waistband of Sam’s jeans and underpants and yanked them down to his knees. “Oh yeah!” Sam gasped, reveling in the relief of being free of the confining clothing and not immediately noticing that Dean was struggling again, tugging, trying to get them over his ankles. Sam looked down.

“Shoes, Dean.”

“Fuck.”

Dean bent down to pull off the shoes and socks and his head rested against Sam’s hip. Sam shivered convulsively as he felt the warmth of Dean’s breath fanning over the impatient flesh of his prick. Closing his eyes, he slowly reached down and slid his fingers into the tight waves of hair that crowned Dean’s head and tugged gently, insinuatingly, guiding him toward the place where he needed him to be. Dean’s head lifted. One hand leaned against the seat as he straightened himself up and the other appeared from beneath it clutching one of his own boots which he promptly threw onto the back shelf. Then his fingers closed around Sam and Sam cried out as a liquid lightning bolt of pleasure coursed through his prick. Then Sam watched as Dean lowered his head, his luscious lips parted and his tongue swept wetly over them before they finally closed over Sam’s sharply aching flesh.

Sam’s eyes were closed tight, his fingers were buried in Dean’s hair again, the other hand was clutching his shoulder and someone - he supposed it must have been him; Dean had his mouth full - was sobbing with pleasure. Dean’s mouth slid smoothly down to the hilt embracing Sam in warm, wet bliss then drawing tightly up the shaft until his tongue swept sinuously over the engorged and throbbing dome, embracing and massaging the over sensitive flesh and darting into the twitching, puckering slit.

Oh dear god dear GOD that’s so good that’s SO GOOD! That’s – god – oh no – stop – fuck! – “Dean, no, stop, gonna come . . .” Sam gasped, seizing Dean’s shoulders and pushing him away, grabbing his own prick at the same time and giving the head a good hard squeeze. He was barely in time. “Whoo . . .” he breathed out slowly through pursed lips.

“My turn then?” Sam looked up to find Dean gazing at him through lust glazed eyes. Dean’s jeans were disposed of more swiftly since he’d already taken the precaution of removing his own shoes and socks. Sam kissed Dean and enjoyed the thrill of tasting his own juices on his brother’s tongue before his lips traced a lazy road down the smooth sculpted lines of Dean’s torso. He paused en route to suck on Dean’s nipple and feel it stiffen under the flicks of his tongue. He smiled with satisfaction as he felt Dean’s body arch beneath him as he nipped the tight bud with his teeth then soothed it with his softening tongue. Dean’s responsive hisses and gurgles sent shocks of gooseflesh skittering down his arms and back and re-awakened the quivers of desire in his prick. And now Dean was humping suggestively, demandingly, and Sam felt a hand on his head pushing him down.

The cry that rent from Dean’s lips as Sam took him into his mouth was shockingly intense and unrestrained. It flipped and twisted Sam’s insides. Could this really be happening? Could this really be Dean in his hands, in his mouth, so abandoned, so responsive to his touch? Sam’s head swam as he tasted the taut flesh beneath his tongue, savouring its salty, slightly metallic flavour while his hand slid up and down the rigid shaft, massaging, twisting and drawing a continuous growl of pleasure from Dean’s trembling lips. Then he felt Dean’s fingers in his hair, pulling him up.

“Come here,” he gasped. “Come here, Sam.”

They were kissing again, and Dean’s arms wrapped around Sam’s body pulling him warm and close, then his hands slid down his back, caressing the tight muscles of Sam’s butt before sliding under the curves of his buttocks and drawing him up and forward. And Sam promptly smacked his head on the ceiling of the Impala.

“Ow,” he muttered, rubbing his head.

Dean frowned. “You OK, Sam?”

“Yeah, fine” he assured him, hunching over as Dean tried to ease his knees onto the seat to position his own hips between Sam’s thighs.

Dean grunted. There just wasn’t enough room to manoeuvre. “Can you lift your hips any, Sam?”

Sam tried but his head hit the ceiling again. “Maybe if you slide down a bit.”

Dean slid, then emitted a hiss that wasn’t pleasure.

“Dean?”

“Stubbed my toe,” Dean explained through gritted teeth. “This isn’t going to work, Sam.”

“Wh - ”

“You’re too tall, you great mammoth! Come here.” Dean grabbed Sam and steered him down onto the seat beside him. Then his head ducked down and his mouth closed over Sam’s prick once more. It was pleasurable but there was no finesse to it. It was just about getting Sam wet, and with that achieved Dean sat up once more, swung his leg over Sam’s thighs and took the glistening shaft in his hand.

Sam stared at him wide eyed. “Are you sure, Dean?”

Dean grinned, though he looked a little nervous. “I’ll try anything once.”

It wasn’t ideal. Dean was hunched over almost as much as Sam had been, but there was just about room for him to get in position, then Sam felt the warmth of Dean’s flesh against his, felt it begin to embrace him, close around him, felt the delicious friction as Dean slowly worked himself down until Sam was buried deep inside him. Through half closed eyelids Sam saw Dean chewing at his lower lip.

“Dean?”

“’S ok,” Dean whispered. “Just stings a bit.”

“Try to relax.”

“Mm.”

Dean blew a breath of air through pursed lips and Sam felt his muscles loosen. He let his hands skim up Dean’s thighs then he slipped one between their bodies. His fingers curled around Dean’s waiting shaft and began a slow sensuous massage. Dean’s eyelids dropped closed and he let out a breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Leaning close to Sam’s ear he whispered “Damn you’re good with your hands, Sammy.”

Sam smiled as gooseflesh skated down his back once more. “That’s the one thing I’ve had a lot of practice at.”

Dean grinned, laid his hand against Sam’s and turned his head until they were kissing – awkward, but they managed it. And Dean seemed to be moving more easily now so Sam felt encouraged to move with him. Not easy with his knees jammed against the front seat, but Sam manoeuvred himself so his upward thrusts would find the sensitive bundle of nerves that Dean had taught him about in that motel all those years ago. A sudden gasp from Dean told him he’d hit the spot.

“Whoa – that was – do that again – WHOA!” Sam found a rhythm with his hips and his hand and Dean’s body began to shudder. “Ok, ok, this is good,” he whispered. “This is ok, I could get used to this. I could -” He gasped. “Oh, Sam! Sammy!” His hands clutched at Sam’s head and his lips sought Sam’s and his mouth was hungry again. Arms wrapped around one another, bodies curled around each other, Sam moving in Dean, Dean’s tongue thrusting into Sam’s mouth and suddenly, bizarrely, Sam thought of the Taijitu. And he felt the first tremors building in the pit of his groin once more, the beginning of the eruption. Dean’s fingers tightened in his hair, he drew back and their eyes met.

And as he stared into the liquid depths of his brother’s eyes time seemed to slow. Everything before, everything that had brought them to this point, and everything that was to come faded into insignificance and there was only now, and Dean. Sam was acutely aware of everything about him: his earthy scent, the feel of his flesh beneath Sam’s fingers, the warmth of his body, every fleck of colour in his lust-darkened eyes, the glisten of sweat and unshed tears on his lashes and the trembling sounds of his approaching orgasm. Sam’s jaw tightened and he drew in a long sharp breath through his nose. He could hear the resounding thump of his own heartbeat and he could feel Dean’s beating through his own chest, synchronizing, the two rhythms becoming one beat as they moved together. Eyelids dropped and fluttered but somehow stayed open, kept the contact as the eruption broke, flooded, filled every pore; as their bodies bucked and writhed and shuddered, filled and spilled into and onto one another in wave after hot, gushing wave.

Long, long after the moment had passed they were still gazing at, into one another while their chests heaved and sweat trickled down their faces and bodies. Sam could still feel Dean’s muscles tightening around him, the most intimate of hugs, milking the last quivering drops of his pleasure from him. He marveled that Dean wasn’t breaking away, wasn’t trying to escape from the appalling exposure of this sharing. But he wasn’t. He didn’t. Not for a long time. He just kept staring into Sam’s face until it made Sam’s chest ache and he swallowed as he felt emotion bubbling over and tears welling in his eyes. And then Dean leaned in and kissed him, softly and tenderly. Sam wanted to sob but he held it in because that would be too hard on Dean. If he started, maybe Dean would too and he was afraid they’d never stop.

Dean reached for a blanket from the back shelf and drew it around them both as he steered Sam down onto the seat, wrapping his legs around Sam’s and drawing them up until they were curled up together, the way they used to sleep in the back when they were children. There was barely room for them both now. It was difficult and constricting. Their limbs jutted out at awkward angles and jabbed into each other uncomfortably. Dean’s foot was twisted painfully against the far door, and Sam’s head was pressed against the ashtray. The toy soldier he’d jammed in there so many years before now dug into his temple. None of that mattered. It was never meant to be easy. Sam understood that now. It was always a struggle for them to be together, but in those rare, far flung, painfully brief moments when they were perfectly together, it was perfect. And it was the memory of that moment that bound them even when they were at their furthest extreme from each other. Always, when it mattered most, Sam would remember.

. . .

It was warm under the blanket. Wrapped together in that protective cocoon, sheltered from the cold and the oppressive darkness Dean could almost believe that this was the one place where he could keep them safe, inside this metal frame that was the body of their world.

“You know, this was a first for me, Sam?” That little crease of a frown appeared between Sam’s eyebrows and tugged at Dean’s heart. Would this be the last time he saw that? “I’ve never done it in the Impala before,” he elaborated.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Seriously? You’ve never brought a girl here?”

Dean shook his head. “Thought about it once or twice, but it didn’t seem right somehow. This always seemed like . . .” He searched for the right words.

“Sacred space?” Sam suggested.

Dean laughed softly. “Trust you to put it that way.” But he loved him for it. “Have you ever . . . ?”

“No.” Sam assured him. “No, of course not.”

Dean tightened his hold on Sam, pulled him closer, and Sam reached for his hand and knitted their fingers together. It couldn’t last forever though. Time was pressing on them now. Dean could feel its icy breath on his neck. He checked his watch.

“What time is it?” Sam asked.

“It’s late, Sammy. You should get some sleep.” He was still calling him Sammy when he’d sworn he was going to treat him like a grown man now.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow Sam would be a man. Tonight, now, for one last time, Dean needed him to be Sammy, needed to take care of him this one last time. He combed his fingers gently through his brother’s hair. “Go to sleep, Sammy.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Go to sleep.”

Sam closed his eyes and suddenly all Dean could see was the youth in his features, and he was swallowing on the emotion that rose in his chest and throat. He continued to stroke Sam’s hair and after a few moments he found himself murmuring an old lullaby. His voice was husky and barely carrying the tune but he persisted and, after a while, he realized something miraculous had happened: Sam’s breathing had slowed to a soft, steady rhythm. He really was sleeping.

Dean continued to watch his sleeping brother for a while longer, but a line of grey on the horizon heralded the approaching day and he knew they had to get moving. He extricated himself from the embrace as gently and quietly as he could, gingerly picking out his clothes from the tangled heap on the floor, and retrieving his shoe from the back shelf, afraid that at any moment he would disturb Sam’s fragile rest. Sam slept on oblivious, the sleep of the dead, and the gathering chill constricted Dean’s chest.

He was praying in spite of himself: God, give me strength. God, give me strength. God give me strength. He was so afraid. So afraid that when the pit opened he would cling to Sam with his dying breath and let the whole fucking world go to hell around them so long as he could keep Sammy in his arms for even one extra moment. But the only thing that killed him more than the thought of letting Sam go was letting him down. God, give me strength. God, give me strength. God, give me strength.

As he stepped out of the car the cold hit him like a blow. He dressed as quickly as he could but was still shivering uncontrollably and his teeth were chattering as he climbed into the front, then he caught something in the corner of his eye turned his head and almost leapt off the seat.

“GUH!”

Cass was already sitting in the passenger seat.

“Wh – how – where – how did you – how long have you been back?” Dean demanded.

“I’ve been here a while” the angel responded staring stonily at the road straight ahead of him.

Dean’s lips parted. How long? he wondered. The heat of shame prickled his skin then, abruptly, it was replaced by a hot defensive anger. “If you’re sitting there judging us, Castiel, you have no right. You could never understand -”

“I’m not judging you, Dean.” He turned his piercing eyes to stare directly at him. “And I do understand.”

Castiel’s gaze was so intense that, for a moment, Dean remembered the angel’s former power and imagined he could feel it burning into him.

“For what he is about to do, your brother needs all his strength. And so do you.”

A sudden sharp breath filled Dean’s lungs and left him in a shuddering exhalation. Was it possible that Cass truly did understand? Was he giving them his blessing?

“We should be moving. We still have some distance to travel,” Cass reminded him. Dean stretched for the car keys with trembling fingers, but the icy morning wasn’t reaching him any longer. Something inside, neither warmth nor cold, but deep and vital was shielding him. As quietly as he could, he turned over the ignition and the engine of the Impala growled to life. He glanced anxiously at the back seat but Sam didn’t stir.

“We should let him sleep while he can,” Castiel acknowledged.

Words tumbled out of Dean’s mouth before he could stop them, before he even knew what he meant by them. “Angels don’t sleep,” he said.

 

 

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THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME

by fanspired