Dean is getting too old for this bullshit. The heaven and hell and creepy crawlers he gets, saving the world and all that jazz, but this? He does not have the sense of humor for this anymore.
But Gabriel, bless his immortal soul, feels differently.
“Consider this a trust building exercise,” the archangel says, walking leisurely around Sam and Dean’s motel room of the week and gesturing broadly as if this is his very own TED Talk. “Your own personal leap day.”
At each word, his grin widens and Dean’s frown deepens.
“It’s fucking June,” Sam sensibly argues, standing up from his bed and walking closer to his brother. He only notices what he’s doing when he’s halfway there, but it’s a good thing, because he knows for sure that there’s a pistol on Dean’s bedside table and a knife under his pillow. Both virtually useless against Gabriel, but it would hurt him and even though Sam likes to think of himself as a pacifist, he can’t find anything wrong with the idea of hurting Gabriel.
“Well, yeah…” Gabriel dismissively says. “Leap day plus a nice dose of amnesia tomorrow morning…”
“Weren’t you dead?” Dean pipes in. “Sam, wasn’t he dead?”
“I don’t even know anymore,” Sam grunts, giving up on the weapons idea and plopping down on the bed next to Dean. How is this even his life?
Gabriel smiles candidly and raises a hand, five fingers extended.
“And it starts in five… try not to get yourselves killed, yeah, boys?” he says, lowering fingers one by one. “Three, two…”
“Now, wait a minute…” It’s all Dean has time to say before Gabriel vanishes as if he were never there in the first place.
Both brothers stare into the empty space the archangel stood, similar doses of disbelieving anger coloring their faces.
“Fucking Gabriel,” Dean curses and moves to take his other boot off. He was getting ready for bed before that dick showed up and he intends to continue to do so. He lays down on the bed, conveniently ignoring Sam in order to kick his jeans off, and wonders aloud, “Does he get off on torturing us or something?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Sam replies humorlessly. He chews on his lips for a few seconds and, deceivingly innocent, mumbles, “So… twenty-four hours.”
Dean doesn’t even bother sitting up, just peeks at Sam out of the corner of his eye, a bitter smirk twisting his lip. Twenty-four hours and then a memory cleanse. Not that they are about to start believing Gabriel of all people… or angels. Whatever. But, as far as Gabriel pranks go, this one is pretty tame.
“What’s on your mind, Sammy?” Dean asks, softly enough that Sam can’t help but smile, albeit a little more tentatively than Dean. This could be a good thing for them. A chance to finally address the mountain of issues — codependence, denial, attraction — that they’ve been building since forever.
“Nothing, really…” Sam lies. He knows Dean can tell, but his brother doesn’t call him out. That’s just how he is, sometimes. It’s no wonder, really, that Sam’s been in love with him for so long. When he’s having a good day, Sam even contemplates the remote possibility of Dean reciprocating his (yeah, messed up, but who even cares at this point?) feelings. “Unless, that is… you have something you want to say.”
“Maybe something you want to tell me?”
Sam relaxes his face, tries to make himself seem more sincerely open when deep down he is freaking out. Dean does this thing between scoffing and frowning that leaves him with his nose all scrunched up and pulls up on his elbows, that all-too-satisfied smile still there on the lips Sam’s wanted to kiss since he first felt the urge to kiss anyone.
“Tell you?” Dean parrots, mockingly dramatic. “What would I tell you that you don’t already know?”
For Sam, Dean’s lying is as obvious as his own was to Dean, but the reason Sam doesn’t call him out is a very selfish one: he’s terrified of how this conversation and the whole night will go. Even though he’s usually the brave one when it comes to these things, he is not sure how to go about what he wants to breach.
Unable to hold Dean’s gaze for much longer, Sam shrugs, but before he completely chickens out and gets up from the bed, Dean adds, “Maybe you have something… you want to do?” Sam’s eyes snap back to Dean’s, but there is no sign of mockery in his tone or on his face. He’s dead serious. “You can tell me, Sam. I won’t judge… I promise.” Dean twists up, reaches out to pat Sam’s knee while adding, “You know you can tell me anything…”
And Sam is only human, you see.
When he dared to, he imagined his first kiss with Dean a million different ways, but usually retroactively. He wondered what it would be like to have kissed Dean on every single one of the thousands of times he’s wanted to do it. In the Impala alone, on those bittersweet moments when Dean’s driving and theirs eyes lock and linger, he wouldn’t be able to keep count if he wanted to…
Before he’s even made a conscious decision, Sam is leaning over Dean, lips pressed against his brother’s and reality hits him like a bag of bricks, knocking the breath out of his lungs; Dean gasps against his mouth, eyes falling shut, and reaches for his hair, not pushing or pulling, just kind of… holding on. His lips part for Sam’s tongue, too real for a heartbreaking moment.
“Sam,” Dean whispers, almost too softly to be heard, tender in a way he almost never allows himself to be anymore. “What did you do?”
And Sam recognizes the fear in his voice as his own, matching pieces of a very painful jigsaw puzzle.
“You said anything,” Sam replies, bravely pushing through the panic spreading inside his chest. He just kissed his brother. His brother, for fuck’s sake. He looks between Dean’s eyes in a daze, nor daring to move back or forward. Dean huffs out a breath that Sam can feel against his lips.
“Yeah, I did. I know I did,” He doesn’t even try to deny it. Not with the clock ticking. “But this, Sam…”
Dean doesn’t sound reprehensive. He licks his lips thoughtfully, eyes very clear, and Sam finds himself diving in for another kiss, unable to stop himself. Dean inhales sharply, but relents so quickly, allowing himself to be pushed back down onto the mattress, that Sam almost forgets this is something new for them. That this is not something they’ve always done. Dean kisses back slowly as if he’s not nervous, as if this is not changing the entire world as it happens.
Electricity flows through Sam entire body, so good it almost hurts. It’s a good thing he’s going to forget everything in less than a day because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live without this otherwise.
When Sam touches Dean’s face, fingertips running from his jaw to the laugh lines around his eyes, he can feel Dean smiling into the kiss. Sam nips at his brother’s full lips. In response, Dean grabs his shoulders and lets out a surprised moan that goes straight to Sam’s cock.
Sam pulls back after a second just to take in his brother’s flushed face, his lips pink and wet, eyes dark with arousal but so, so serious. They look at each other, a question hovering in the air.
“This,” Sam begins, barely able to recognize his own voice pitched so low. He smooths his hand over his brother’s hair and goes on, “This is what I wanted.”
Dean smirks, lazy with arousal, and mocks him, “Such a pussy…” but his voice is just as broken as Sam’s.
Sam runs the tip of his nose across Dean’s cheek until he can whisper against his ear, “And what did you want?”
Dean’s always been a man of action over words, so, when he presses his hand between Sam’s thighs to stroke the rigid line of his brother’s cock, it’s all the answer Sam needs. Sam lets his head fall down, hair covering his face as a hoarse moan escapes his throat, eliciting a dark chuckle from Dean.
“Is this okay?” Dean asks as he pops open the button on Sam’s jeans.
“Very, very much,” Sam responds, offering his brother better access to get his pants open. Dean doesn’t even wait for Sam to finish kicking them off, fingers wrapping around Sam’s cock and stroking it from base to tip. Sam gives up, pants still caught around one of his ankles, and thrusts against the circle of his brother’s fingers. “Fuck, Dean…”
Dean smirks, trying not to think too much about the fact that he has his hand wrapped around his little brother’s very big, very hard cock, which he can’t seem to stop stroking. He makes Sam come just like that, still half-way inside his clothes. Then Sam pushes him to the side and sucks him for what feels like hours. Every time Dean is about to come, Sam stops and focuses on something else. Dean’s got hickies all over his thighs, the phantom memory of Sam’s tongue in his ass and two of Sam’s fingers pressing against his prostate when he finally comes. Sam swallows him down as if he’s starving for it, so good Dean almost can’t stand it.
In the back of his mind, there’s a pile of guilt so monumental it could eclipse the sun. Something keeps it away, though. The clock ticking or the fact that Dean’s blood is mostly gone from his brain, who knows.
“Is this okay?” Sam asks, an echo of Dean’s own words, as he fits between Dean’s legs, hard cock prodding at his older brother. Now that he’s close enough, he wants to have it all.
Dean should argue. He should stop this.
He should feel embarrassed about enjoying it, of wanting it so much. But Sam has done a good job of convincing Dean’s body to accept his own and Dean feels only an overpowering wave of white-hot lust when Sam lines himself up. Still, Sam casts him an expectant look. Dean nods, breath caught inside his chest, and spreads his legs a little further. It’s all the answer he’s able to provide.
Sam is gentle with him until he isn’t, bed groaning and creaking under their combined weight. They stay face to face, chest to chest until they come together, breathing each other’s air. Afterwards, they lay together in stunned silence and eventually fall asleep only to do it all over again when they wake up. And again. And a few more times, just for good measure, more and more frantically as they feel their time stretching thin. They don’t stay apart more than to receive the food they ordered, eating it on the same bed and kissing with mouths that taste like burgers and coke because they don’t want to waste any time. Somewhere through the night, both have decided that even if they don’t have the memory of their twenty-four hours together, their bodies will remember it.
The sun goes up and then it goes down again and no sooner than the idea pops into Sam’s head, so does panic. He backs off from Dean’s flushed, sweaty form, and asks aloud:
“What time is it?”
Dean, out of habit, looks at the alarm clock on the table between their two beds, but the clock’s been broken since they first arrived there. So he reaches for his cellphone and Sam does not need to know the answer. Does not need Dean’s startled ‘what time did Gabriel disappear?’ to know that, in fact, more than twenty-four hours have passed since then. His lips thin, and he feels a sudden urge to cover himself, and Dean must see it too, because he’s reaching out, touching him in a way that is brotherly more than anything else, and it threatens to turn Sam’s stomach inside out.
“That… asshole!” Sam grunts, sitting down on the edge of the bed and burying his face into his hands. Dean touches his shoulder, rubs a wide comforting circle there and comes to sit right beside him. “I mean…”
“Asshole sums it up,” Dean responds, his tone light despite being tentative. He looks around the dark room. “Isn’t he supposed to pop up with some life-lesson about, I don’t know, our fucked-up bond and saving the world or whatever?”
Sam actually snorts at that. His brother really knows what to say to get a chuckle out of him.
Sam sighs, “You don’t sound surprised.”
“Well, it’s Gabriel…” Dean shrugs. “It’s hard to expect him to not fuck us over.”
Again, Sam snorts, but it’s bitter. Dean throws his arm over Sam and pulls him closer.
“Hey,” he says, very softly. “It’s fine. We’re gonna be just fine.”
“Dean,” Sam begins, but it sounds weak, strangled. His eyes are burning a little just from realizing they might have to actually deal with this, he just doesn’t know if it’s relief or fear.
“I got you,” Dean whispers, and Sam leans against him, Dean’s naked chest glued to his side. Filled with courage, Dean adds, “And I want you, Sam. I want this to be perfectly clear.”
“You have made it pretty clear…” Sam jokes, but it lacks heat as he shuffles even closer to Dean. “But do you want this?”
“Fuck you,” Dean pushes Sam a little, but his voice is light enough to be reassuring before it turns deadly serious, “If I can have it… yeah, Sammy. I do. I want this.”
Sam inhales sharply, throat too tight, and tries to tell himself he is not about to cry because of Dean. He leans in and lays the softest of kisses on his brother’s lips just to see him smile. As Dean lays back, cheeky grin enough to melt all of Sam’s worries away, he says, “Gabriel is still a dick, though.”
From a dark corner, an outraged familiar voice replies, “How dare you?!”