Chapter Text
Four Seasons
Author: Raina
Archive: Nutters, inc.
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult/NC-17
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke, the WB, etc. None of it belongs to me, which should be obvious given that neither of the boys is currently chained in our bedroom.
Feedback: Always appreciated and gratefully gobbled up.
Summary: As seasons change, so do relationships.
Warning: Explicit Wincest. Not sure whether that's a warning or an enticement ;-)
Spoilers: Pilot, Shadows, mostly.
Thank yous: ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
atlantean_angel for saving me by betaing, lea_ndra for enduring my whining about this fic, duchess_of_hell and cathybites for reading and liking.
Notes: Up front, this is a mood piece. Those of you who know me from HP should be familiar with my preoccupation with the weather ;-).
Also, it's my first foray into Dean-POV, so if you notice something that doesn't entirely work, please don't hesitate to point it out.
*-*
Summer
The sun set ten minutes ago, but the sky hasn't yet lost the steely blue plunging into fiery red colour that makes the lines between earth and sky blur out here in the stony outskirts of the Arizona desert. It's hot, from the slight blur in the air to the metal heat of the car's hood under their butts. The light takes on an almost tangible quality, in the typical summer dusk that takes about an hour to fade. It's not quite dark, but not quite light either.
The only thing even remotely cool is the beer in Dean's hand. Next to him, Sam sits on the hood, quietly staring at the horizon, sipping at his bottle occasionally. It's quiet out here; probably the reason Sam drove them here. Why is fine by Dean. As long as Sam's here, the beer's cool and nobody's bothering them, Dean could care less where they are.
They don't talk and Dean's glad for it. He leans back against the windshield, for once unworried about shoes and the Impala's new glossy black paint job. Slowly, the light fades, leaving them in a warm, blanketing summer half-darkness. The first stars appear; soon there will be hundreds. It's one of the things Dean loves about their current digs. Fifteen minutes by car from the best fucking starry sky he's ever seen. The moon hasn't risen yet, but the light of the stars is enough to see by.
Sam's sitting so close that Dean can feel the heat of his body through his thin jeans and T-shirt and can smell the sweat on him. They're not quite touching; only Sam's shoulder rubs against his when Sam lifts his arm to sip at his beer. Dean can feel the tension in Sam as if Sam was actually vibrating. His hand wanders to something in his jeans pocket and Dean doesn't need to hear the rustle of paper to know what it is and what it means.
He knew it was coming. It doesn't make him hate it one bit less though.
Sam stares at his hands gripping the bottle of beer. Expressive, long-fingered hands that held a gun when he was eight and killed when he was ten. It's something Dean would take away if he could, one of the many things, the stain of blood on his brother's hands. The thing Sam killed was evil; a creature of darkness, but taking a life was hard on Sam. He was always the more sensitive one with the thinner skin. Dean often asks himself where Sam got his skin, almost translucently pale sometimes, takes long to build calluses, soft and warm and perfect, except for his all too many scars. Maybe it's something their mother left him, together with his nightmares.
"Dean?" Sam's voice sounds so close in the near-darkness of the star-lit dusk.
"Yeah?"
Sam leans back against the windshield and looks up at the sky, a wistful expression on his face.
"You think there's actually something out there?"
Dean follows his gaze to the stars.
"Don't know. Can't say I ever thought about it." Truth is he doesn't care. The stars are beautiful, that's all that matters to him. Dean's not big on why.
Sam is, though. "People just don't see a lot of stuff that's obviously there."
Dean takes a sip of his beer and kind of wishes he hadn't given up smoking.
"Well, sometimes they don't want to see stuff they don't know how to deal with."
Sam turns his attention from the stars to Dean. "The stuff's still there, though."
Dean's pretty sure they're not talking about aliens anymore.
"Maybe they hope that if they ignore it, it'll turn out not to be true," he says, and he for one isn't talking about aliens anymore.
Sam sighs and drops his head back onto the windshield.
"It's true, Dean. And it's not going anywhere either."
"No, but you are," Dean says, and he winces at the resentment in his own voice that makes Sam flinch.
"We've been through this," Sam says, voice tightly controlled.
Yes, they have, more than once. Nothing's changed. Nothing's changing. They've both made a decision the other one doesn't like. Dean sighs. "Yeah."
There's nothing more to be said, really. Well, nothing they'll actually say to each other. They sit there quietly, shoulders touching, gazing at the stars as if they hold the answer to everything. The chirping crickets and the small sounds of insects are all that can be heard other than their breathing. A silence that's not exactly comfortable and yet familiar lies between them.
Dean thinks of a few things to say, trying them out in his mind. Don't go. No, he won't start with this again. Stay. Variations on a theme. Actually saying the words would mean acknowledging the possibility that he'll wake up the day after next and Sam won't be there. It's something so unthinkable that Dean can't consider it. Until it actually happens, Dean has to think it physically impossible.
He takes a deep breath to dislodge the panic hovering at the edge of his consciousness, and lets out a long burst of air, like a sigh.
Sam turns to him, eyes unreadable in the darkness.
"You all right?" he half-whispers.
Dean nods. "Sure." His voice doesn't sound too steady, and Sam must've noticed, because he leans over, sets down his beer.
"Dean," he whispers, but Dean stops him with a hand held up.
"Don't," he says, voice rough, and his eyes are burning. "Please don't."
Sam just takes Dean's protesting hand into his and entwines their fingers, palm to palm. With his other hand he takes Dean's beer away and sets it down, then swings a leg over Dean's and sits in Dean's lap, facing him.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, trying to move away, but Sam traps his hands on the windshield next to Dean's head and leans in. His kiss tastes like beer and sweat and summer, like the burger from dinner and bitterness of fighting and stars. Dean sinks into it and loses his resistance in Sam's mouth. Sam's body is pressed against his from groin to collarbone, lanky warm and barely legal right there on his lap. His own personal heavenly purgatory. It's always been.
Sam breaks the kiss and licks his lips, and Dean feels heat rise between them. He doesn't even try to get his hands out of Sam's grip. He knows that against this he is defenceless. Sam kisses him again, slowly, just a brush of lips against his, teasing. Then he coaxes Dean's mouth open with his tongue and slips inside, long, sensuous licks, and Dean moans, already undone.
Sam lets go of Dean's hands, and Dean brings them up Sam's back, where his shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat. Dean peels it off and delves under it, touching Sam's sweat-slick skin greedily. Then his hands travel down to cup Sam's ass. The kiss gets more passionate, as Sam bites Dean's lips and makes small gasping sounds. Dean can feel himself harden and feels Sam's answering erection against his hip. "Sammy," he gasps.
Sam moves back, panting, his eyes darkening with desire. "It's Sam," he corrects, then moves in to kiss Dean into dizzy submission, which Dean gives only too readily.
Slowly, Sam kisses his way down Dean's neck, bites the pulse point softly, and mouths Dean's collarbone while working open the buttons of his shirt. Dean's hands roam over any part of Sam's body they can grasp, building tactile memory to add to Dean's extensive collection.
Breaking away from Dean's skin, Sam pulls off his t-shit and Dean's shirt then kisses his way down Dean's chest. He licks over a nipple, teases it with his teeth. Dean moans, his head falling back against the windshield, his back plastered to it. God this feels good, Sam's skin against his, Sam's weight on him rubbing against his cock, making sparks of arousal travel through his entire body.
Sam sits back, flushed, hair already messy, and looks at him, just looks, traces his features with his gaze. Dean thinks that the stars have nothing on Sam's eyes. He doesn't say it of course; it's maudlin and stupid to even think it. Sam does that to him sometimes though.
Then the touching starts. Sam's fingers draw lines of pleasure over his body, touching his face, running along his nose, his cheekbones, his neck, ears, through his hair, over his back, his sides, his ribcage, making a map of Dean's skin. Dean arches into every touch, every brush of Sam's fingers. Offering himself up for the taking, and as ever, Sam accepts the invitation.
He slides down Dean's body like water, and Dean wants to drown in this sensation. Long, nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on his jeans and they both work together to get Dean out of them. The metal of the car is warm against Dean's naked ass and legs, but Sam sitting on his thighs is warmer, and Sam's mouth blowing warm air over Dean's cock is just plain hot. Then Sam slithers down Dean's body, bites his hipbone, kisses his belly, licks over the hair leading down to his crotch before he takes Dean's cock in his mouth. It's all Dean can do not to arch his hips and ram his dick into Sam's mouth all the way when Sam's lips close around him. His head falls back and he moans helplessly as Sam licks over his shaft, slowly, the feeling of mindless pleasure shuddering through his entire body.
Sam starts to suck on the head of Dean's dick, and Dean loses all sense of time and space, his entire world centring on Sam and the wet heat around his cock. He moans Sam's name helplessly, fingers threading in Sam's hair.
Then the heat is gone and Dean looks up, dazed, to see Sam kneeling over his cock, gloriously naked, lean muscles chiselled in cool marble under the cold starlight. Sam steadies himself with one hand; holds on to Dean with the other as if he's scared that Dean will run away if he lets go. As if Dean was even capable of moving right now.
Slowly, holding Dean's eyes, Sam lowers himself on Dean's cock, swallows Dean's moans with his lips on Dean's, muffling his own gasps of pleasure against Dean's mouth. Sam's whole body shudders against Dean, and Dean holds on tightly, runs soothing hands over Sam's back, chest, arms, ass, easing the intensity of the sensation.
"I got you," he whispers, knowing exactly that it's the other way around. Dean thinks he's going to choke and die on desire as Sam just takes him all the way inside, and Dean knows that's where he'll stay for the rest of his life, no matter where Sam goes.
Sam looks at Dean, eyes almost black with reflected stars, and runs caressing fingers over Dean's features. Dean's aware that Sam is trying to say a couple of things Dean's not sure he's ready to hear, among them goodbye. But that thought is difficult to hang on to as Sam starts to move. Dean grabs Sam's hips, needing something to hold on to. It starts slow, sweat making movement slick, and Sam holds on to Dean's shoulders for leverage. They move together now, slowly building a rhythm, and Dean wraps a hand around Sam's cock and starts to stroke. The Impala rocks softly with them, the warm metal almost a living entity below them, keeping them between the earth and sky. Sam grabs Dean in a kiss, and their movements grow faster, hands grab less gently, gasps and moans accelerate. Breath is a luxury, and Dean's heart feels like it's going to leap out of his chest any moment.
The rhythm accelerates, grows harder, and they're fucking now, abandoned, too far gone to be gentle, and Sam throws his head back, exposing his throat, and Dean bites it, too tempting to resist. Sam moves on top of him, impossibly beautiful, sweat-glistening skin and working muscles, and Dean can only look and feel and be completely, entirely overwhelmed by pleasure. His hand around Sam's cock tightens as his teeth sink into Sam's skin, and Sam shudders against him, as he comes with a loud, desperate moan that sounds a lot like Dean's name. It's all it takes for Dean's world to contract and implode as he comes apart inside Sam.
For a few moments, all Dean can see are small white dots, until he realises they're actually the stars, and he's lying back against the windshield, Sam sprawled on top of him, naked, sweating, and shivering ever so lightly.
He tries to move and can't. He feels slightly dizzy, as if his world has re-arranged itself around him, which in a way he guesses it has.
They don't move or talk for a long time. Sam's head rests on Dean's chest, over his heart. Dean's hands stroke through Sam's hair, over his skin. They keep each other warm in the slowly creeping cold of the desert.
Finally they get dressed again, and sit on the hood, drinking their stale beers. They say little, inconsequential nonsense Dean forgets the minute he speaks or hears it. Skirting around the things that need to be said.
Dawn breaks too soon, rearing its head in a steely grey on the horizon. The stars fade, and Dean hates them for it. Slowly, Sam gets off the hood. "It's time," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.
Dean nods. He knows it's time. He just wishes he could stop time right here, right now. He knows that once the sun has risen, nothing will ever be as it was before.
They get into the car, and this time Dean's driving. They get coffee and muffins but don't touch them. Dean tries to find his resentment and can't. Sam looks as if he's trying the same thing.
They wait together in the too-bright light of early morning. The day's heat is already tangible, though it's still cool.
The bus arrives, and Dean helps Sam get his things on board. There's still no sign of their father. Dean's relieved and angry at the same time.
There's nothing left to do but say goodbye. It's the one thing Dean can't say.
"Call when you get there," he murmurs, then hugs Sam so tightly he thinks he might break a few bones. Sam hugs him back just as tightly. If it were Dean's choice, he wouldn't let go. But he knows he has to.
"I will," Sam whispers. "Bye, Dean." The two words hold a world of regret.
Dean swallows and almost tears himself out of the hug.
"Take care, Sammy," he says, ruffles through Sam's hair, then turns around and leaves. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to turn around and fling himself at Sam, beg him to stay, or get on the bus and go with him, and fuck Dad, and fuck hunting, and fuck everything.
He does neither, though. He keeps walking and doesn't turn around. He doesn't watch Sam's bus leave. He doesn't, he can't, he won't say goodbye.
*-*
Autumn
It's cold in northern California in October. Something Dean didn't quite take into account when he first came here. California to him is beaches and palm trees, not fog from San Francisco Bay and ancient trees shining in bright autumn colours. When the wind is right, though, you can smell the ocean.
Dean doesn't like to admit it, but Stanford's actually pretty nice. It's got palm trees for one. It's also got old, stone-washed buildings, huge parks, fresh-faced college girls, terrible cafeteria food, people reading in window seats, in other words it's a very Sammy kind of place. Which ironically makes Dean both very at home and really uncomfortable. It's ridiculous, but he feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb, leather jacket and cool car among all the dorks. It's not true, of course, nobody pays him the slightest attention, which is disturbing in itself, as if in this place his existence isn't quite solid.
Sam's solid, though. He moves through campus as if he was a part of the stone walls. People greet him, nod at him. Girls respond to him. He looks like College Boy incarnate, books under his arm, smiling, fresh-faced from the weak sun and the harsh autumn wind as he comes out of the building he's had class in. Dean watches him walk from a distance, talking to a dorky-looking brunette girl with glasses. He's smiling. Dean feels something in his gut wrench.
It takes all of two minutes for Sam to notice that Dean's watching, of course. He turns, and waves at Dean, his smile fading. The brunette turns with him and barely acknowledges Dean with her eyes before walking away, touching Sam briefly on the shoulder. Sam nods at her and says something Dean's too far away to hear. She turns briefly and gives Sam a two-fingered salute. He laughs. Dean feels a sudden, white-hot rage in his gut against this girl, against Sam's easy smile, the ancient, red-yellow trees in the courtyard, the bench he's sitting on.
Sam comes towards Dean, alone now. Figures. Sam never introduces Dean to his friends. Dean never felt that as a particular loss. More of Sam for him when he's here. But he would really like to know who this girl is, why she looked at him like that. What had Sam told her about Dean, about himself, about their family, their life? How much of Sam she knows. How much of Sam Stanford knows.
Two steps from the bench, Sam stops and looks at Dean contemplatively. "You look like you swallowed a stone column."
Dean smirks. For fuck's sake, why can't he ever stay angry with the little shit. Because it's not his fault, his brain supplies. Obviously. But that's not true, entirely. It is Sam's fault. How dare he go get a life of which Dean's only a fringe benefit?
Sam smiles back briefly, then nods at the packed bag next to Dean on the bench.
"So I guess you're leaving?" His voice is neutral, unreadable, something Dean's not used to. He could always read Sam like a book, but now Sam's pretty much closed. Arms hugging his books to his chest, expression neutral. Jacket zipped to the neck. The wind is tugging at his hair and his clothes, but Sam gives it as few points of attack as possible.
Dean nods, briefly. "Yeah." There's little else to say. Another job, another town, another meaningless goodbye.
"I'll probably be around the area again in a few weeks, though, so..." he lets the sentence hang in the air. What he means to say is that he'll visit around Thanksgiving, which of course Sam will spend in College, since he has no home to go to. But he doesn't want to promise something he might not be able to keep.
Dean's self-invitation kind of hangs in the air between them, uncomfortable, and for a few moments, Sam says nothing, eyes trained intently on Dean's old, worn-out boots. The rustling of the fallen leaves against the stone pavement is astoundingly loud, a so distinctly autumn sound that Dean automatically draws his jacket closer, even though it's not all that cold. The sound kept Dean awake half the night, or at least that's what he blamed it on in the morning, well, that and the very hard floor in Sam's dorm room.
Slowly, Sam's gaze wanders up Dean's body, and Dean feels the path Sam's eyes take as if they were fingers grazing his skin. It makes him uncomfortable, the way he doesn't know anymore what anything means. It's been three months. That night in the desert was the last time Sam's really actually touched him for anything more than a brotherly pat on the back and a few minimal body contact hugs. He's been here three times, and every time he sleeps on the floor, even though he knows that Sam watches him at night, even though he watches Sam all the time.
Sam's eyes reach Dean's face, and Dean sees the punch lurk there.
"Look, about that..."Sam's sentence hangs there, half-assed answer to Dean's half-assed question.
"What?" Dean asks, suddenly somehow pissed, because Sam is uncomfortable and he doesn't know why, because Sam has this defensive posture that Dean hates to see, and because Sam hasn't sat down and people are looking at them.
"What about it? You've got plans for Thanksgiving already?" And just like that, Dean's scared out of his fucking wits that Sam will say yes, actually, Dorky Glasses Girl has invited me to her parents' house. Or yes, actually, I've got a job and have to work, or anything else that reveals the depth of how little Dean actually knows about Sam's life here.
For an intense moment, Sam says nothing. Then he shakes his head and Dean breathes again. "No. It's just..." he sighs. "Look, you got a bit of time before you have to leave?"
Dean nods. He thinks he'd say yes to anything that Sam could possibly ask right now, just so that tight feeling in his chest will go away.
Sam smiles tightly, tension visible in every muscle of his body. "Come on, then."
Sam leads the way, and Dean follows. Strangely enough, Sam leads him to the Impala, holds out his hand wordlessly. Dean hands over the keys without protest, and Sam backs them out of the college parking lot.
Dean's surprised when Sam drives through the College gates, leaves Campus behind, doesn't drive into Palo Alto. He turns into the lane that leads to the Interstate, and Dean makes a questioning noise, but doesn't press his luck when Sam ignores him, staring intently at the road.
They drive for about 25 minutes and when they arrive, Dean thinks he might have guessed. And then, he might have not.
The beach is empty. It's October, so the wind is even colder here than it was in Stanford. Seagulls cry in the distance. There's a small restaurant a few miles down the beach; Dean can smell grilled fish.
They get out of the car, and Dean goes towards the ocean like iron to a magnet. It's magnificent. Dark and wild, waves crashing almost violently against the sandy-soft beach, the wind whipping at the water as if the water had something the wind desperately wants. Dean can sort of empathise.
This is good. The salt in the air, the spray of cold water in his face. No people for miles, only the brutal force of nature. This is Dean's world. He feels solid here, heavy boots sinking a bit into the sand. This is something he can deal with; he draws strength from the ocean, from the wild cries of the seagulls.
He looks over at Sam, who's sat down on the sand, knees half drawn up, eyes searching the horizon. Sam loves the ocean, too, Dean knows, but Sam loves the mystery, the riddles, the endless contemplative material of the sea, while Dean loves the immediacy, the unarguableness of the ocean. If the ocean wants to go somewhere, it'll get there sooner or later. Just you wait.
Dean understands now why Sam brought them here, neutral territory.
He sits next to Sam. Sam doesn't look at him. The ocean brings out the grey in his eyes. "So..."
Sam doesn't move or make a sound, but Dean sees his chest heave, like he's taking a heavy breath Dean just can't hear over the roar of the ocean. Finally, Sam turns to him.
"So." There's some kind of struggle going on here and Dean vaguely realises that. But he doesn't know which part of Sam he's supposed to be fighting for.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, his voice a bit rough, as if the words he just formed weren't exactly the ones he wanted to say.
Dean shrugs. "There's this big-ass haunting going on somewhere outside of Albuquerque. A whole street-block or something. Dad wasn't very precise."
Sam snorts. "He never is."
A short pause. Dean can't resist. "You know, we can always use an extra hand, and Dad..."
Sam stops him. "How many times have we had this conversation?" he asks, and his voice suddenly sounds so grown-up, so mature. Not at all like Dean's baby brother. Like a man who knows what he wants, or at least what he doesn't want.
Dean sighs. "About a million times."
"And it always ends the same," Sam murmurs, and there he is again, Dean's baby brother, sulking.
Drawing his fingers through his spray-wet hair, Dean says nothing.
Next to him, Sam heaves a heavy sigh. "Why do you come here, Dean?" he asks, and there's more than a little exhaustion in his voice. Sam meets his eyes, and for a moment, Dean can't remember any words at all at the turbulence he sees there. So much older than he should look.
Dean shakes his head. "I visit," he finally says, his voice sounding none too steady.
Sam just looks at him, says nothing. Lets Dean draw the conclusion.
The words are maybe the most difficult Dean's ever said in his life. "Would you rather I didn't?"
Sam swallows, and there's that look, the one Sam used to get for their worst cases, the people they couldn't help, the people he knew he had to hurt. He holds Dean's eyes, though, and Dean gives him credit for more courage than Dean's ever had in his life.
"Yes," he whispers.
It hurts more than Dean thought it would. He can't look away from Sam's eyes, though, dark like the ocean and filled with such regret.
"Why?" he asks, wondering where he finds his voice.
"Because we always end up here," Sam says, and his voice sounds firmer now, as if he was finding his conviction.
Dean knows he's right. He's been here three times and every time leaving Sam here hurts a bit more. If he's entirely honest with himself, he comes here because he hopes that one of these days Sam won't be able to let him go and will come back with him. But so far Sam's been stronger than that. He's beginning to suspect that it's not going to change anytime soon.
Not seeing Sam at all, though. It's all but unthinkable. Sam's all he has. His only friend. The only thing of any true importance in the world. Dean's so scared that without Sam he'll turn into some mindless, soulless drifter without roots and without anyone who actually sees him as who he really is.
"Dean," Sam whispers his name as if it's a holy word, a spell, and Dean's as bound now, as he'll always be. "Please."
It's just one word, but it hits Dean with the force of a sledgehammer, and Dean knows that this time, it's on him to make a decision. Sam won't forbid him to come. Won't shut the door in his face, won't kick him out, won't ignore his calls. What he's asking now from Dean is not to call in the first place.
Ask something else, anything, Dean thinks. Ask me to give up hunting, ask me to flatten the Rocky Mountains, ask me to put the fucking Mount St. Helens out.
Sam won't. Sam's asked Dean for one thing, one thing only. Let me go.
Dean knows in his heart that from now on until the day he dies he won't ever be able to do that. It's the most selfish thing he can possibly do, but he truly believes that he's physically incapable. But he's also incapable of clearly seeing what Sam needs and not giving it to him. Sam needs for Dean to take a firm line and stick to it. Sam needs for Dean to fake it. So Dean looks out at the ocean, takes a deep breath. Then he looks at Sam, lanky form, laid out on the beach. And he nods.
The gratitude and relief in Sam's eyes is hard to stand.
He has to get out of here. It's all too much now, Sam's quiet presence beside him, teasing him, like the last shot of a heroin addict. He gets up.
"Come on, I'll drive you back to school. I gotta be in New Mexico tomorrow morning."
Sam gets up as well, stuffs his hands in his pocket, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. "It's all right, there's a bus I can get, it stops at the restaurant."
Dean nods, in automatic mode. All he wants is to get away from here. He turns and starts to walk away, but strong hands grab him, turn him around, pull him in and then Sam's lips are on his, Sam's taste is on his tongue, Sam's fingers are in his hair, and he melts, sinks, breaks open under Sam's fingers, feels like his entire being is being pulled out and caressed for a wordless, soundless, excruciating last time.
Sam lets go of Dean and before Dean knows what's happening, he's walking to his car, putting the key into the ignition, driving away, his eyes always on the man who is his brother on the beach, tall and thin and alone. And all Dean can think is that Sam's finally done something that Dean's not sure he'll be able to forgive, ever.
*-*