Archive of Our Own ^beta

It isn’t much, just like Caroline Picter said, but Sam’s too worn out to care. The room’s small, crowded high with boxes. Dean’s sitting on a shorter stack to the right of the door, using the wall to prop himself upright while his legs sprawl as far out as he can manage in the narrow aisle leading to the bed. There are other stacks that look like they could handle Sam’s weight, but he’s still leaning against the doorframe. If he sits down, he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to be getting up again.

It’s a measure of how exhausted they both are, actually, that neither of them stirs to help their sixty-nine-year-old hostess as she shifts more boxes (the tops open and bulging with newspaper-wrapped curios) off the king-sized bed she’s offering up for the night. Probably tomorrow as well, since Sam for one isn’t going to be up to traveling until he’s had a breather.

Typically, Dean’s even worse off than he is—spent a good half-hour clinging to the back of the bucking phantom bull that’s been goring Caroline’s hired hands and ruining her property before Sam was finally able to get a salt-crusted lasso around its neck and finish the banishing ritual. Sam guesses Dean is bruised beneath the leather jacket and the t-shirt, but he isn’t bleeding and he isn’t having difficulty breathing, so it could be worse. Could be better too, of course—Dean popped a handful of painkillers into his mouth when he thought Sam wasn’t looking—but his brother is too out of it right now to be guarding his expression and Dean’s face is lax with exhaustion, not tight with pain. Sam isn’t sure, actually, that he hasn’t fallen asleep: eyes shut and breathing slow and even.

A hand on his arm brings his attention away from his brother. He’s startled by Caroline’s proximity, didn’t notice her approach. Too tired for it to register, maybe, or just too busy looking at Dean.

“Bed’s set for you boys,” Caroline says. “You sure you don’t mind sharing?”

“It’s fine,” Sam answers with a yawn.

It’s about the tenth time she’s asked, and he doesn’t understand why she’s hung up on it. He and Dean are both big guys, it’s true, but not so big that they won’t both fit comfortably. And it isn’t like they haven’t shared before, plenty of times. Hell, they shared regular as clockwork growing up, since motels don’t offer rooms with three beds and Dad wasn’t about to split them up—too dangerous, or just too expensive.

Sam actually had trouble adjusting when he left for Stanford. The twin bed in his first dorm room was too lonely and spacious, too cold without Dean’s body heating everything up like a portable furnace. Even when he fixed that problem with an extra comforter and half a dozen pillows, it never smelled right—no whiff of leather or expensive hair gel or cheap cologne or the heavier, masculine scent that Sam used to be able to get when he buried his nose against his brother’s back between Dean’s shoulder blades.

He got over it, of course. People can get used to anything, given enough time. In Sam’s case, it only took him eight months to start sleeping through the night, although he continued to occasionally wake in a panic for some time after that. Usually when he was more stressed than usual, when he was feeling uncertain of himself and his chosen path in life. Then he would wake up covered in sweat and short of breath, consumed by the certainty that something was missing. That something irreplaceable had been lost.

It’s been almost seven months since Stanford—since Jess—and although they haven’t needed to share since, Sam knows that it isn’t going to be an issue. If anything, his problem’s going to come when they leave here and he has to adjust to having his own space all over again. Although maybe this won’t be enough to pull Sam back into old habits. After all, the bed’s big enough that they might as well have separate mattresses.

Caroline pats him on the arm. “You need any more covers, there’s a linen closet two doors down the hall. Feel free to help yourself.” She offers Sam a smile, warm and genuine. “And don’t think you’re haring out of here first thing in the morning, either. Least I can do for you boys is rest you up for a couple of days. Get a couple of home cooked meals in you.”

Sam manages a weary smile of his own. “Careful,” he warns. “Feed Dean once and you’ll never get rid of him.”

“Nother sturdy back and pair of strong arms around here? And nice to look at to boot?” Caroline gives a pleased laugh. “Sign me up.”

She sobers quickly as she looks at Dean, expression softening with a fondness that outsiders don’t usually feel for him. Mostly because Dean doesn’t let them, too prickly and smug to invite that kind of tender regard.

Sam’s pretty sure it’s a deliberate choice on his brother’s part—that Dean doesn’t want to be mothered for whatever reason: would rather play the brash antihero on his black steed—but he can’t deny that his chest fills with a warm, satisfied glow whenever someone manages to sneak beneath the barbed wire his brother surrounds himself with. Dean deserves that kind of attention. Deserves a little softness in his life.

Too bad it takes him getting banged up and conking out on his feet for a stranger to notice the loveable, little boy who's hidden beneath all the cocky bluster.

“You need help getting him to bed?” Caroline asks now.

Sam shakes his head. “I got him.”

“I’ll see you boys tomorrow, then,” Caroline says, giving Sam’s arm a quick squeeze before easing past him into the hall. Sam leans where he is for a moment longer, watching his brother breathe, and then makes himself step into the room and pulls the door shut behind him.

Dean stirs at the first brush of Sam’s hand against his cheek, eyelashes fluttering, and then settles again.

“Dean,” Sam tries, keeping his voice gentle.

Dean grunts.

“Dean. C’mon, man.”

“Go ‘way,” Dean mumbles, swatting clumsily at Sam’s hand. “Tryin’ sleep.”

“You’ll sleep better in the bed,” Sam suggests, but he gives up on getting Dean to actively help and grips his brother firmly beneath the armpits. Dean groans again when Sam pulls him up, sleepy protest mingled with a little pain, and Sam winces. “Sorry,” he breathes, moving Dean toward the bed.

“Bedside manner sucks, dude,” Dean replies. He’s more awake now, and clearly not happy with Sam for moving him, but he takes a little more of his own weight, which makes maneuvering through the narrow aisle about a hundred times easier. When Sam gets him on the bed, Dean lets him peel his leather jacket off and then rolls over and to the far side of the bed before Sam can get any further.

“Shoes,” Sam points out, draping his brother’s jacket on a convenient stack of boxes.

Not bothering to lift his head from where it’s smushed into the pillows, Dean toes his clunky, oversized shoes off and then nudges them off the side of the bed into a mess of boxes.

“Nice,” Sam mutters before sitting down himself and tugging his own shoes off. “How’re you planning on getting them back tomorrow?”

“Don’ care,” Dean grunts. “Buy new ones.”

Too tired to manage a real response, Sam huffs out a soft breath. He considers ditching his pants and then flops back onto the bed without bothering. As he lies on his back looking at the ceiling, he can’t sense his brother lying two feet away at all.

It’s more out of a need to reassure himself that Dean is there than out of any real desire to have the conversation that he says, “You gonna let me check you out?”

Dean makes a frustrated noise and does something that makes the bed shake—probably gave the mattress a smack with one hand.

“Tomorrow,” Sam amends, relaxing into the slight vibration. Into the certainty that Dean is there, not quite within arms’ reach but not all that far beyond it either.

“You shut the fuck up and let me sleep, I’ll fucking marry you tomorrow,” Dean mumbles.

“Bride or groom?” Sam yawns, and then drifts into sleep before he hears his brother’s response.

He wakes up sometime later to the sun shining in through the room’s single window and Dean trying to crawl over him and into the aisle.

“Dude,” he complains, rolling on his side and curling in a little in an unconscious attempt to protect his stomach and crotch from his brother’s knees. Dean knees him in the kidney instead, making Sam grunt in pain and waking him up further.

“Watch it!” he gripes, doing his best to find somewhere to be out of the way, which is a little difficult since Dean seems to be deliberately clumsy in his attempts to get past Sam and off the bed. Finally, after kneeing Sam a couple more times in the process, Dean manages it, straightening next to the bed with one hand pressed gingerly against his sternum. The reminder that he’s hurt isn’t quite enough to buy him a free pass.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam says as he rubs the small of his back.

“Bride or fucking groom,” Dean mutters, grabbing his jacket. “Goddamned nightmares about Bobby in a dress all fucking night, you dick.”

Sam realizes that his brother is about to shrug back into the leather jacket and ignores his own back to lunge forward and grab his wrist. Dean looks over at him, surprised and still a little annoyed, but doesn’t pull away. Dean never pulls away from him. Course, that doesn’t mean Dean’s going to be polite.

“What?”

Sam gives his brother’s hand a tug and Dean takes the tiny step he needs to come back to the bed. When Sam releases him in order to sit up and swings his legs off the edge on either side of his brother’s body, Dean just stands there looking at him expectantly. Sam wasn’t close enough to feel Dean’s body heat last night, but he can feel it now, warm and familiar, and the last traces of resentment at his rude awakening melt away.

“You said I could check you out,” Sam reminds his brother, settling one hand on Dean’s waist while nudging his t-shirt up with the other.

Dean rolls his eyes as comprehension hits, but he tosses his jacket back onto the boxes and helps Sam get his shirt off. Now that Sam’s more alert, he sees the stiffness in his brother’s movements, but it’s the palate of blue and purple spread out across Dean’s chest that makes him wince. He touches his brother’s skin lightly, running his fingertips across Dean’s stomach and chest and watching Dean’s muscles jump in response. It’s an old ritual—reassurance that they’re both vertical and breathing—and Sam isn’t surprised when Dean’s hand drops onto his shoulder in reply and squeezes.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Dean asks after a few minutes.

“You’ll live,” Sam answers and then, in a ritual as old and engrained as any of Sam’s memories, presses a gentle kiss to his brother’s chest.

Dean smiles at the gesture, moving his hand up from Sam’s shoulder to ruffle his hair before stepping away. It’s too soon for Sam’s liking—he loves touching Dean, having him that close—but he lets his brother go. Dean’ll be back, after all: never strays too far away or for too long a time. Ever since Stanford, he’s been almost as starved for reassurance as Sam, and Sam never has to do much more than extend a hand and his brother will be there, leaning into the touch.

Sam's determined to take advantage of that closeness today.

At breakfast, he tangles their legs up under the table while Caroline feeds them pancakes and bacon and coffee with fresh cream. On the cautious circuit they make of her property to make sure the bull really is gone, he rests a hand at the small of his brother’s back to guide him around cowpies and fallen branches. They’re halfway back to the house before he realizes that Dean is faltering, slowing his steps so that he can lean his weary body into Sam as they walk.

Sam doesn’t waste time commenting, because Dean will just deny and deny and push himself into a collapse if he does, but instead bides his time until they get back to the barn. Then he makes his move, using his whole body to trap his brother up against a crate until Dean gives in and sits down. Just because he’s accepted the fact that his body needs a rest doesn’t mean that he’s down for the count, though, and Sam has to put up with over an hour of smart ass comments while he tidies up the mess the bull made last night before they banished it.

Finally, sweaty and fed up with it, he stomps over to the crate and smacks his hand down over Dean’s mouth. “Shut. Up.”

Dean looks up at him and Sam can feel his brother smiling behind his hand.

“I mean it, Dean,” Sam says, threatening.

Dean licks him.

Rolling his eyes, Sam wipes his palm on his brother’s shirt. “Dude, that stopped freaking me out when I was ten.”

“I know.”

“So why the hell do you do it?” Sam demands, moving back a step so that his brother can get to his feet.

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. Guess I just like making you all hot and bothered.”

“Not if you were the last man on Earth.”

Caroline has sandwiches waiting for them back at the house, and after Dean has polished off two of the sandwiches and half a jar of applesauce, he leans back in his chair and asks Caroline about the farm, and her family, and where she learned to cook. Sam’s pleased to see his brother’s guard down for once, and that he’s being his charming self instead of maintaining the sleazy front that’s gotten them run out of more than one town. The fact that Caroline is far too old to be a potential conquest might have something to do with it, but Sam thinks it’s more likely the laidback atmosphere of the farm. He himself feels more relaxed than he has in years, trading smiles across the table with Dean and bouncing his knee up and down beneath the casual weight of his brother’s hand.

Sooner than Sam expects, Caroline shoos them out of the kitchen so she can prepare dinner in peace, offering them the use of her TV instead. Dean actually gives the woman a peck on the cheek on his way into the living room, casual with his affection the way he rarely is with anyone but Sam. Caroline colors, but Dean’s already out of the room and doesn’t notice. Sam gives her a softer version of the ‘sorry about that, my brother’s about as self-aware as a slug’ smile he offers whenever Dean does something without noticing the consequences and then follows his brother out.

Dean’s already on the couch and flipping through channels and Sam doesn’t even hesitate before taking up his customary position. Dean shifts a little to make room for him but doesn’t bother looking down.

“Cartoon network work for you?” he asks.

Sam grunts an affirmative that turns into more of a sigh as Dean’s hand finds his head.

“So fucking easy,” Dean mutters, but Sam can hear the smile in his brother’s voice and Dean’s hand feels good so he doesn’t bother responding.

Somehow, he loses track of time after that, drifting in and out of wakefulness as Dean laughs at the TV, or moves his leg, or finds a particularly sensitive spot with his fingers. He’s actually forgotten where they are and what they’re waiting for when Caroline’s voice finally drifts out from the kitchen a little over two hours later.

“Dinner’s on!”

Sam shifts where he’s lying with his head in his brother’s lap, opening his eyes and looking toward the sound of their hostess’ voice. Dean’s fingers thread through his hair one last time and then lift. Sam can’t stop himself from making a soft, disappointed noise at loss. Dean, not at all impressed by the protest, snorts and flicks Sam’s ear.

“You heard the lady, Sammy. Food! Up and at ‘em.”

Sam would rather lie here for a couple more years, but he knows better than to come between his brother and food—especially when Dean has been sitting here smelling said food cook for the last few hours—so he prods himself into motion and sits up.

Dinner turns out to be even more delicious than lunch and breakfast, which has Dean making embarrassing, orgasmic noises and proposing marriage at least five times. Midway through the meal, Sam tries to shut his brother up by kicking his ankle, but Dean just lifts both feet and plops them down in Sam’s lap. Sam gives up, sighing, and spends the rest of the meal absently rubbing the ankle he kicked with his left hand.

After dinner, he wanders out to sit on the back porch steps and watch the soft edges of twilight creep in. His brother trails him out and, careful of his battered chest, lowers himself down two steps in front of Sam. As soon as Dean is settled, Sam reaches forward and gets his fingers into his brother’s hair. Dean lets out a contented sigh at the touch and rests his head against the inside of Sam’s knee.

“Good day,” Sam comments.

“If you like boring,” Dean snorts, but Sam isn’t fooled. Dean enjoyed himself just as much as Sam did. Besides, he needed it. Needed the rest.

Changing the angle of his fingers so that he can massage Dean’s scalp the way his brother likes, Sam says, “So I was thinking we could hang here a couple more days, help fix up some of the fences the bull wrecked.”

“You mean you want me to sit around on my ass while you fix the fences,” Dean mutters, but he doesn’t sound too put out by it, and he’s tilting his head into the pressure of Sam’s hand.

“I’ll let you pass me the nails.”

“I’ll nail you,” Dean mutters.

Sam gives his brother a beat to realize how that sounded, and when Dean just rests there obliviously, he opens his mouth to point it out.

Only to be interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing.

Fingers stilling, he looks up at Caroline, who is standing just behind them holding a couple of sundaes on a tray. She’s looking at them oddly, which makes Sam stiffen, which in turn translates into Dean pulling his head away from Sam’s hands as he looks up as well.

“Oh, hey!” Dean says cheerfully when he sees the tray in Caroline’s hands. “Is that dessert?”

Bouncing up with a speed he instantly regrets, judging by the grimace on his face, he clomps up the steps and reaches for the tray. Caroline shakes herself a little as she lets Dean have it. When she looks down at Sam again, her expression is warmer, her smile holding a depth of understanding that’s even more confusing than her previous expression was.

Balancing the tray on one hand, Dean spoons ice cream into his mouth. His eyes light up at the taste and he eagerly digs out another spoonful before turning to Sam. “Dude, you gotta try this,” he announces, leaning down and shoving the spoon into Sam’s mouth.

As annoying as having food force-fed to him like he’s all of a year old, the sundae is good, rich and creamy in a way that makes Sam think it’s as homemade as everything else, and Sam licks the last traces off his lips when Dean takes the spoon back.

“Do you want to keep the tray?” Caroline asks, giving them both a fond look.

“What?” Dean says, glancing over as though he forgot they had company. “Oh, no. Here.”

Passing one of the sundaes down to Sam, he takes the other and hands over the tray before dropping down onto the steps again, this time sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to Sam’s right.

They eat in silence after Caroline goes back inside, although not exactly peacefully. Dean keeps stealing spoonfuls of Sam’s sundae when he thinks Sam won’t notice, which means, of course, that Sam has to steal them right back. Somehow, by the time they’re both done, Dean has ended up with fudge smeared on the tip of his noise. Sam considers leaving the glob there and seeing how long it takes Dean to notice and then wipes it off with one finger instead. He has the glob halfway to his mouth when Dean catches his wrist.

“Fudge thief,” Dean accuses, and the next thing Sam knows his finger is enclosed in wet heat—Dean’s mouth—and being lapped at by his brother’s tongue. Sam rolls his eyes—Dean’ll do anything to get food—and sits patiently while Dean cleans the finger to his liking. And keeps on sucking on it with a dedication that tells Sam he’ll be content to do this until Sam makes him stop.

Sam does his best to outwait his brother, but eventually his wrist is starting to ache from being bent back at such an awkward angle and he has to clear his throat. “You done?”

The mischievous glint in his brother’s eyes comes a little too late to serve as proper warning and a moment later Sam is jerking his hand away and shaking it out with a swear. Laughing, Dean drops down onto his back and pumps his fist victoriously.

“You bit me!” Sam yells, gripping his thumb in his other hand. “I can’t believe you fucking bit me!”

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean responds, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re just so tasty.”

“Fucking piranha.”

Holding his stomach, Dean laughs harder.

In repayment for the prank, Sam snags the first shower, leaving Dean to wash dishes with Caroline. He expects to find Dean sulky and nursing pruned hands when he comes back downstairs, but instead his brother is grinning as he shovels the last few spoonfuls of a second bowl of ice cream into his mouth.

“He practically bit my finger off and you’re rewarding him?” Sam demands of Caroline, who is reading through a magazine at the other end of the table.

“She likes me best,” Dean answers, dropping the spoon into the empty bowl and standing up. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he adds, stooping to lay another kiss on Caroline’s cheek on his way past. She colors just as quickly as she did the first time, watching Dean’s retreating back with a slightly wistful expression as he pounds up the stairs.

Chalk another conquest down to accidental Winchester charm.

“He’s gonna be on a sugar high for the rest of the night,” Sam grumbles. He feels unaccountably sour as he picks up his brother’s empty bowl and brings it over to the sink.

“Oh, I imagine you’ll find a way to burn the extra energy off,” Caroline answers with more than a hint of a smile in her voice. “Just try to keep it down. I don’t know that my poor heart could take the vicarious excitement.”

None of her words make any sense at all and Sam feels his annoyance slip into confusion. “Huh?” he says, glancing back over his shoulder.

Caroline fixes him with a knowing look. “I may be old and live in the country, Sam, but I’m not blind and I ain’t a bigot either. You boys don’t need to hide around me. And while we’re at it, you might want to think up a better cover story.”

“Cover story?” Sam repeats dumbly.

Caroline pushes herself up and comes over to rest a hand on his arm. “Honey, anyone with half an eye is gonna see through that ‘brothers’ routine in about two minutes, maybe less.”

Understanding hits Sam hard, makes his breath whuff out. “But we are brothers. Really. It’s not like, uh, that ...”

He trails off as Caroline shakes her head at him in fond disbelief.

“Whatever you say, Sam,” she says. “Just keep the noise down and clean up any messes you might make and we’ll be fine.”

Then, giving his arm a final pat, she putters away.

“Caroline thinks we’re fucking.”

Dean rolls over from where he’s sprawled on his side of the bed—stripped properly down to t-shirt and boxers tonight—so he can blink at Sam. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sam mutters as he climbs in on his own side.

“Huh. Weird. Wonder where she got that idea.”

Sam’s mind trembles on the verge of understanding for a moment and then shies away. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Sam’s sweating. He was fine when he fell asleep, but now it feels like someone turned the thermostat up to a hundred degrees and it’s dragging him from his dreams. Groaning, he pushes the blanket down.

The blanket pushes back.

Sam’s eyes pop open. He’s wide awake suddenly, and all too aware of the fact that the heat drenching his skin isn’t coming from a blanket but from his brother, who’s pushed up against him in a long, hot line. The heat doesn’t feel so stifling, now that Sam knows where it’s coming from, and he finds himself sinking into it, shifting so that he can get his arms around his brother and pull Dean closer.

Dean comes, moving in a way that tells Sam he’s awake as well, and for several minutes they lie there quietly, chest-to-chest. Dean’s a little lower down on the bed, leaving the top of his head level with Sam’s mouth, and every time Sam breathes in he gets that scent, the one he missed so much when he left for Stanford. He can feel Dean’s breath puffing out in turn against his collarbone, and it’s familiar and natural and alien and new all at once.

They’re on the edge of something here, something Sam has never let himself face, even in the dark of night, and he doesn’t know what to do now. Doesn’t know how to resolve the horrible tension in his gut. He’s terrified suddenly, terrified that they’re going to be stuck here forever.

Then, with a slowness that can’t be mistaken for anything but deliberate intent, Dean eases a hand down into Sam’s boxers and cups his cock.

Dean has always been braver than him.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Dean breathes, but his hand is already moving, like he knows what Sam is going to say.

And really, there's only one answer Sam has to offer. Only one answer he's ever had for Dean.

But he says, “Stop,” anyway, already laughing through the word.

“Worst bluff ever,” Dean snorts, and then his mouth closes over the feverish skin on Sam’s collarbone.

“W-worst handjob ever,” Sam shoots back, even though he feels like he’s coming out of his skin and his hips are stuttering forward to help slide his cock through his brother’s grip.

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean mutters, and then he’s yanking Sam’s boxers down.

Sam scrambles to do the same for his brother without pulling away—can’t let any more space come between them, not when the few centimeters of super-heated air separating them now are too much. He lets Dean grip them both in one hand, using his own hands to cup his brother’s ass and jerk Dean tighter to him. Then, filled with fumbling need, he reaches up with his right hand and forces his brother’s head back.

Dean catches on immediately, stretching up for the kiss while he grips Sam’s hip with one hand and fists their cocks with the other. It’s good, connection and heat and everything Sam’s been craving deep in his heart for years. Everything they’ve both been circling towards without admitting or even realizing it was happening.

Well, Sam reconsiders as he casts his mind back over the last twenty-four hours. Maybe Dean figured it out.

He opens his mouth wider, doing his best to force his tongue down his brother’s throat, and Dean pushes back. He’s as competitive in this as he is in everything else, of course, and keeps raising the stakes until they’re both grunting and straining against each other in a race toward the finish line.

Just before Sam whites out and comes all over both of them, he finds himself praying that his brother was just as taken by surprise as he was.

Otherwise, Dean’s going to be absolutely insufferable.

“So,” Dean pants afterwards, lying on Sam’s chest like the sweaty blanket Sam initially thought he was. “You freaking out? Cause I bet myself a blowjob you were gonna freak out.”

Damn it, he did know.

Then Sam takes in the rest of his brother’s words. “Blowjob?” he rasps. “Me or you?”

Dean laughs, low and dirty and just the right octave to make Sam’s cock jump to attention. “Oh, I’m flexible like you wouldn’t believe, baby.”

Sam thinks of all the different ways he can take that and moans, bucking his hips up against his brother’s body in a helpless, hungry motion. Dean laughs again, somehow making the sound even more intimate and filthy, and starts to crawl down Sam’s body.

“Guess we’ll start with this and work our way up from there,” he suggests.

And just before Dean takes Sam’s cock in his mouth and makes him lose all coherence for the next half hour, Sam thinks to himself that putting up with his brother's superiority complex might not be such a hardship after all.