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Sam crawls out of sleep slowly. He’s cold where his naked shoulder and back are being blasted by the noisy motel air conditioning unit, but the rest of him is too hot under the scratchy covers. His right arm is being pressed down by something heavy, and he’s afraid to open his eyes to find out what it is because his brain’s spinning like a slot machine. He runs his sour tongue over his dry teeth. Dehydrated. That’s the reason for the dizziness and dry mouth. Doesn’t explain why he’s sleeping naked, or what’s weighing down his arm.
He cracks his eyes, the world coming into focus between his lashes. There’s a lump on the bed next to him. A human-sized lump. He registers three things in quick succession. First, the human lump is his brother. Second, he’s naked, too, or at least he is from the waist up. Third, there’s a red scratch on Dean’s upper back and a small dark red mark at the base of his neck just below where the leather cord of the amulet rests. Sam gave him those marks.
Holy fucking shit.
It doesn’t come back in a flood. He was too drunk for total recall. But he remembers enough. Drinking together at the bar down the block, stumbling back to the room. Holding each other up somehow turning into Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, Sam’s hand on Dean’s waist. He doesn’t remember who moved first, but they kissed, and Dean tried to say something but Sam remembers telling him to shut up and take off his shirts. Some pockets of blankness but Sam thinks they…jacked each other off, maybe? Or did he—oh god. He vaguely remembers asking Dean if he could suck his cock. The feel of it, heavy in his mouth, comes back to him as he tries to swallow down his rising panic.
Dean makes a noise from six inches away and Sam pulls his arm out from under Dean’s torso, muscles tingling immediately as the blood flow returns to normal. He eases out of bed, scratches his belly. He looks down to see dried come flaking off. A bit hysterically, he wonders whose it is.
He needs a shower and water and coffee and maybe a time machine.
But the shower might wake Dean up which would mean the beginning of the end of Sam’s entire godforsaken life. He slips on his boxers, which he finds tangled up in his jeans, puts those on as quietly as he can, holding his belt buckle so it won’t clank, doesn’t bother to zip up. It’s July in southern Nevada, so he lifts the first T-shirt he sees but doesn’t bother hunting for a flannel. His wallet is still in the pocket of his jeans. He grabs his boots and slides out of the room like a man trying to avoid an awkward morning after, because that’s exactly what he is. He puts on his shirt, buckles his belt, and dons his boots in view of the housekeeper turning over the room next door. His face burns. The walk of shame has never been his style. Would her carefully blank expression as she pretends not to notice him be the same if she knew the person he’s walking out on is his brother?
He remembers a breakfast-lunch place down the block. The surest bet for drinkable coffee and a chance to gather his thoughts, to figure out what he’s going to do. What he’s going to say. How he’s going to fix this.
It takes him four excruciating minutes to get to the diner, craving water while the headache between his eyes hammers at his brain like an ice pick with each step. Luckily, the interior of the diner is air conditioned and the middle-aged waitress in the flannel shirt and jeans tells him to sit anywhere. He doesn’t want to take up a booth on a busy morning, so he eases himself onto a stool at the counter. Within minutes he’s been served a steaming cup of joe, a glass of ice water, and a veggie omelet, hash browns, and toast.
The food is good, the coffee better, and after inhaling half of his meal he starts to feel a little more human.
Which is when the panic really starts setting in.
He and Dean had sex.
He had sex with his brother.
Just thinking the words has his cheeks flame hot. He wishes he could remember how it happened, exactly, because the gaps in his memory are enough to leave him wondering about who did what to who. He must have initiated, though. He had to have been absolutely plastered to give in and touch Dean the way he’d fantasized about touching him in his darkest, most shameful moments. And Dean must have been doubly plastered to let him.
Maybe Dean was so drunk that he’ll wake up with a complete blank slate. Could Sam get away with not saying anything? Then he thinks of the unslept-in second bed, the fact that Dean will wake up naked and with a goddamn hickey on his neck in the shape of Sam’s mouth and Sam’s breakfast threatens to come right back up again.
He takes a steadying sip of coffee, and sighs.
“That’s a mighty big sigh.”
It takes him a second to register the question is coming from a young woman two stools away from him. Her voice is sexy-husky and deeper than it seems like it should be given her small frame. She’s wearing jeans and a tank top that show off small, high breasts and slim, tan arms, one of which sports a tattoo of a cartoon cherub drawing back a bow armed with an arrow.
“Ah, sorry,” he says, rubbing his forehead.
She smiles at him sympathetically. “Hungover?”
He returns the smile, feeling awkward. “Is it that obvious?”
“No offense, but I can smell the whiskey from here.”
“Sorry,” he says again.
“Whatever,” she says, turning to look at him. She’s young and pretty and he wishes someone like her would do it for him a tenth as hard as his stinky, obnoxious, smothering older brother did. God. With effort, he stifles another sigh.
“So, hungover, big sigh, hickey on your neck. I diagnose relationship troubles,” the girl says.
Sam’s hand flies to his neck, searching until he grazes the slightly sore spot on his left side. Shit. He hadn’t had time to inspect his own flesh in the mirror. What other marks did Dean leave on him? He presses on it until he aches, a tangible reminder that he hadn’t hallucinated last night. He takes his fingers away and looks at them. Dean’s mouth was on his skin. Sam had just touched the remnants of Dean’s saliva. He rubs his fingers and thumb together and gets the irrational urge to lick them.
“What’s their name?”
“Huh?” Sam pulls his attention away from Dean’s phantom spit and to the girl, who’s still talking to him for some reason. “Oh, uh.” He’s not about to tell her the truth, but it partially slips out anyway. “Trouble.”
She smirks. “I hear ya. Still, it’s not fun if it’s not a little bit dangerous, right?”
Sam nods warily. “Guess not,” he says neutrally.
“I’m Bethann,” she says. “Don’t get a lot of strangers around here.”
“Sam,” he says. “Just passing through.”
“So, Sam, tell me about Trouble. I’m going through a dry spell myself and I would love to live vicariously through you.” She props her chin up on her small hand and stares at him, batting her eyes comically.
He can’t help it–he breaks, laughing a little at her over-the-top move. “I don’t really know what to say.”
“Well, are they a one night stand? The love of your life? The best mistake you ever made?” She makes a gimme motion with her hand. “Seriously, I’m hard up for gossip and since you’re just passing through, what can it hurt?”
Sam can think of plenty of reasons why he shouldn’t spill his guts to a stranger at a diner, but then again, who can he talk to about Dean? He can’t exactly call up Bobby and get his advice on what to do about the fact that he’s in love with his big brother. This girl seems harmless, and maybe she could even help. He and Dean live in such a bubble he can’t get any perspective on what they might or might not mean to each other.
“One night stand,” he repeats, “the love of my life, and the best mistake I ever made—yep, that about sums it up. He—” He pauses, checks Bethany’s face for disgust, finds only wide-eyed interest. “—he’s kind of the center of my world in a lot of ways. Makes it hard to tell if last night meant anything. Meant to him what it means to me, if that makes any sense.”
Her eyes gleam. “So last night was your first time together?”
“First time. Probably only time,” Sam mutters. He can’t believe he let his guard down and something happened and he can’t even remember exactly what they did. He’s only wanted his brother for what feels like forever. Maybe it has been forever.
“How’d you meet this Trouble, then?”
“Oh, uh.” Sam takes a gulp of his coffee and mumbles something about growing up together.
“This was a long time coming, then,” she prods.
“No—no, not really. I mean, I’ve always wanted—but I knew there was no way he’d want me back, so it was kind of a non-issue.”
“But last night makes it a yes-issue,” Bethann states shrewdly. “And you’re freaking out why? He clearly wants you back.”
Sam thinks about the hickey on his neck. Dean had to have purposely given that to him, sucked on his neck until the blood vessels under the skin popped. Could Bethann be right? Could Dean actually want Sam? The possibility is honestly making his head hurt again. He licks his lips and frowns into his coffee. “When he wakes up he’ll come to his senses and be horrified. I should just pack my bag right now and get out of town before he tells me to hit the road himself.”
“Don’t be such a quitter,” Bethann says. “If he’s the love of your life, you have to fight for him. Unless the sex wasn’t good—in that case, you might want to bail now.”
She laughs when Sam shakes his head vigorously.
“It, uh, it was good. What I can remember of it. And we do plenty of fighting. For each other. With each other. But it’s never been like it was last night between us—I never thought it could be. So that’s why I’m pretty sure this was a mistake, but scratch best and replace it with worst. I mean, we were really drunk. There’s no way he would have done that sober—I mean, no way.” His stomach burbles again, the greasy diner food threatening to come back up. Dean was drunk, unable to tell Sam what he didn’t want and Sam took advantage of him…that means Sam practically assaulted him. Jesus, even if Dean doesn’t remember the details either, Sam should do the right thing and leave so Dean doesn’t have to be confronted with the person who took such sick, horrible advantage of him for the rest of his life.
Bethann clucks her tongue. “Wow, you’ve got a lot spinning around under that hair of yours, don’t you? Do you overthink everything or just finally sleeping with the guy you’re in love with?”
“He was drunk,” Sam says again. “I took advantage. I’m a monster,” he whispers, finally giving voice to the suspicion he’s had about himself all along. Even Dad knew that Sam was rotten, deep inside. Otherwise why would he have told Dean he might have to take him out? Dean keeps insisting he’d never do it, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t do it.
Bethann rolls her eyes. “Holy house of pancakes,” she says, “You are one big ball of neuroses, Sam Winchester. Has anyone ever told you you might benefit from therapy?”
Sam snorts. There isn’t enough therapy in the world to help him with his particular set of problems. But then he realizes what she said. “I never told you my last name,” he says, fingering the butterfly knife with the silver blade in his pocket.
Bethann freezes, then relaxes into a pout. “Oh, shoot. This is why I’m still a trainee. I always screw something up.”
“What are you talking about? What are you?” he asks, on high alert now, though even now Bethann doesn’t seem particularly threatening.
“Well, if you must know, I’m a low level cherubim. If I rack up enough couples, I’ll get promoted. But that bitch at headquarters Jillian gave me the absolute worst territory—Vegas might seem romantic but the shelf life of 80 percent of those couples is shorter than a pint of milk. I keep bugging them to send me to Seattle or something, but for now I’m stuck here. But when I heard the Winchesters were in the area, I thought maybe my luck had changed. I mean, getting the famous Sam and Dean Winchester to finally seal the deal—that’s promotion-worthy right there if you ask me.”
Sam has a million and one questions about that little speech, but he fixates on the last part first. “You did something to Dean to make him…do what he did last night? Last night happened because of you?” Was it better or worse if they’d had sex because of some supernatural interference? Sam really was going to be sick.
“No!” Bethann says earnestly. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m low level, right? I don’t have a bow and I can’t give people the mark. All I can do is try to smooth the path a little, you know? Maybe throw in some mood lighting, drop a bottle of wine into the mix, stuff like that. Sometimes I play counselor, in case the couple is too neurotic to get out of their own way.” She looks at him pointedly.
“I don’t understand—bow? What mark?”
She sighs and slides off her stool, coming over to sit on the one next to him. He leans back instinctively, not trusting her as far as he can throw her diminutive frame.
“All you need to know is that there are a lot of folks rooting for you and Dean. And I’m not just saying that because it would be a feather in my cap to say you finally got together under my watch. You’re sitting there, feeling like the tank of a port-o-potty at Lollapalooza on the hottest day of the year, but you don’t need to beat yourself up over this.”
Sam's stomach roils at the vivid metaphor. “I don’t?”
“Look, I’ll show you.” Bethann reaches up and puts the palm of her hand over Sam’s forehead. His grip on the butterfly knife tightens, then relaxes as his eyes flutter shut and he’s transported back to the hotel room—only it’s not this morning, it’s last night, and he’s already there—that is, he’s standing to the side of the bed and watching himself and Dean come through the door, holding onto each other as if they’d both collapse to the ground if they weren’t supporting each other’s weight.
He—Sam from last night—has a red nose and redder cheeks and he’s smiling hard enough to show dimples. Dean’s laughing and he says, “We made it, Sammy. Told you we weren’t too drunk to remember our room number.”
“So what is it, then?” Sam asks.
“Uh, three—no—thirteen,” Dean says, then starts laughing the way drunk people do when they think everything is hilarious, clutching Sam’s arm and patting his chest with his other hand.
“Lucky number thirteen,” Sam says, laughing too. He stumbles toward the bed closest to the door, the one Sam remembers waking up in this morning. Dean comes with him, still touching him, as if he can’t let go.
“Sam,” Dean says, “I’m really drunk.”
“Yeah, I know. Me too,” Sam says. “We should go to bed.” The two of them slide onto the bed, somehow still tangled in each other. Dean hums and then he puts his face in the crook of Sam’s neck and mumbles something. Sam-on-the-bed says, “What?” and starts laughing again. Dean tips his head up, and Sam’s looking down and Dean suddenly sobers for a second to say, “I think I’m drunk enough to do this.” And then Dean leans up and kisses Sam.
It’s strange watching it happen as if it’s happening to someone else, but now that Bethann’s shown him, Sam can remember all of it, the feeling of Dean’s lips, the fact that he started it, the fact that they moved together, in sync on this as much as they were when fighting a monster.
Sam-on-the-bed whispers, “Are you sure? Because I need you to be sure.”
And Dean says, “So fucking sure, Sammy. Wanted this—want you.”
And yeah, they were both drunk but Sam remembers now. He remembers begging Dean to let him suck his cock. And Dean had said, “hell yes,” and then sucked the hickey onto Sam’s neck while he got his dick out of his jeans. There was more—much more, and Sam can still remember it all when Bethann takes her hand away and he looks around the diner, his coffee still warm.
“So—he wants me too,” Sam says haltingly, like it’s a secret of the universe he’s trying to wrap his brain around. Maybe it is.
“He wants you, too,” Bethann confirms. “Usually I wouldn’t insert myself so blatantly like this, but you two are a special case.”
Sam has to ask. “You know we’re brothers, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “No duh. It’s not super common, but it’s not unheard of. Soulmates can come in all different packages. You two happen to be brothers. It’s just the way things worked out. Besides, it’s kinda hot.” She nudges his arm with her elbow and grins.
Sam bites back a little cry. He’s spent years hating himself for the fact that the person he wants most in the world is his brother, and here’s some random cupid lady telling him it’s okay. That it’s more than okay—that it’s meant to be. That they’re soulmates.
Bethann looks at him and her expression grows serious. She takes both of his hands in her much smaller ones and holds on tight. “You’re not a monster, Sam Winchester. There are those of us who are on your side for what’s coming. We need you and Dean—the world needs you and Dean—to keep fighting. Together.”
“Together,” he repeats. Being together with Dean is all he’s ever wanted. He looks down at their hands, joined, then looks into the face of the cherub. He still doesn’t know exactly what kind of creature she is, but she doesn’t feel evil. And he desperately wants to believe that even if he doesn’t understand everything she said, he can believe her when she says this is the way he and Dean are supposed to be. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says. “Now, why don’t you find your guy?”
“Yeah. Maybe I should order him some— Dean?” Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees his brother, who’s just walked through the door of the diner. He swivels his stool in time to see Dean glare at Bethann, then turn and walk out. Belatedly, Sam realizes Bethann is still holding his hands, that they’d been gazing into each others’ eyes. He pulls out of her grasp. “Shit.”
“Dammit, I always screw something up.” Bethann moans. “Go, I’ll pay for your breakfast.”
Sam scrambles to his feet, tosses a quick thanks over his shoulder and runs out of the diner. He scans the parking lot, but he doesn’t see Baby. Maybe Dean walked. He jogs toward the motel, sees Dean marching with a stiff back a hundred feet ahead. “Dean!” he calls, but his brother speeds up.
Sam breaks into a run, catching up with Dean when they’re almost to the motel parking lot. “Wait,” he calls, winded now. “We need to talk.”
“Nothing to talk about,” Dean says, sounding out of breath and—hurt? He keeps walking toward the motel. “Whatever, Sam. You’re picking up chicks at diners now? That’s cool.”
“I wasn’t picking up anyone.”
Dean grabs the room key from his jeans pocket and jams it into the keyhole. “You two looked pretty cozy,” he says as he swings the door open and stomps inside. He flicks on the overhead light and starts putting his stuff into his bag. “Which, you know, makes sense. Why would you want—” He swallows heavily, doesn’t finish his sentence, zips up his duffel.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks when Dean pulls out his car keys.
“I’m—” Dean looks lost for a second, as if he hadn’t had much of a plan besides packing. “I’m hitting the road. Obviously you need your space.” Dean spits the last word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“Wait, just wait a second.”
Dean doesn’t move and Sam’s a little surprised that he’s actually doing what Sam asked.
“Thanks. Um. Sit down?” He doesn’t touch Dean but he glances at the bed—the same bed where they tasted and touched each other last night. The sheets are obscenely mussed and Sam imagines he can smell the scent of sex still lingering in the air. Dean defiantly sits on the edge of the still-made bed. Sam will take the half-victory.
Dean still looks ready to bolt. Sam slowly, carefully approaches him, palms out. He sinks to the mud brown carpet in front of Dean, willing to supplicate himself if it means Dean will listen.
“I’m sorry,” he starts. The corners of Dean’s mouth turn down and Sam realizes Dean could think he was apologizing for any number of things. “I’m sorry for leaving this morning. I’m sorry you saw me and Bethann like that. I’m sorry for hurting you.” There are so many things he could apologize for. For being tainted. For not being strong enough. For leaving Dean once upon a time thinking it was the right thing to do and ripping his own heart to shreds in the process. Maybe he’d ripped Dean’s heart to shreds, too. Sam knows his brother is tough. Once Sam had thought it didn’t matter what he did, or didn’t do—either way, Dean would be better off alone. He knows better now. And not just because of what Bethann intimated. He knows better because since Dean picked him up from Stanford, Sam’s had the time of his life. And he’s seen how much Dean needs him. He knows how much he needs Dean. They’re not only better together. They’re the best together.
“I’m not hurt, Sammy.” Dean’s a terrible liar. His forehead is all wrinkled as if he’s experiencing a level eight pain. “I mean—I get it. What we did last night—we shouldn’t have. We were drunk. Stupid. You don’t have to tell me it was a mistake. I know it was.” His voice sounds hollow.
“I thought it was a mistake when I woke up this morning,” Sam says carefully. “I thought I’d ruined everything. I left because I didn’t want to face the fact that you’d hate me now.”
“Why would I hate you?” Dean sounds honestly confused. “I’m the one who—”
Sam laughs. “No, see, that’s the thing. I thought I was the one who started it. The one who overstepped. So I left and I went to the diner and this girl started talking to me and—” Sam wants to explain who Bethann is—what she is—but he doesn’t know that he fully understands it himself. That part will keep. “—she got me to see things more clearly. That even if we were drunk, it wasn’t a mistake to finally act on the feelings I’ve had since before I can remember.”
“What?”
Sam shuffles forward on his knees, his chest bumping into Dean’s legs. Dean widens his eyes and his knees at the same time, and Sam takes the opening, pressing right in between his brother’s bow legs, staring into his green eyes, as big as an anime character’s. “The girl in the diner got me to see that the only thing I regret about having sex with the love of my life is that we were too drunk to remember everything. But, I’ve always thought the second time is better than the first.” He puts his hands carefully, deliberately on Dean’s thighs. He can feel the heat coming off Dean, he can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows nervously.
Dean licks his lips. “The—uh—the love of your life?”
Sam can’t deny being scared shitless to bare it all like this. What’s to stop Dean from laughing at him, from punking out and bailing anyway? But he remembers the vision Bethann let him see, Dean’s own words that he wanted Sam. Sam has to believe that if Dean feels half as much as Sam feels for him, it’s enough. So he nods, holding Dean’s gaze all the while. “I love you so much,” he says, tightening his grip on Dean’s thighs. “Last night wasn’t a mistake. It should have happened a long time ago. Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”
Dean doesn’t answer, but he puts his hands over Sam’s, then moves one to Sam’s neck, warm and large. “I marked you,” he whispers, pressing on the hickey he left there. “I wanted there to be evidence that it wasn’t another dream.”
Sam shivers at the idea of Dean dreaming about doing things to him.
“It’s not a dream. And this time, we’re not even drunk.”
“Not a mistake, either?” Dean asks. “You sure? I need you to be sure, Sammy.”
“That’s what I said to you last night,” Sam says, “and I’ll tell you what you told me. So fucking sure, Dean.”
Then it’s like last night, only ten times better. Sam pushes up just as Dean leans down and their mouths clash, then soften, and then Sam’s being kissed like it’s going out of style. He knew Dean had to be a good kisser, but who knew they’d fit together like their lips were made for each other?
Soulmates, Sam thinks, as he pushes Dean backwards onto the still-made bed and climbs on top of him. He stops kissing Dean long enough to ask, “What do you want? What can I do?”
Dean moans as if the very question turns him on. “Everything. Anything. God, Sam. Anything.” The word sounds like both a plea and permission and it makes all the blood in Sam’s body rush to his cock.
“Take off your clothes,” Sam says, and Dean’s T-shirt is off so fast, saliva barely has time to pool in Sam’s mouth. He takes a little longer to get his own shirt off because his hands are shaking a little. They scoot up the bed, opening belt buckles, losing their boots.
They’re finally naked and Dean’s gaze lands on his crotch. His mouth falls open in what looks like shock. Sam feels like a god. “I thought it was a dream—too drunk to take it all in last night, but Jesus Fucking Christ Sammy, what the hell?”
He looks down at himself, fully hard. His erection is too heavy to curve all the way up, the way Dean’s is now, curling against his pubes and his belly, pointing upward to his navel. Sam’s is thick and bobbing straight forward, balls swinging underneath. He looks at Dean–more specifically, at Dean’s mouth. Dean had goggled at Sam’s size last night, too, but he was obviously too drunk to remember.
“Last night I blew you. Now, it’s your turn.”
“You seriously think I can fit that trouser anaconda in my mouth?” Dean demands.
“I think you’re gonna try,” Sam says, inching his way up the bed. He straddles his brother’s waist, rubs their hard cocks together. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt, besides Dean’s mouth on his. “I think I’m gonna fit this wherever I want.”
Dean’s pupils blow almost completely black while his cock dribbles out a spurt of clear fluid. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah? I had a feeling you’d be into that,” Sam says, darkly satisfied. “Of course, I’m expecting you to give as good as you get.”
Dean regains some of his composure, his face creasing into a wicked smile. “Oh hell yes. I’ll give it to you so good, baby brother.”
Sam supposes turnabout is fair play, because those words make him groan with desire. He wraps his hand around himself and Dean, strokes them together roughly. “So, what do you want first?”
His brother licks his lips, glances down at their cocks in Sam’s hand. “All right, bring it on, big guy,” Dean says. He sounds casual, but Sam can hear the thread of bravado in his voice.
Sam releases their cocks, sits back, strips his own lazily. “You sure?”
Dean grins. “So fucking sure, baby brother.”
Sam doesn’t need more urging than that to rise up to his knees and push his cock right into the velvet wet heat of Dean’s perfect mouth. It’s not actually too big to fit, but he goes slow anyway. It’s not the feel, though it feels amazing, and it’s not the sound, though the little wet noises and Dean’s muffled little groans are hotter than hell. It’s the sight—Sam’s cock disappearing into the stretched out ring of Dean’s lips, his brother’s lashes scraping the top of his cheeks since he has his eyes shut in concentration. It’s the most erotic thing Sam’s ever seen and he takes a mental picture he’s planning to think about on his deathbed.
Eventually, Dean opens his eyes, and he puts his hands on Sam’s ass, urging him forward. Sam doesn’t make it entirely in before Dean’s choking a little. It doesn’t seem to hinder Dean’s enjoyment any, but Sam pulls out most of the way anyway, then gets his hand on his shaft. He doesn’t need Dean to deep throat him, he just needs—well, Dean, basically.
“Open up,” Sam says, touching Dean’s cheek lightly, until Dean obeys, opening all the way until the tip of Sam’s dick is only an inch or so inside the wet cavern of Dean’s mouth. Sam strips his length fast and smoothed only a little by drying spit, but it’s perfect like this, rough and hot. Dean figures out what Sam’s doing, sticks his tongue out and Sam doesn’t know where he learned to that—porn, probably—but the sight of Dean’s pink tongue, a backdrop for Sam’s engorged cock, a target for the come that bursts out of Sam before he even realizes what’s happening—it’s hotter than any porno, any fantasy.
Sam knows he’d be in love with his brother even if he wasn’t also one of the most objectively beautiful people on the planet. But it sure doesn’t hurt.
Dean keeps his mouth open while Sam unloads everything he’s got. Most of it ends up on Dean’s tongue and damn, Sam’s going to be in trouble thinking about this exact moment every time Dean so much as licks his lips in the future. A little ends up on Dean’s cheek, a whitish-clear streak that Sam bends over and licks off, like a cat licking its kitten clean.
Dean pushes Sam’s shoulder to get him to move, then leans over the side of the bed and hocks Sam’s jizz into an empty Styrofoam coffee cup. Sam’s not offended. He just jerked off into his brother’s mouth. And Dean liked it. He could run a marathon right now and feel no pain.
“You are—” Dean starts, flopping back down on the bed.
“What?”
“Something else,” Dean says, laughing a little.
Sam decides to take that as a compliment. He wonders if Dean’s surprised by Sam being bossy in bed. Or if he’s surprised by how good it is between them. This thing—the physical thing, the having-sex-with-each-other thing—is still new. But the love isn’t new. It’s been there from day one.
Still, being able to slot himself next to Dean, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, makes Sam feel free. The last twenty-three years he’s had an invisible stone weighing him down, and it’s as if, at last, the stone has been lifted. And without it, he can do anything. They can do anything.
“So, can I get a hand here?” Dean asks, which is when Sam realizes Dean’s still hard.
He scrambles to sitting. “Oh, sorry. Of course.”
Dean laughs. “Hey, it’s okay. If I’d just shot a gallon of come, I’d be out of it, too.”
“It wasn’t a gallon,” Sam says, “but, yeah, it was pretty great.” Understatement, but the way Dean smiles Sam knows he gets it.
He puts a hand on Dean, eager to repay the favor by sucking Dean off. He’s already done it once and he knows it’ll be even better this time. But Dean says, “Wait,” when Sam ducks his head. He looks up and Dean motions for him to come closer, so Sam does. Dean puckers his lips, as if asking for a kiss. Sam obliges him. Kissing Dean is basically his new favorite thing to do. They kiss, and he can hear Dean jacking himself, and then they kiss deeper, and Dean sucks on Sam’s tongue, hard, moaning around it, while the bed shakes with how fast he's stroking himself and then Dean’s entire body locks up and Sam knows he’s coming. He came sucking on Sam’s tongue and that’s another new notch on Sam’s hottest moments of all time list.
Dean’s going to be crowding that list very soon. Will it be like this every time? Incendiary because it’s them?
Sam sure hopes so.
Later, they shower off various bodily fluids, dress in reasonably clean clothes. They’ll have to do laundry at the laundromat before they leave this town. Dean complains about missing breakfast, so they take the Impala to the diner, where the lunch rush seems just about over. Dean orders from the all-day breakfast menu while Sam gets a soup and salad combo. They both drink their weight in coffee.
And they can’t stop smiling.
It’s like every other diner lunch they’ve shared, and like none of them. Sam doesn’t care if the patrons can see the love shining out of him as he eats, jokes, banters with his brother. When two people are soulmates, the best thing they can do for the world is to lean into it. Well, he and Dean are finally leaning into it. And he has to hope it’s enough to get them through whatever hard times come ahead.
Dean’s digging out his wallet to pay the bill when Sam glances outside through the big plate glass window. A vintage fifties cherry-red Chevy convertible drives through the parking lot slowly. He recognizes the girl behind the wheel. He smiles and waves at Bethann, who smiles back. Then she toots the horn, gives him a thumbs up, and pulls onto the road with a rumble of the big, gas-guzzling engine. Maybe she’s gotten her promotion after all.
“Was that your little friend?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder. “Sweet ride.”
“Yeah, she’s a character,” Sam says. Her words from that morning come back to him. We need you and Dean—the world needs you and Dean—to keep fighting. Together.
He turns to his brother, smiles at him. Dean smiles back.
Sam’s not sure about much in this crazy world, but he’s sure he and Dean will always keep fighting. Together.
So fucking sure.
end