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runedgirlTitle: Different As It’s Always Been
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:siennavie
Beta:without_me
Rating: NC17
Word count: 14,700
A/N: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
samdean_otp Minibang. Thanks mods and my unbelievably talented artist and collaborator, siennavie, who was such a pleasure to work with and get to know!
Summary: On a cold November day in 2015, the demons finally gave up on Earth and went back to hell. The angels left a day later. Sam woke up in the bunker the morning after everything changed feeling exactly the same. It took four years, three weddings, two guinea pigs, and Dean nearly dying for Sam to realize that nothing was the same after all. Especially his feelings for his brother.
Fic Master Post: Fic Post
Art Master Post: Art Post
Sam woke up the morning after everything changed feeling exactly the same. He brushed his too-long hair out of his eyes and rubbed away the crust that had settled there, thinking that he must have slept a long time. He shuffled halfway to the bathroom before it hit him.
Yesterday the angels had gone back to Heaven where they belonged – at least, the ones who wanted to – keeping their part of the bargain, which was still surprising 24 hours later. The day before that, it was the demons that finally gave up on earth and made their way back to hell, Crowley himself closing the gates as the Winchester brothers watched. Dean had stood tall, feet planted firmly and arms crossed, his face impassive, resolute. Sam had glanced over his shoulder at least twice, not trusting things to go as planned, and caught Crowley’s eye. There was an understanding between them that had never completely disappeared, after that long day in the church. It didn’t stop Sam from forcing Crowley’s hand and sending him back to hell, but it did twist in Sam’s belly after, knowing what the pit does to even a remnant of humanity.
The face in the mirror that greeted him looked the same. Sam studied himself for a while, marveling that the world could be so different and he could be unchanged. His stomach rumbled and his bladder complained, not knowing this wasn’t a day for such mundane needs. He should be doing something, marking the occasion with some kind of celebration, he thought. Last night they’d come back to the bunker and gone straight to bed, both of them in shock and what was there to say anyway? We did it. It’s over.
It was never over; Sam had learned that his whole life. Except this time, maybe it was.
Dean was in the kitchen when Sam shuffled in; not cooking, just sitting. He had that silly bathrobe on, the one he said was part of his inheritance from the Men of Letters.
Dean looked up, his expression questioning.
“Dean?” Sam asked, because he didn’t know what the question was.
Dean’s eyebrows drew together. “What do we do now, Sammy?” he asked, and there was real anxiety in his voice.
Sam didn’t have an answer, but Dean looked like he needed one.
“Make breakfast,” Sam announced, and crossed the kitchen to grab a skillet.
Dean huffed, a disdainful sound. But a moment later, he pulled the eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator, and Sam started cooking.
Dean needed to move. Sam didn’t, not really. There was an endless library of books and other treasures to explore right there in the bunker, and Sam spent hours at the big table, immersed in everything the Men of Letters had learned. He didn’t know if the world would ever need that knowledge again, but that wasn’t really the point. Sam wanted to know, and so he read and took notes and rejoiced a little bit every time he understood a little more.
Dean was different. The longer they stayed in the bunker, the more restless he became. He would read with Sam sometimes, for an hour or two, but eventually he’d toss the book aside and sigh.
“Why are we even bothering with this, Sam? It’s not like any of these sons of bitches are still hanging around.”
Sam shrugged, because that wasn’t the point, not for him. “You never know,” he said, and got the expected eye roll in return.
“It’s been months, and everything’s quiet.”
Deanspeak for I’m going out of my mind just sitting on my ass.
“I’m gonna go check the pipes I repaired the other day, make sure everything’s holding,” Dean announced finally. The Men of Letters had done an impressive job with constructing the bunker and everything in it. Sam half wished they’d been a little less thorough, so Dean could keep busy.
“The sink seemed kind of clogged the other day,” Sam offered.
Dean brightened. “Probably your long goddamn hair,” he complained. “I’d better go check it out.”
Sam watched him go, full of purpose. Even Sam didn’t have enough hair to keep Dean busy forever.
At night they watched reruns of shows they’d grown up with. Back then, they’d huddled together on a motel bed while they waited for Dad to return, forgetting about the monsters all around them for a while. Dean had wanted to be MacGyver when he grew up; Sam wanted to be someone on LA Law, though he couldn’t decide who. Now they sat almost as close together on the big couch Dean had added to the crow’s nest and watched Survivor and made fun of all the contestants. Sometimes they watched Project Runway, even though Dean insisted it was stupid. He never changed the channel, though.
Kevin came by once in a while, bringing a pizza or Italian food from the take-out place in the next town over. He would drink too much beer and they would all avoid talking about how much he missed his mom, and he would sleep in the guest room and have a godawful headache in the morning. That gave Dean a reason to whip up a batch of his “tried and true hangover remedy” that tasted like ass, and ensured that Kevin never stayed two nights in a row.
Cas came by, too, probably not as often as Dean would have liked. As much as Cas had struggled with his forced humanity, in the end he'd chosen to keep it. Over a year later, he wore it more smoothly, no longer the awkward butt of Dean’s most insensitive jokes. In November, he mentioned a woman named Celia who was teaching him how to bowl.
“Is that all she’s teaching you?” Dean asked. He laughed and elbowed Cas in the side, but Sam caught the hurt expression that flickered across his face first. Sam didn’t think anything had actually happened between them, but Dean had a lot of feelings for Cas, that much was clear. Sam was surprised to find that he was glad Cas had a girlfriend, and then surprised that he was surprised. He and Dean had always been a little jealous of each other, whether it was Jess or Ruby or Lisa or Benny. Or Cas.
“No,” Cas answered, smiling for real. “She’s teaching me more than the pizza man ever did about sex.”
Dean flinched just slightly, then punched Cas in the shoulder.
“Atta boy,” he said.
“Let’s take a road trip,” Sam suggested the next day. Dean perked up instantly, cocking an eyebrow.
“Why? What’s up?”
“Nothing really,” Sam hedged, “I just think we should pay attention to what’s going on out there, make sure nothing’s kicking up. We’re so isolated in here, we wouldn’t even know.”
“That’s what we have all these fancy-schmancy instruments for,” Dean scoffed, but Sam could see his excitement building already.
“Not the same as being out there and seeing for ourselves,” Sam insisted, and Dean caved eagerly.
“Fine,” he agreed, put upon. “We’ll go out and drive around aimlessly tomorrow, just to put your fears to rest, Sammy. So unbunch your panties and clear a space on the goddamned table while I make us some dinner, huh?”
The next morning, Sam woke to the aroma of sausage and maple syrup. Dean was still grumbling about Sam’s paranoia dragging them out of their comfy home to go drive around for no good reason, but his duffel was packed and by the door, and he already had a dozen blueberry pancakes cooked.
“C’mon, eat up, time’s a wasting,” Dean urged, which put the lie to his insistence that they had no reason to go anywhere. Sam ate an extra helping just because he could.
Dean didn’t ask where they were headed until the sun was starting to go down, content to let the Impala choose her own way. She was purring as happily as Dean was, engine revving and smoothing out when they hit the open road, just as Dean’s fingers relaxed on the wheel and one hand snaked across the back of the seat to rest just behind Sam’s neck. Dean didn’t touch him, of course, but Sam could feel the heat anyway, warming him in the December chill.
It was weird to stay in a motel room after months of being at the bunker.
“I miss my robe,” Dean complained when he came out of the bathroom. Sam rolled his eyes, and thought that he hadn’t seen Dean in boxer briefs and a tee shirt for a long time. He’d forgotten how leanly muscled his brother was, how much strength was in the corded muscle of his arms or the breadth of his shoulders, or under the pale skin of his thighs.
“What?” Dean asked, and Sam realized he’d been looking too long.
“Just marveling how you can walk on those bowlegs,” Sam answered, and Dean threw a toothbrush at him.
Sam lay awake for a while, realizing that he’d missed the sound of his brother’s soft snuffling and occasional snoring.
The sound of running water woke Sam the next morning. He stayed in bed waiting for Dean to emerge from the bathroom, a cloud of steam behind him. Dean was naked except for the thin towel around his hips. That wasn’t weird; what was weird was that Sam found himself lying very still and watching, eyes slitted open as Dean dug through his duffel and pulled out shorts and a shirt and slipped them on. Dean’s back was still freckled, the curve of his ass the same. Sam had no idea why he needed to make sure.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Dean said way too loudly. He tossed the damp towel in Sam’s direction.
“Dean!” Sam protested, catching the towel before it landed on his face.
Dean laughed; the sound made Sam’s stomach flip, like he was suddenly very hungry.
They ended up in New York City, where none of the people milling about the crowded sidewalks knew they were safe now, safer than they’d ever been. People worried about pickpockets and petty thieves, not knowing there had been so many other monsters.
Dean had never seen Rockefeller Center lit up for the Christmas holidays; his eyes lit up even brighter than the lights on the giant evergreen, freckles standing out on cheeks flushed with the cold.
“You remember when we skated on that pond in Maine?”
Sam frowned, trying to remember. It wasn’t like Dean to trip down Memory Lane, especially not with a smile on his face. “We did?”
“The guy who owned the hotel – it was some kind of bed and breakfast thing, only place Dad could find to stay. Guess they don’t have many motels in Maine. Anyway, the guy still had his grown-up kids’ skates and he let us borrow them.”
Sam shook his head, though he had a picture in his mind now. Dean kneeling, lacing up Sam’s skates, grinning up at him. Dean’s cheeks had been flushed then, too, the same freckles on his cheeks.
“Yours were way too big,” Dean went on, and he snorted, pleased with whatever he was remembering. “You fell on your ass the second you hit the ice.”
Sam vaguely remembered Dean hauling him up again and again, the warmth of Dean’s hand clasped around Sam’s as his big brother pulled him along. Sam never did get the hang of it.
“Let’s see if you can stay up now,” Dean said, tugging Sam by one sleeve.
“You’re kidding,” Sam protested, but he let Dean lead him over to the desk where they rented the skates. “You actually want to go skating. Here. Now.”
“What else is there to do?” Dean countered, because they both knew they weren’t in the Big Apple for a job. There were no jobs. Just Dean and Sam, and a skating rink full of tourists six days before Christmas.
Sam made it halfway around the rink before he fell on his ass, like he was seven all over again at that damn pond.
Dean came skating back toward where Sam was sprawled, a little awkward on his own skates but managing to stay upright. He laughed as he looked down, and Sam scowled at him.
“Very funny,” he sputtered, but it was hard to stay angry when Dean threw his head back and laughed full out like that.
“It is, yeah,” Dean agreed, and then he held his hand out and pulled Sam up.
“You wanna hold my hand, Sasquatch?” he teased, and Sam shoved him in the shoulder and fell right back down again.
That time, Dean laughed so hard he couldn’t even help Sam get up. Sam cursed Dean under his breath as he struggled upright, but he was smiling by the time he managed to skate his way off the ice.
They bought hot dogs with sauerkraut at a vendor a few blocks over, and ate them on a bench in a sort-of park across from Radio City. People swarmed by, intent on finishing their shopping or finding the best deals or getting to the theater on time. There were good-looking young women in high-heeled boots and short skirts, and good-looking young men in tight jeans and fitted jackets, but Sam watched his brother. Dean leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out in front of him, looking up at the city sky that never got dark. He licked a spot of mustard off the corner of his mouth and made a satisfied sound.
“Ready to go home?” Dean asked a little while later, and Sam realized that’s exactly what the bunker had become.
It took him a few nights to get used to sleeping with Dean down the hall instead of in the next bed.
Kevin came to visit in March, with the usual pizza. He seemed a little brighter, the grief that had weighed him down since the death of his mother easing slightly, enough to allow the occasional smile.
“I’m back in school,” he said, between bites of pepperoni.
“That’s great,” Sam said.
Dean’s eyes darted to Sam, then he echoed Sam’s “great,” but it didn’t sound as enthusiastic.
“It’s weird, to be doing something normal again. After everything was so far from normal, you know?”
Sam and Dean both nodded.
“It’s good that you are, though,” Dean said, and Sam was surprised at the conviction in his voice. He didn’t have to look over to know that Dean was looking at him.
Kevin shrugged. “I guess so. Met a nice girl, anyway.”
Dean gave him a smarmy grin. “A nice girl, huh? Hopefully not too nice.”
“Dean,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.
“What’s she like, Kev?” Dean persisted.
“He means does she have a nice rack,” Sam said disdainfully.
Dean smiled sweetly. “So does she?”
Kevin shook his head. “Not telling. Find your own girl.”
Dean’s eyes darted to Sam again, like he was expecting Sam to chime in. When nobody said anything else, he got up to get another beer.
“Seriously,” Kevin said. “You guys are like hermits or something. Live a little.”
Later, when the pizza was finished off along with more beer than was strictly necessary, Sam paused before heading to his bedroom.
“You can, you know,” he said.
Dean stopped and turned around before he got to his own room. “I can what?”
“Live a little. You know, date, or whatever. You don’t have to be a hermit just because it’s how I like to live.”
Dean stared at him so long it started to make Sam uncomfortable. He expected an insult about how lame he was and how it would do him a world of good to get laid. Instead, Dean’s expression went soft, and he shook his head.
“Yeah, I know, Sammy,” he said, finally. “I know.”
Sam lay awake for a long time, wondering why it sounded like resignation.
When spring rolled in for good, Dean got a job in the valley working for a farmer who needed help mending fences and tractors and driving harvesters. The Men of Letters had left investments that the Winchesters, as their sole heirs, could live on for a very long time. But Dean was restless and the money wasn’t endless, so when they saw the Help Wanted signs posted in town, Sam encouraged him to go. It was true what he’d said, Dean wasn’t cut out to be a hermit like Sam. His hands needed to do more than turn pages in a book or type on a keyboard.
Dean brought home baskets of whatever they’d harvested that day, and Sam learned to make dinner out of whatever landed on their table. He made ratatouille with the eggplants and peppers and tomatoes and onions. At first Dean scoffed at a meal that was “all vegetables, what the hell, a man needs some meat after a hard day’s work, Sam,” but then Sam spooned a dollop of sour cream on top and Dean took a taste and spooned on a few more. Sam patted himself on the back for finally convincing Dean to eat vegetables and probably saving him from impending malnutrition. He baked a blueberry pie that Dean consumed in less than 24 hours. As the weather went from warm to hot, they had corn on the cob, which Dean slathered with butter and salt and ate with such relish, it was nearly pornographic. His lips were slick and greasy after, and Sam thought that if someone kissed him right then, he’d taste as good as the sweet Silver Queen corn.
Dean freckled from the sun; then, slowly, his skin grew darker while his hair lightened, the tips bleached almost blond. He’d never been scrawny, but his shoulders became rounded with muscle, drawing his shirts tight across his back, and the curve of his biceps was more pronounced. Sam noticed because he noticed everything about Dean.
In August, on a Friday night, Dean mumbled something about going out tomorrow, and Sam ignored the way his stomach flipped nervously and nodded, like it was fine, like it hadn’t been over a year since either of them had done that.
Sam busied himself in the library instead of cooking, pretending he didn’t know it was time for dinner. That he didn’t care.
Dean had a green shirt on when he came out of his room, one of his newer Henleys, and a clean pair of jeans. His hair was more styled than Sam had seen it in a long time, the tips spiked and a little glossy.
He wiped his hands awkwardly on his thighs and cleared his throat.
“You got enough here for dinner?”
It was a ridiculous question.
“I think I can take care of myself,” Sam said, and it came out more annoyed than he’d expected.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, and he still hadn’t made any move toward the door.
“So go,” Sam answered, waving a hand in that direction. “It’s rude to be late.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Dean said, and that broke the spell. He grabbed the Impala’s keys and headed out.
“Don’t worry,” Sam called after him, “I won’t wait up.”
Unfortunately, that turned out to be a lie. Sam got into bed. He even closed his door. But his eyes stayed wide open, and nothing could stop his ears from straining to hear the sound of Dean coming home. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stay in his room when he finally heard the front door, and the familiar sound of his brother’s footsteps coming down the hall. Dean paused outside Sam’s room, and Sam waited for a knock, or the creak of the door handle. None came; eventually he heard Dean making his way down the hall toward his own bedroom.
Sam finally slept.
For the first time in a long while, Sam woke up first the next day. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal and tried to read the morning newsfeed, but the quiet was distracting.
Dean finally stumbled in at 10:30, his hair sticking up in all directions. The collar of his robe didn’t hide the bruising on his neck.
“Nice,” Sam said before he thought better of it. “What are you, thirteen? Hickies, Dean? Really?”
Dean reached up and adjusted his robe self-consciously, then realized what he was doing and smiled instead.
“Jealous, Sammy?” he said, because that was expected, that’s what he’d said all his life when Sam was critical of his hookups. Sam was expected to roll his eyes and not dignify the accusation with an answer. Instead, he thought, yes.
Not of the girl Dean had been with; that was ridiculous. It was more that Sam was content here, holed up in this bunker full of information and legacy and unfamiliar safety. The bunker – and Dean – were sufficient for Sam. Enough. That he – they – weren’t enough for Dean, that turned Sam’s stomach. It wasn’t jealousy exactly, but it felt sort of the same.
“You gonna see her again?” Sam asked instead.
Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair, which only succeeded in making it look more haphazard. “I guess. I mean, she wants to, of course.”
“Of course,” Sam echoed, but his stomach turned again. A one-night stand was one thing; a relationship was another. They had never been in one place long enough while they were together for Dean to have one. Only when Sam was gone had Dean invested in a real relationship – with Cassie, with Lisa. It had been the same for Sam. Jess, Amelia; Sam had loved them for a while – while Dean was gone. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d ever want a relationship like that again. Actually he was pretty sure.
Dean’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “You okay? You look kinda crappy. Couldn’t sleep while I was gone, huh?”
Dean had no idea how close to the mark he’d hit. “You look worse,” Sam returned. “And I slept like a baby. No snoring from down the hall.”
“You love it,” Dean laughed, and Sam shook his head anyway.
When Castiel asked if he could bring a woman named Celia to visit, Sam knew things were serious. It wasn’t like they had reason to keep the bunker super secret anymore, but they had an unspoken agreement not to bring any “outsiders” there. Cas understood the rules, which meant he no longer considered Celia an outsider.
Dean’s brow furrowed every time he looked at Celia, and Cas’ did the same every time he looked at Dean, while Celia kept looking at Sam as though she hoped he could explain their odd behavior.
An hour into their visit, Celia asked to see the Impala she’d heard so much about, and Dean reluctantly took her to the bunker’s garage for a tour.
Cas cornered Sam in the kitchen as they washed the dishes. The bunker didn’t have a dishwasher, and Sam found that he enjoyed the mundane ritual of cleaning up after a meal anyway, so they didn’t have any plans to install one.
“He’s happy?” Cas asked, toweling off the plate Sam handed him.
“Dean?” Sam asked, which was a ridiculous question. “I think so, yeah.”
Cas nodded, making sure every drop of moisture was off the plate before carefully stacking it in the rack.
“And you are too,” he observed, and Sam could feel Cas’s eyes on him.
“I guess so. I mean, I am, yeah.”
Cas took the next plate and turned his attention to drying it.
“You are, yes,” he said, and Sam had the feeling he was talking to himself as much as to Sam. “You both are. You belong here, together.”
It made Sam’s stomach flutter, to hear it like that.
Dean and Celia returned a minute later. Celia was smiling.
“Oh my god, what an amazing car!” she exclaimed, “No wonder you all love it so much.”
Sam thought that she would never understand all the reasons they loved the Impala, but Dean’s forehead was smooth now, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin, and that’s all that mattered.
The wedding was two months later, in a beautiful little church on a hillside. Its stained-glass windows shimmered in the afternoon sun, bathing the interior in pools of colored light and warming the autumn chill. The church reminded Sam of the one where he’d labored to force the humanity back into Crowley two years before; where Dean had chosen Sam above all others and pleaded with his little brother to stay with him, fuck saving the world. Sam had replayed Dean’s words so many times that they were like a mantra now, something he could cling to and repeat when life felt lonely or that gnawing empty feeling started up in his stomach and left him wanting. Wanting what, he didn’t know.
Sam remembered the lights streaking the sky as the angels fell, but he remembered Dean’s arm warm around his shoulders even more vividly.
Dean brought Sandy to the wedding. She was the second girl he’d dated since Sam had felt compelled to give him permission, a nice girl who worked at the bank in town. The dress she wore accentuated her curves; Sam walked behind them on the way in, watching the way Dean slipped his arm around her, his work-roughened hand firm on the small of her back above her swaying hips. Sam wondered how Dean touched her; whether he was always gentle, whether she liked it that way. He blushed when he remembered they were in a church. And that he was thinking about his brother’s sex life.
Cas kept stealing glances at Dean as he stood at the altar, his expression worried. Or maybe it was just the confused expression Cas had worn ever since Sam had known him. Dean looked away every time, his arm tight around Sandy’s shoulders like she was keeping him anchored.
Sam felt inexplicably jealous, seeing that there was still something between Castiel and his brother, something that had never been played out but had been real nonetheless. He wondered, not for the first time, if Dean had ever slept with a man. If he’d ever wanted to.
The reception afterwards was at Celia’s mother’s house. Dean drank too much and patted Sandy on the ass right in front of Celia’s 90-year-old grandmother. Sam hated him a little that night, and found himself wishing he’d asked the librarian in town to come to the wedding with him instead of being a third wheel. She was smart and attractive and probably just his type, but every time Sam had thought about it, his stomach had kicked up a protest and kept him silent.
Sam drove the Impala on the way back, trying not to listen to Dean and Sandy laughing and talking in the back seat, or to her giggles as Dean let his hands roam too much.
“Do you mind?” Sam finally yelled over the seat back, the third time he heard the unmistakable sounds of kissing. “I’m trying to drive, here, and what are you, thirteen?”
Dean laughed, his voice whisky low. “Aw, c’mon, Sammy, you don’t really mind, do ya? You can watch in the rearview if you want.”
He turned to Sandy, as Sam’s stomach bottomed out dangerously.
“Right, darlin’?” he asked, in that gravelly tone that was somewhere between smarmy and seductive.
Sandy giggled again, and Sam fought the impulse to swerve the Impala off the road and leave his brother in a ditch somewhere. Instead he drove faster, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to look in the mirror.
“'m sorry,” Dean slurred when they got back to the bunker. He tried to grab Sam by the lapels of his jacket, but Sam shoved him back roughly. Dean stumbled, even more drunk than Sam had thought.
“Fuck, Sammy, I said I was sorry,” he grumbled, and promptly tripped over a chair leg and fell on his ass.
Dean went out with Sandy for three more months. Sam had long ago given up trying to sleep when Dean was out. On the night of Dean and Sandy’s thirteenth date, Sam stayed up watching a Hitchcock marathon, trying not to watch the clock or think about what Dean was doing.
“You still up?” Dean asked when he came in at 2:15. He sounded surprised, and maybe a little bit happy about it.
Sam shrugged. “Dude, Hitchcock marathon.”
Dean sat down on the couch beside him. “Move over, Gigantor,” he ordered, shoving Sam aside when he didn’t move fast enough.
Sam smacked him on the shoulder, and Dean retaliated by grabbing Sam by the nearest bare foot and tickling him mercilessly. Sam slid off the sofa and onto the floor, but he had one hand clutched around Dean’s belt by then, so they fell together, a tangle of arms and legs and curses on the floor. They hadn’t sparred in ages, and Sam was too aware of the heat of his brother’s body against his own, the slide of Dean’s hands along his ribs and the way his hips bucked when Sam tried to pin him.
“Cut it out, jerk!” Sam yelled, more to get Dean off him than to escape further torture.
“Don’t be such a little bitch,” Dean said, but he stopped. He was laughing, even though Sam hadn’t managed to tickle him at all.
They both climbed back onto the couch, slapping at each other a few more times for good measure.
“Can’t believe I was missing a Hitchcock marathon,” Dean complained, and Sam didn’t say it serves you right, because that would be weird.
Sam woke up a few hours later with his head on Dean’s shoulder, the comforting sounds of Dean’s soft snores in his ear.
Evening came and went the next Saturday, and Dean didn’t take an extra shower or put on a clean pair of jeans or style his hair up with product.
“You going out tonight?” Sam finally asked, because he couldn’t take the waiting anymore.
“Nah,” Dean said, and went back to channel surfing.
Sam stood silently, debating whether to ask any of the things he very much wanted to.
“So, what – you’re not seeing her anymore?”
Dean shook his head and didn’t look at Sam.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Sam said, which was a big lie.
“Probably for the best,” Dean said, and half turned to look at Sam. “Not like I was gonna settle down with her or something.”
Sam felt his cheeks blush for no reason.
“Oh, I guess not. I – I think there’s another marathon on tonight,” he finally said, hoping he was right.
Dean grinned hopefully. “Yeah? Why don’t you make us some popcorn then.”
“Why don’t you make it yourself?” Sam shot back, though he was already moving toward the kitchen.
“You know I like the way you make it better,” Dean whined, and Sam rolled his eyes. He waited until he was able to wipe the smile off his face before he brought the popcorn and beer into the living room.
Charlie came to visit a few weeks later. Dean hugged her for an embarrassingly long time, while Charlie alternated between looking at Sam with her eyebrows raised and burying her face in Dean’s shoulder.
“So I came to invite you guys to something,” she announced as they dug into the takeout containers spread over the big kitchen table.
“You need us to do battle for Moondor again?” Dean asked, and Sam would swear he sounded hopeful.
“Oh, sure, that would be great,” Charlie agreed. Sam was pretty sure she was remembering the time Dean’s boots slipped on the wet grass as he raised his sword to lead his troops into battle and fell flat on his face in the mud, because she darted a quick look at Sam and tried to hide a grin.
“But no, that’s not what I meant. I wanted to invite you – there’s this girl, and she – well, we – we’re getting married, actually.”
Dean’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re getting hitched? No more playing the field?”
Charlie shook her head. She was beaming just thinking about whoever had captured her heart. “Nope. You’re on your own out there.”
Dean shook his head in mock sadness. “Terrible loss to all the single ladies out there.”
“Not all of them,” Charlie teased, and bumped her shoulder against Dean’s. “The straight ones are still all yours.”
Dean glanced at Sam, then huffed a "yeah" before getting up to get more beer.
“Charlie seems really happy,” Sam said after she left.
Dean nodded. “Yeah, she does. I hope that girl keeps her happy, though. Otherwise, she’s got me and you to answer to!”
Sam smiled at the protective-big-brother side of Dean that he’d been seeing all his life.
“Damn right,” he said.
“So who are you bringing to Charlie’s wedding?” Sam asked casually a few days later.
Dean shrugged. “I thought I’d just go with you, Samantha. We’ll fit right in.”
Sam’s stomach flipped over, but he managed to punch Dean in the shoulder as expected.
“Whatever, jerk,” he said, like he wasn’t suddenly having those weird butterflies or fighting back an inappropriate smile.
“You love it, bitch,” Dean shot back.
Sam turned away before Dean could see his stupid grin.
They drove to New York City for Charlie’s wedding, the Impala’s windows down and the breeze blowing Sam’s hair back. Sam didn’t admonish Dean for driving too fast; the smile on Dean’s face and the lazy sprawl of his legs were things Sam didn’t want to mess with. The open road would call to Dean until the day he died, Sam supposed, and this was as good a reason as any for the two of them to be back in the car and side by side. They still kept a cache of weapons in the trunk beneath a false bottom, even though neither of them expected to need it. Sam was okay with that, and, more and more, he thought maybe Dean was, too.
“Jesus, Sam, you really are a prissy thing, you know that? How much did this place cost, anyway?”
Dean was bitching and looking around the fifteenth-floor room Sam had booked for them, looking simultaneously annoyed and impressed.
“Not that much,” Sam insisted. It wasn’t like they had many expenses these days.
Dean’s eyes went wider when he discovered the mini bar. He whistled appreciatively and opened a package of salted cashews.
“You know they’ll charge us for everything you eat,” Sam said.
Dean paused with the open bag of nuts poised over his open mouth. He looked ridiculous. Sam’s stomach flipped.
“Wha?” he demanded, affronted.
“You may as well eat them now, you already opened them.”
Two packages later, Dean finally stopped eating and shucked off his jeans and shirt to put on his suit. Sam watched him, cataloguing the definition of his abs and the muscle of his shoulders. Dean was in even better shape than he had been when they were hunting.
Dean turned once he’d slipped the jacket on, looping the tie around his neck and turning up the collar to knot it. Sam was still standing there looking at him.
“Uh, aren’t you gonna get dressed?” Dean asked, his brow furrowing.
“They’re really working you on the ranch, huh?” Sam said instead, and Dean cocked an eyebrow. He ran a hand over his stomach self-consciously.
“I guess so.”
Sam turned away to lay out his suit. He could feel Dean’s gaze on him as he got dressed, probably wondering why Sam was such a freak. He made sure to show off his muscular back anyway, stretching to pull the white shirt on and letting it shift tight over his shoulders as he buttoned it. Sam may not have been ranch-handing, but he was no slouch when it came to working out.
The wedding was at Manhattan’s Marriage Bureau, the historic building transformed into something chic and elegant, but still retaining the marble and bronze details from the original 1920s architecture. Dean whistled as they walked up the stairs and through the front doors, and then Charlie was swooping in to hug them both. Her plain white dress was some kind of vintage design, hugging her in all the right places, and bright blue platform heels were a striking contrast to her red hair. The woman beside her was slightly taller, her dark hair swept into a loose bun held with a bright blue comb.
“This is Rachel,” Charlie said, and Sam could swear she was glowing. They both were.
There were only a dozen people in attendance, so Sam and Dean were introduced to everyone.
“This is Sam and Dean,” Charlie said, without any further explanation.
Two women in their eighties stood beside Sam and Dean. One of them dabbed at her eyes while Charlie and Rachel said their vows.
“You two make such a handsome couple,” she said afterwards, patting Dean on the arm.
“Oh, we, uh,” Dean stammered, and his cheeks were red.
“Rose and I have been together for more than fifty years,” she continued, and Dean stopped trying to correct her. “Seems like just yesterday we were as young as you two, but we’re still just as much in love.”
Dean nodded, pointedly not looking at Sam.
The woman patted Dean’s arm again. “Enjoy each other,” she said, smiling.
Sam waited for Dean to complain about the mistake after the women walked away, but he stayed quiet.
There was a little reception afterwards at the hotel where they were all staying, outside in a walled garden with tables and chairs scattered on a stone patio. Sam felt warm every time he caught someone looking at them. Dean stayed close all evening, drinking champagne and clearly enjoying the endless supply of hors d’oeuvres.
“Are you happy?” Charlie asked as they were getting ready to leave. Her lipstick was smudged from exchanging kisses with her wife every time someone clamored for it.
Dean didn’t answer, but Sam could sense his brother’s eyes on him.
“Yeah,” Sam said, and realized that he meant it. “Yeah, I am. Really happy.”
He forced himself to look at Dean, not backing down from his brother’s incredulous expression.
“And you?” Charlie persisted. She had Dean by the hand, squeezing him like it would get him to be honest.
Dean looked away from Sam slowly. He was feeling the effects of the champagne, Sam could tell. His green eyes were a little glassy, his cheeks flushed. Sam had no idea what his brother would say, and his chest tightened with a pang of anxiety. Was Dean happy? Sam didn’t know.
Dean let out a breath and pulled Charlie in for a hug. “Yeah, me too,” he said, and his voice was gruff. He glanced at Sam as he held Charlie, and Sam believed him.
In October, Sam nearly died. At least that’s how he remembered it. One morning, he woke up and turned green halfway through breakfast (which was a shame because Dean had made French toast), and that was the last thing he kept down for three days straight.
At first, Dean bitched at him for making a mess, and wasting perfectly good French toast.
By evening, Dean had gone to the store and come back with Gatorade and Pedialyte. Sam was too out of it to complain that he was being treated like a baby.
“Drink it, c’mon, Sam,” Dean urged every other minute or so. “You’re dehydrated; that’s why you’re shaking so bad.”
Dean stripped him when he didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and ran warm water to wash him off, and helped him put on fresh shorts and a tee shirt. A few hours later, he did it all again. And again. By the second day, Dean was more carrying him to the bathroom than helping.
“Damn it, Sam, we didn’t stop the trials only to have you die of some goddamn norovirus,” Dean said that night, and Sam could hear the worry underneath the complaint.
He wanted to say death would be a relief, but he was fairly certain that wouldn’t go over well with Dean.
Sam slept fitfully that night, his stomach finally too empty to necessitate getting out of bed but feeling too sick to sleep. He woke once to Dean sitting on the side of the bed, one hand gently pushing the loose strands of hair out of Sam’s face and tucking them behind his ear.
“You’ll feel better soon,” Dean whispered, though he didn’t know Sam was awake. “Weathered a lot worse than this, little brother.”
Something about the way Dean said those words made Sam wonder if he was dreaming. Dean was never so tender, his hands never so caressing. Sam kept his eyes shut and didn’t move. He fell back to sleep with Dean’s fingers still stroking the side of his face, just a ghost of touch, but it warmed Sam where he’d been shivering with fever.
“Sleep now, Sammy,” Dean said softly, “I’m right here.”
The next day, Sam woke up and felt a little more human. Dean was asleep in a chair beside his bed, slumped over to one side and looking like shit. There were bottles and washcloths and towels and a box of crackers, and a mostly untouched bowl of chicken-noodle soup, on the nightstand.
“Dean,” Sam croaked, his voice barely working.
Dean startled awake instantly.
“What is it? You okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam rasped, “Thirsty.”
Dean fumbled for the Pedialyte and held it up to Sam’s mouth. He had a straw in the bottle to make it easier to drink lying down. Sam took a few sips. His throat burned, and his chest ached from retching.
“You feelin’ better?”
Sam nodded, though better was a relative term. Dean let out a breath, relieved.
“Jesus, Sammy, don’t do that to me again,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his 3-day stubble.
“Sorry,” Sam mouthed. He wanted to say, I was the one dying, but he knew from firsthand experience that there were worse things, and watching your brother die was one of them.
Part Two
Author:
runedgirlArtist:
siennavieBeta:
without_meRating: NC17
Word count: 14,700
A/N: Written for the
samdean_otp Minibang. Thanks mods and my unbelievably talented artist and collaborator, siennavie, who was such a pleasure to work with and get to know!Summary: On a cold November day in 2015, the demons finally gave up on Earth and went back to hell. The angels left a day later. Sam woke up in the bunker the morning after everything changed feeling exactly the same. It took four years, three weddings, two guinea pigs, and Dean nearly dying for Sam to realize that nothing was the same after all. Especially his feelings for his brother.
Fic Master Post: Fic Post
Art Master Post: Art Post
Sam woke up the morning after everything changed feeling exactly the same. He brushed his too-long hair out of his eyes and rubbed away the crust that had settled there, thinking that he must have slept a long time. He shuffled halfway to the bathroom before it hit him.
Yesterday the angels had gone back to Heaven where they belonged – at least, the ones who wanted to – keeping their part of the bargain, which was still surprising 24 hours later. The day before that, it was the demons that finally gave up on earth and made their way back to hell, Crowley himself closing the gates as the Winchester brothers watched. Dean had stood tall, feet planted firmly and arms crossed, his face impassive, resolute. Sam had glanced over his shoulder at least twice, not trusting things to go as planned, and caught Crowley’s eye. There was an understanding between them that had never completely disappeared, after that long day in the church. It didn’t stop Sam from forcing Crowley’s hand and sending him back to hell, but it did twist in Sam’s belly after, knowing what the pit does to even a remnant of humanity.
The face in the mirror that greeted him looked the same. Sam studied himself for a while, marveling that the world could be so different and he could be unchanged. His stomach rumbled and his bladder complained, not knowing this wasn’t a day for such mundane needs. He should be doing something, marking the occasion with some kind of celebration, he thought. Last night they’d come back to the bunker and gone straight to bed, both of them in shock and what was there to say anyway? We did it. It’s over.
It was never over; Sam had learned that his whole life. Except this time, maybe it was.
Dean was in the kitchen when Sam shuffled in; not cooking, just sitting. He had that silly bathrobe on, the one he said was part of his inheritance from the Men of Letters.
Dean looked up, his expression questioning.
“Dean?” Sam asked, because he didn’t know what the question was.
Dean’s eyebrows drew together. “What do we do now, Sammy?” he asked, and there was real anxiety in his voice.
Sam didn’t have an answer, but Dean looked like he needed one.
“Make breakfast,” Sam announced, and crossed the kitchen to grab a skillet.
Dean huffed, a disdainful sound. But a moment later, he pulled the eggs and bacon out of the refrigerator, and Sam started cooking.
Dean needed to move. Sam didn’t, not really. There was an endless library of books and other treasures to explore right there in the bunker, and Sam spent hours at the big table, immersed in everything the Men of Letters had learned. He didn’t know if the world would ever need that knowledge again, but that wasn’t really the point. Sam wanted to know, and so he read and took notes and rejoiced a little bit every time he understood a little more.
Dean was different. The longer they stayed in the bunker, the more restless he became. He would read with Sam sometimes, for an hour or two, but eventually he’d toss the book aside and sigh.
“Why are we even bothering with this, Sam? It’s not like any of these sons of bitches are still hanging around.”
Sam shrugged, because that wasn’t the point, not for him. “You never know,” he said, and got the expected eye roll in return.
“It’s been months, and everything’s quiet.”
Deanspeak for I’m going out of my mind just sitting on my ass.
“I’m gonna go check the pipes I repaired the other day, make sure everything’s holding,” Dean announced finally. The Men of Letters had done an impressive job with constructing the bunker and everything in it. Sam half wished they’d been a little less thorough, so Dean could keep busy.
“The sink seemed kind of clogged the other day,” Sam offered.
Dean brightened. “Probably your long goddamn hair,” he complained. “I’d better go check it out.”
Sam watched him go, full of purpose. Even Sam didn’t have enough hair to keep Dean busy forever.
At night they watched reruns of shows they’d grown up with. Back then, they’d huddled together on a motel bed while they waited for Dad to return, forgetting about the monsters all around them for a while. Dean had wanted to be MacGyver when he grew up; Sam wanted to be someone on LA Law, though he couldn’t decide who. Now they sat almost as close together on the big couch Dean had added to the crow’s nest and watched Survivor and made fun of all the contestants. Sometimes they watched Project Runway, even though Dean insisted it was stupid. He never changed the channel, though.
Kevin came by once in a while, bringing a pizza or Italian food from the take-out place in the next town over. He would drink too much beer and they would all avoid talking about how much he missed his mom, and he would sleep in the guest room and have a godawful headache in the morning. That gave Dean a reason to whip up a batch of his “tried and true hangover remedy” that tasted like ass, and ensured that Kevin never stayed two nights in a row.
Cas came by, too, probably not as often as Dean would have liked. As much as Cas had struggled with his forced humanity, in the end he'd chosen to keep it. Over a year later, he wore it more smoothly, no longer the awkward butt of Dean’s most insensitive jokes. In November, he mentioned a woman named Celia who was teaching him how to bowl.
“Is that all she’s teaching you?” Dean asked. He laughed and elbowed Cas in the side, but Sam caught the hurt expression that flickered across his face first. Sam didn’t think anything had actually happened between them, but Dean had a lot of feelings for Cas, that much was clear. Sam was surprised to find that he was glad Cas had a girlfriend, and then surprised that he was surprised. He and Dean had always been a little jealous of each other, whether it was Jess or Ruby or Lisa or Benny. Or Cas.
“No,” Cas answered, smiling for real. “She’s teaching me more than the pizza man ever did about sex.”
Dean flinched just slightly, then punched Cas in the shoulder.
“Atta boy,” he said.
“Let’s take a road trip,” Sam suggested the next day. Dean perked up instantly, cocking an eyebrow.
“Why? What’s up?”
“Nothing really,” Sam hedged, “I just think we should pay attention to what’s going on out there, make sure nothing’s kicking up. We’re so isolated in here, we wouldn’t even know.”
“That’s what we have all these fancy-schmancy instruments for,” Dean scoffed, but Sam could see his excitement building already.
“Not the same as being out there and seeing for ourselves,” Sam insisted, and Dean caved eagerly.
“Fine,” he agreed, put upon. “We’ll go out and drive around aimlessly tomorrow, just to put your fears to rest, Sammy. So unbunch your panties and clear a space on the goddamned table while I make us some dinner, huh?”
The next morning, Sam woke to the aroma of sausage and maple syrup. Dean was still grumbling about Sam’s paranoia dragging them out of their comfy home to go drive around for no good reason, but his duffel was packed and by the door, and he already had a dozen blueberry pancakes cooked.
“C’mon, eat up, time’s a wasting,” Dean urged, which put the lie to his insistence that they had no reason to go anywhere. Sam ate an extra helping just because he could.
Dean didn’t ask where they were headed until the sun was starting to go down, content to let the Impala choose her own way. She was purring as happily as Dean was, engine revving and smoothing out when they hit the open road, just as Dean’s fingers relaxed on the wheel and one hand snaked across the back of the seat to rest just behind Sam’s neck. Dean didn’t touch him, of course, but Sam could feel the heat anyway, warming him in the December chill.
It was weird to stay in a motel room after months of being at the bunker.
“I miss my robe,” Dean complained when he came out of the bathroom. Sam rolled his eyes, and thought that he hadn’t seen Dean in boxer briefs and a tee shirt for a long time. He’d forgotten how leanly muscled his brother was, how much strength was in the corded muscle of his arms or the breadth of his shoulders, or under the pale skin of his thighs.
“What?” Dean asked, and Sam realized he’d been looking too long.
“Just marveling how you can walk on those bowlegs,” Sam answered, and Dean threw a toothbrush at him.
Sam lay awake for a while, realizing that he’d missed the sound of his brother’s soft snuffling and occasional snoring.
The sound of running water woke Sam the next morning. He stayed in bed waiting for Dean to emerge from the bathroom, a cloud of steam behind him. Dean was naked except for the thin towel around his hips. That wasn’t weird; what was weird was that Sam found himself lying very still and watching, eyes slitted open as Dean dug through his duffel and pulled out shorts and a shirt and slipped them on. Dean’s back was still freckled, the curve of his ass the same. Sam had no idea why he needed to make sure.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Dean said way too loudly. He tossed the damp towel in Sam’s direction.
“Dean!” Sam protested, catching the towel before it landed on his face.
Dean laughed; the sound made Sam’s stomach flip, like he was suddenly very hungry.
They ended up in New York City, where none of the people milling about the crowded sidewalks knew they were safe now, safer than they’d ever been. People worried about pickpockets and petty thieves, not knowing there had been so many other monsters.
Dean had never seen Rockefeller Center lit up for the Christmas holidays; his eyes lit up even brighter than the lights on the giant evergreen, freckles standing out on cheeks flushed with the cold.
“You remember when we skated on that pond in Maine?”
Sam frowned, trying to remember. It wasn’t like Dean to trip down Memory Lane, especially not with a smile on his face. “We did?”
“The guy who owned the hotel – it was some kind of bed and breakfast thing, only place Dad could find to stay. Guess they don’t have many motels in Maine. Anyway, the guy still had his grown-up kids’ skates and he let us borrow them.”
Sam shook his head, though he had a picture in his mind now. Dean kneeling, lacing up Sam’s skates, grinning up at him. Dean’s cheeks had been flushed then, too, the same freckles on his cheeks.
“Yours were way too big,” Dean went on, and he snorted, pleased with whatever he was remembering. “You fell on your ass the second you hit the ice.”
Sam vaguely remembered Dean hauling him up again and again, the warmth of Dean’s hand clasped around Sam’s as his big brother pulled him along. Sam never did get the hang of it.
“Let’s see if you can stay up now,” Dean said, tugging Sam by one sleeve.
“You’re kidding,” Sam protested, but he let Dean lead him over to the desk where they rented the skates. “You actually want to go skating. Here. Now.”
“What else is there to do?” Dean countered, because they both knew they weren’t in the Big Apple for a job. There were no jobs. Just Dean and Sam, and a skating rink full of tourists six days before Christmas.
Sam made it halfway around the rink before he fell on his ass, like he was seven all over again at that damn pond.
Dean came skating back toward where Sam was sprawled, a little awkward on his own skates but managing to stay upright. He laughed as he looked down, and Sam scowled at him.
“Very funny,” he sputtered, but it was hard to stay angry when Dean threw his head back and laughed full out like that.
“It is, yeah,” Dean agreed, and then he held his hand out and pulled Sam up.
“You wanna hold my hand, Sasquatch?” he teased, and Sam shoved him in the shoulder and fell right back down again.
That time, Dean laughed so hard he couldn’t even help Sam get up. Sam cursed Dean under his breath as he struggled upright, but he was smiling by the time he managed to skate his way off the ice.
They bought hot dogs with sauerkraut at a vendor a few blocks over, and ate them on a bench in a sort-of park across from Radio City. People swarmed by, intent on finishing their shopping or finding the best deals or getting to the theater on time. There were good-looking young women in high-heeled boots and short skirts, and good-looking young men in tight jeans and fitted jackets, but Sam watched his brother. Dean leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out in front of him, looking up at the city sky that never got dark. He licked a spot of mustard off the corner of his mouth and made a satisfied sound.
“Ready to go home?” Dean asked a little while later, and Sam realized that’s exactly what the bunker had become.
It took him a few nights to get used to sleeping with Dean down the hall instead of in the next bed.
Kevin came to visit in March, with the usual pizza. He seemed a little brighter, the grief that had weighed him down since the death of his mother easing slightly, enough to allow the occasional smile.
“I’m back in school,” he said, between bites of pepperoni.
“That’s great,” Sam said.
Dean’s eyes darted to Sam, then he echoed Sam’s “great,” but it didn’t sound as enthusiastic.
“It’s weird, to be doing something normal again. After everything was so far from normal, you know?”
Sam and Dean both nodded.
“It’s good that you are, though,” Dean said, and Sam was surprised at the conviction in his voice. He didn’t have to look over to know that Dean was looking at him.
Kevin shrugged. “I guess so. Met a nice girl, anyway.”
Dean gave him a smarmy grin. “A nice girl, huh? Hopefully not too nice.”
“Dean,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.
“What’s she like, Kev?” Dean persisted.
“He means does she have a nice rack,” Sam said disdainfully.
Dean smiled sweetly. “So does she?”
Kevin shook his head. “Not telling. Find your own girl.”
Dean’s eyes darted to Sam again, like he was expecting Sam to chime in. When nobody said anything else, he got up to get another beer.
“Seriously,” Kevin said. “You guys are like hermits or something. Live a little.”
Later, when the pizza was finished off along with more beer than was strictly necessary, Sam paused before heading to his bedroom.
“You can, you know,” he said.
Dean stopped and turned around before he got to his own room. “I can what?”
“Live a little. You know, date, or whatever. You don’t have to be a hermit just because it’s how I like to live.”
Dean stared at him so long it started to make Sam uncomfortable. He expected an insult about how lame he was and how it would do him a world of good to get laid. Instead, Dean’s expression went soft, and he shook his head.
“Yeah, I know, Sammy,” he said, finally. “I know.”
Sam lay awake for a long time, wondering why it sounded like resignation.
When spring rolled in for good, Dean got a job in the valley working for a farmer who needed help mending fences and tractors and driving harvesters. The Men of Letters had left investments that the Winchesters, as their sole heirs, could live on for a very long time. But Dean was restless and the money wasn’t endless, so when they saw the Help Wanted signs posted in town, Sam encouraged him to go. It was true what he’d said, Dean wasn’t cut out to be a hermit like Sam. His hands needed to do more than turn pages in a book or type on a keyboard.
Dean brought home baskets of whatever they’d harvested that day, and Sam learned to make dinner out of whatever landed on their table. He made ratatouille with the eggplants and peppers and tomatoes and onions. At first Dean scoffed at a meal that was “all vegetables, what the hell, a man needs some meat after a hard day’s work, Sam,” but then Sam spooned a dollop of sour cream on top and Dean took a taste and spooned on a few more. Sam patted himself on the back for finally convincing Dean to eat vegetables and probably saving him from impending malnutrition. He baked a blueberry pie that Dean consumed in less than 24 hours. As the weather went from warm to hot, they had corn on the cob, which Dean slathered with butter and salt and ate with such relish, it was nearly pornographic. His lips were slick and greasy after, and Sam thought that if someone kissed him right then, he’d taste as good as the sweet Silver Queen corn.
Dean freckled from the sun; then, slowly, his skin grew darker while his hair lightened, the tips bleached almost blond. He’d never been scrawny, but his shoulders became rounded with muscle, drawing his shirts tight across his back, and the curve of his biceps was more pronounced. Sam noticed because he noticed everything about Dean.
In August, on a Friday night, Dean mumbled something about going out tomorrow, and Sam ignored the way his stomach flipped nervously and nodded, like it was fine, like it hadn’t been over a year since either of them had done that.
Sam busied himself in the library instead of cooking, pretending he didn’t know it was time for dinner. That he didn’t care.
Dean had a green shirt on when he came out of his room, one of his newer Henleys, and a clean pair of jeans. His hair was more styled than Sam had seen it in a long time, the tips spiked and a little glossy.
He wiped his hands awkwardly on his thighs and cleared his throat.
“You got enough here for dinner?”
It was a ridiculous question.
“I think I can take care of myself,” Sam said, and it came out more annoyed than he’d expected.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, and he still hadn’t made any move toward the door.
“So go,” Sam answered, waving a hand in that direction. “It’s rude to be late.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Dean said, and that broke the spell. He grabbed the Impala’s keys and headed out.
“Don’t worry,” Sam called after him, “I won’t wait up.”
Unfortunately, that turned out to be a lie. Sam got into bed. He even closed his door. But his eyes stayed wide open, and nothing could stop his ears from straining to hear the sound of Dean coming home. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stay in his room when he finally heard the front door, and the familiar sound of his brother’s footsteps coming down the hall. Dean paused outside Sam’s room, and Sam waited for a knock, or the creak of the door handle. None came; eventually he heard Dean making his way down the hall toward his own bedroom.
Sam finally slept.
For the first time in a long while, Sam woke up first the next day. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal and tried to read the morning newsfeed, but the quiet was distracting.
Dean finally stumbled in at 10:30, his hair sticking up in all directions. The collar of his robe didn’t hide the bruising on his neck.
“Nice,” Sam said before he thought better of it. “What are you, thirteen? Hickies, Dean? Really?”
Dean reached up and adjusted his robe self-consciously, then realized what he was doing and smiled instead.
“Jealous, Sammy?” he said, because that was expected, that’s what he’d said all his life when Sam was critical of his hookups. Sam was expected to roll his eyes and not dignify the accusation with an answer. Instead, he thought, yes.
Not of the girl Dean had been with; that was ridiculous. It was more that Sam was content here, holed up in this bunker full of information and legacy and unfamiliar safety. The bunker – and Dean – were sufficient for Sam. Enough. That he – they – weren’t enough for Dean, that turned Sam’s stomach. It wasn’t jealousy exactly, but it felt sort of the same.
“You gonna see her again?” Sam asked instead.
Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair, which only succeeded in making it look more haphazard. “I guess. I mean, she wants to, of course.”
“Of course,” Sam echoed, but his stomach turned again. A one-night stand was one thing; a relationship was another. They had never been in one place long enough while they were together for Dean to have one. Only when Sam was gone had Dean invested in a real relationship – with Cassie, with Lisa. It had been the same for Sam. Jess, Amelia; Sam had loved them for a while – while Dean was gone. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d ever want a relationship like that again. Actually he was pretty sure.
Dean’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “You okay? You look kinda crappy. Couldn’t sleep while I was gone, huh?”
Dean had no idea how close to the mark he’d hit. “You look worse,” Sam returned. “And I slept like a baby. No snoring from down the hall.”
“You love it,” Dean laughed, and Sam shook his head anyway.
When Castiel asked if he could bring a woman named Celia to visit, Sam knew things were serious. It wasn’t like they had reason to keep the bunker super secret anymore, but they had an unspoken agreement not to bring any “outsiders” there. Cas understood the rules, which meant he no longer considered Celia an outsider.
Dean’s brow furrowed every time he looked at Celia, and Cas’ did the same every time he looked at Dean, while Celia kept looking at Sam as though she hoped he could explain their odd behavior.
An hour into their visit, Celia asked to see the Impala she’d heard so much about, and Dean reluctantly took her to the bunker’s garage for a tour.
Cas cornered Sam in the kitchen as they washed the dishes. The bunker didn’t have a dishwasher, and Sam found that he enjoyed the mundane ritual of cleaning up after a meal anyway, so they didn’t have any plans to install one.
“He’s happy?” Cas asked, toweling off the plate Sam handed him.
“Dean?” Sam asked, which was a ridiculous question. “I think so, yeah.”
Cas nodded, making sure every drop of moisture was off the plate before carefully stacking it in the rack.
“And you are too,” he observed, and Sam could feel Cas’s eyes on him.
“I guess so. I mean, I am, yeah.”
Cas took the next plate and turned his attention to drying it.
“You are, yes,” he said, and Sam had the feeling he was talking to himself as much as to Sam. “You both are. You belong here, together.”
It made Sam’s stomach flutter, to hear it like that.
Dean and Celia returned a minute later. Celia was smiling.
“Oh my god, what an amazing car!” she exclaimed, “No wonder you all love it so much.”
Sam thought that she would never understand all the reasons they loved the Impala, but Dean’s forehead was smooth now, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin, and that’s all that mattered.
The wedding was two months later, in a beautiful little church on a hillside. Its stained-glass windows shimmered in the afternoon sun, bathing the interior in pools of colored light and warming the autumn chill. The church reminded Sam of the one where he’d labored to force the humanity back into Crowley two years before; where Dean had chosen Sam above all others and pleaded with his little brother to stay with him, fuck saving the world. Sam had replayed Dean’s words so many times that they were like a mantra now, something he could cling to and repeat when life felt lonely or that gnawing empty feeling started up in his stomach and left him wanting. Wanting what, he didn’t know.
Sam remembered the lights streaking the sky as the angels fell, but he remembered Dean’s arm warm around his shoulders even more vividly.
Dean brought Sandy to the wedding. She was the second girl he’d dated since Sam had felt compelled to give him permission, a nice girl who worked at the bank in town. The dress she wore accentuated her curves; Sam walked behind them on the way in, watching the way Dean slipped his arm around her, his work-roughened hand firm on the small of her back above her swaying hips. Sam wondered how Dean touched her; whether he was always gentle, whether she liked it that way. He blushed when he remembered they were in a church. And that he was thinking about his brother’s sex life.
Cas kept stealing glances at Dean as he stood at the altar, his expression worried. Or maybe it was just the confused expression Cas had worn ever since Sam had known him. Dean looked away every time, his arm tight around Sandy’s shoulders like she was keeping him anchored.
Sam felt inexplicably jealous, seeing that there was still something between Castiel and his brother, something that had never been played out but had been real nonetheless. He wondered, not for the first time, if Dean had ever slept with a man. If he’d ever wanted to.
The reception afterwards was at Celia’s mother’s house. Dean drank too much and patted Sandy on the ass right in front of Celia’s 90-year-old grandmother. Sam hated him a little that night, and found himself wishing he’d asked the librarian in town to come to the wedding with him instead of being a third wheel. She was smart and attractive and probably just his type, but every time Sam had thought about it, his stomach had kicked up a protest and kept him silent.
Sam drove the Impala on the way back, trying not to listen to Dean and Sandy laughing and talking in the back seat, or to her giggles as Dean let his hands roam too much.
“Do you mind?” Sam finally yelled over the seat back, the third time he heard the unmistakable sounds of kissing. “I’m trying to drive, here, and what are you, thirteen?”
Dean laughed, his voice whisky low. “Aw, c’mon, Sammy, you don’t really mind, do ya? You can watch in the rearview if you want.”
He turned to Sandy, as Sam’s stomach bottomed out dangerously.
“Right, darlin’?” he asked, in that gravelly tone that was somewhere between smarmy and seductive.
Sandy giggled again, and Sam fought the impulse to swerve the Impala off the road and leave his brother in a ditch somewhere. Instead he drove faster, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to look in the mirror.
“'m sorry,” Dean slurred when they got back to the bunker. He tried to grab Sam by the lapels of his jacket, but Sam shoved him back roughly. Dean stumbled, even more drunk than Sam had thought.
“Fuck, Sammy, I said I was sorry,” he grumbled, and promptly tripped over a chair leg and fell on his ass.
Dean went out with Sandy for three more months. Sam had long ago given up trying to sleep when Dean was out. On the night of Dean and Sandy’s thirteenth date, Sam stayed up watching a Hitchcock marathon, trying not to watch the clock or think about what Dean was doing.
“You still up?” Dean asked when he came in at 2:15. He sounded surprised, and maybe a little bit happy about it.
Sam shrugged. “Dude, Hitchcock marathon.”
Dean sat down on the couch beside him. “Move over, Gigantor,” he ordered, shoving Sam aside when he didn’t move fast enough.
Sam smacked him on the shoulder, and Dean retaliated by grabbing Sam by the nearest bare foot and tickling him mercilessly. Sam slid off the sofa and onto the floor, but he had one hand clutched around Dean’s belt by then, so they fell together, a tangle of arms and legs and curses on the floor. They hadn’t sparred in ages, and Sam was too aware of the heat of his brother’s body against his own, the slide of Dean’s hands along his ribs and the way his hips bucked when Sam tried to pin him.
“Cut it out, jerk!” Sam yelled, more to get Dean off him than to escape further torture.
“Don’t be such a little bitch,” Dean said, but he stopped. He was laughing, even though Sam hadn’t managed to tickle him at all.
They both climbed back onto the couch, slapping at each other a few more times for good measure.
“Can’t believe I was missing a Hitchcock marathon,” Dean complained, and Sam didn’t say it serves you right, because that would be weird.
Sam woke up a few hours later with his head on Dean’s shoulder, the comforting sounds of Dean’s soft snores in his ear.
Evening came and went the next Saturday, and Dean didn’t take an extra shower or put on a clean pair of jeans or style his hair up with product.
“You going out tonight?” Sam finally asked, because he couldn’t take the waiting anymore.
“Nah,” Dean said, and went back to channel surfing.
Sam stood silently, debating whether to ask any of the things he very much wanted to.
“So, what – you’re not seeing her anymore?”
Dean shook his head and didn’t look at Sam.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Sam said, which was a big lie.
“Probably for the best,” Dean said, and half turned to look at Sam. “Not like I was gonna settle down with her or something.”
Sam felt his cheeks blush for no reason.
“Oh, I guess not. I – I think there’s another marathon on tonight,” he finally said, hoping he was right.
Dean grinned hopefully. “Yeah? Why don’t you make us some popcorn then.”
“Why don’t you make it yourself?” Sam shot back, though he was already moving toward the kitchen.
“You know I like the way you make it better,” Dean whined, and Sam rolled his eyes. He waited until he was able to wipe the smile off his face before he brought the popcorn and beer into the living room.
Charlie came to visit a few weeks later. Dean hugged her for an embarrassingly long time, while Charlie alternated between looking at Sam with her eyebrows raised and burying her face in Dean’s shoulder.
“So I came to invite you guys to something,” she announced as they dug into the takeout containers spread over the big kitchen table.
“You need us to do battle for Moondor again?” Dean asked, and Sam would swear he sounded hopeful.
“Oh, sure, that would be great,” Charlie agreed. Sam was pretty sure she was remembering the time Dean’s boots slipped on the wet grass as he raised his sword to lead his troops into battle and fell flat on his face in the mud, because she darted a quick look at Sam and tried to hide a grin.
“But no, that’s not what I meant. I wanted to invite you – there’s this girl, and she – well, we – we’re getting married, actually.”
Dean’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re getting hitched? No more playing the field?”
Charlie shook her head. She was beaming just thinking about whoever had captured her heart. “Nope. You’re on your own out there.”
Dean shook his head in mock sadness. “Terrible loss to all the single ladies out there.”
“Not all of them,” Charlie teased, and bumped her shoulder against Dean’s. “The straight ones are still all yours.”
Dean glanced at Sam, then huffed a "yeah" before getting up to get more beer.
“Charlie seems really happy,” Sam said after she left.
Dean nodded. “Yeah, she does. I hope that girl keeps her happy, though. Otherwise, she’s got me and you to answer to!”
Sam smiled at the protective-big-brother side of Dean that he’d been seeing all his life.
“Damn right,” he said.
“So who are you bringing to Charlie’s wedding?” Sam asked casually a few days later.
Dean shrugged. “I thought I’d just go with you, Samantha. We’ll fit right in.”
Sam’s stomach flipped over, but he managed to punch Dean in the shoulder as expected.
“Whatever, jerk,” he said, like he wasn’t suddenly having those weird butterflies or fighting back an inappropriate smile.
“You love it, bitch,” Dean shot back.
Sam turned away before Dean could see his stupid grin.
They drove to New York City for Charlie’s wedding, the Impala’s windows down and the breeze blowing Sam’s hair back. Sam didn’t admonish Dean for driving too fast; the smile on Dean’s face and the lazy sprawl of his legs were things Sam didn’t want to mess with. The open road would call to Dean until the day he died, Sam supposed, and this was as good a reason as any for the two of them to be back in the car and side by side. They still kept a cache of weapons in the trunk beneath a false bottom, even though neither of them expected to need it. Sam was okay with that, and, more and more, he thought maybe Dean was, too.
“Jesus, Sam, you really are a prissy thing, you know that? How much did this place cost, anyway?”
Dean was bitching and looking around the fifteenth-floor room Sam had booked for them, looking simultaneously annoyed and impressed.
“Not that much,” Sam insisted. It wasn’t like they had many expenses these days.
Dean’s eyes went wider when he discovered the mini bar. He whistled appreciatively and opened a package of salted cashews.
“You know they’ll charge us for everything you eat,” Sam said.
Dean paused with the open bag of nuts poised over his open mouth. He looked ridiculous. Sam’s stomach flipped.
“Wha?” he demanded, affronted.
“You may as well eat them now, you already opened them.”
Two packages later, Dean finally stopped eating and shucked off his jeans and shirt to put on his suit. Sam watched him, cataloguing the definition of his abs and the muscle of his shoulders. Dean was in even better shape than he had been when they were hunting.
Dean turned once he’d slipped the jacket on, looping the tie around his neck and turning up the collar to knot it. Sam was still standing there looking at him.
“Uh, aren’t you gonna get dressed?” Dean asked, his brow furrowing.
“They’re really working you on the ranch, huh?” Sam said instead, and Dean cocked an eyebrow. He ran a hand over his stomach self-consciously.
“I guess so.”
Sam turned away to lay out his suit. He could feel Dean’s gaze on him as he got dressed, probably wondering why Sam was such a freak. He made sure to show off his muscular back anyway, stretching to pull the white shirt on and letting it shift tight over his shoulders as he buttoned it. Sam may not have been ranch-handing, but he was no slouch when it came to working out.
The wedding was at Manhattan’s Marriage Bureau, the historic building transformed into something chic and elegant, but still retaining the marble and bronze details from the original 1920s architecture. Dean whistled as they walked up the stairs and through the front doors, and then Charlie was swooping in to hug them both. Her plain white dress was some kind of vintage design, hugging her in all the right places, and bright blue platform heels were a striking contrast to her red hair. The woman beside her was slightly taller, her dark hair swept into a loose bun held with a bright blue comb.
“This is Rachel,” Charlie said, and Sam could swear she was glowing. They both were.
There were only a dozen people in attendance, so Sam and Dean were introduced to everyone.
“This is Sam and Dean,” Charlie said, without any further explanation.
Two women in their eighties stood beside Sam and Dean. One of them dabbed at her eyes while Charlie and Rachel said their vows.
“You two make such a handsome couple,” she said afterwards, patting Dean on the arm.
“Oh, we, uh,” Dean stammered, and his cheeks were red.
“Rose and I have been together for more than fifty years,” she continued, and Dean stopped trying to correct her. “Seems like just yesterday we were as young as you two, but we’re still just as much in love.”
Dean nodded, pointedly not looking at Sam.
The woman patted Dean’s arm again. “Enjoy each other,” she said, smiling.
Sam waited for Dean to complain about the mistake after the women walked away, but he stayed quiet.
There was a little reception afterwards at the hotel where they were all staying, outside in a walled garden with tables and chairs scattered on a stone patio. Sam felt warm every time he caught someone looking at them. Dean stayed close all evening, drinking champagne and clearly enjoying the endless supply of hors d’oeuvres.
“Are you happy?” Charlie asked as they were getting ready to leave. Her lipstick was smudged from exchanging kisses with her wife every time someone clamored for it.
Dean didn’t answer, but Sam could sense his brother’s eyes on him.
“Yeah,” Sam said, and realized that he meant it. “Yeah, I am. Really happy.”
He forced himself to look at Dean, not backing down from his brother’s incredulous expression.
“And you?” Charlie persisted. She had Dean by the hand, squeezing him like it would get him to be honest.
Dean looked away from Sam slowly. He was feeling the effects of the champagne, Sam could tell. His green eyes were a little glassy, his cheeks flushed. Sam had no idea what his brother would say, and his chest tightened with a pang of anxiety. Was Dean happy? Sam didn’t know.
Dean let out a breath and pulled Charlie in for a hug. “Yeah, me too,” he said, and his voice was gruff. He glanced at Sam as he held Charlie, and Sam believed him.
In October, Sam nearly died. At least that’s how he remembered it. One morning, he woke up and turned green halfway through breakfast (which was a shame because Dean had made French toast), and that was the last thing he kept down for three days straight.
At first, Dean bitched at him for making a mess, and wasting perfectly good French toast.
By evening, Dean had gone to the store and come back with Gatorade and Pedialyte. Sam was too out of it to complain that he was being treated like a baby.
“Drink it, c’mon, Sam,” Dean urged every other minute or so. “You’re dehydrated; that’s why you’re shaking so bad.”
Dean stripped him when he didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and ran warm water to wash him off, and helped him put on fresh shorts and a tee shirt. A few hours later, he did it all again. And again. By the second day, Dean was more carrying him to the bathroom than helping.
“Damn it, Sam, we didn’t stop the trials only to have you die of some goddamn norovirus,” Dean said that night, and Sam could hear the worry underneath the complaint.
He wanted to say death would be a relief, but he was fairly certain that wouldn’t go over well with Dean.
Sam slept fitfully that night, his stomach finally too empty to necessitate getting out of bed but feeling too sick to sleep. He woke once to Dean sitting on the side of the bed, one hand gently pushing the loose strands of hair out of Sam’s face and tucking them behind his ear.
“You’ll feel better soon,” Dean whispered, though he didn’t know Sam was awake. “Weathered a lot worse than this, little brother.”
Something about the way Dean said those words made Sam wonder if he was dreaming. Dean was never so tender, his hands never so caressing. Sam kept his eyes shut and didn’t move. He fell back to sleep with Dean’s fingers still stroking the side of his face, just a ghost of touch, but it warmed Sam where he’d been shivering with fever.
“Sleep now, Sammy,” Dean said softly, “I’m right here.”
The next day, Sam woke up and felt a little more human. Dean was asleep in a chair beside his bed, slumped over to one side and looking like shit. There were bottles and washcloths and towels and a box of crackers, and a mostly untouched bowl of chicken-noodle soup, on the nightstand.
“Dean,” Sam croaked, his voice barely working.
Dean startled awake instantly.
“What is it? You okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam rasped, “Thirsty.”
Dean fumbled for the Pedialyte and held it up to Sam’s mouth. He had a straw in the bottle to make it easier to drink lying down. Sam took a few sips. His throat burned, and his chest ached from retching.
“You feelin’ better?”
Sam nodded, though better was a relative term. Dean let out a breath, relieved.
“Jesus, Sammy, don’t do that to me again,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his 3-day stubble.
“Sorry,” Sam mouthed. He wanted to say, I was the one dying, but he knew from firsthand experience that there were worse things, and watching your brother die was one of them.
Part Two
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Date: 2013-10-23 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 01:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-25 02:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-23 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 12:48 pm (UTC)I wanted to read the second part before commenting but since the only comment left by an anon on this part is kind of rude IMO I wanted to couterbalance it with a real comment: LOVE the story so far, sweet and a little bitter too just right, and it flows so easily. I really like the way you work with Sam's POV, the way you describe the boys so in character in case they would eventually "retire" from hunting. Can't wait to read the next part. The art is gorgeous too, I'll go comment there.
Thank you so much for sharing this.
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Date: 2013-10-29 03:58 pm (UTC)And omg, I am so lucky to work with this amazing artist!!
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Date: 2013-11-08 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-08 03:36 pm (UTC)*smishes*
Love It!
Date: 2013-11-11 03:31 pm (UTC)I've been working my way through your SPN fics and love them all so much. You are a skillful writer with an excellent grasp of voice and plot so your works are simply a pleasure to read. You have no idea how exciting it is to come across a NEW the-boys-get-together story that is so well told while so many of our little fandom's writers have wondered away from these two guys. Keep it up!
-J
Re: Love It!
Date: 2013-11-11 11:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-06 01:45 pm (UTC)Thank you ;)
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Date: 2014-01-07 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-28 06:43 pm (UTC)This is truly awesome -- looking forward to part 2!
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Date: 2014-10-29 02:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-02-19 11:00 pm (UTC)I love that little road trip they took where they got to share a motel room, see each other wander out of the shower, hear each other breathe. I love the bunker but not only is there nostalgia to a motel room but there is also a feeling of living in each other’s pockets that sometimes gets lost in the bunker. That is, if they don’t get with the program and move into the same room. But I’m sure they will get there eventually 😁🤗
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Date: 2022-02-26 05:20 am (UTC)