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runedgirlTitle: Five Times the Winchesters Pretended They Didn’t, and One Time That Didn’t Work (Part One)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:risowator
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 11,500
Warnings: Written long before S10 aired, but oddly canon reflective in spots
Summary: The unconventional love story of Sam and Dean Winchester across four decades, from that fateful day at the beach to two weathered rocking chairs on the porch.
“This is the last time we’re going to pretend that nothing happened, Dean.”
Sam tries to say it like he means it.
Dean turned forty-eight yesterday. That’s the reason there are a dozen people in their living room right now.
The reason they have a living room is a bit more complicated, involving Dean and a broken leg thanks to a bad fall in an open grave while being chased by the ghost whose bones they were supposed to salt and burn. Sam decided they needed a rest (despite Dean’s profanity-laced protests) and so here they are, in a rented house in the suburbs. That was four months ago.
Dean doesn’t like to acknowledge the fact that he’s 48, especially when there’s a pretty young woman among the small group of people in their living room. Carly, the oldest daughter of Margie and Ed, who live three doors down, graduated from college a few weeks ago. She made it through only one semester late but it was a close thing; it’s part of the reason there’s a sheet cake on their coffee table, half of it decorated with some sort of pink and purple floral design and half of it with a distinctly manly blue and green border and a giant CONGRATULATIONS in the middle. Sam had ordered it from the bakery in town in advance, counting on the fact that Dean couldn’t insist he take it back if it was half Carly’s celebration. Sam even wisely refrained from adding a ‘happy birthday Dean’ to the bluer half. Congratulations was more fitting anyway. Who ever thought either of them would live to see almost half a century?
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean hisses back, darting a glance at the neighbors in the living room.
Carly and her mom look back, smiling. Carly’s little brother Joe has blue lips from choosing the slice of cake with the most icing.
“They all think we’re fucking anyway,” Sam points out, and Dean flinches.
“Sam!”
Sam really shouldn’t find his brother’s incensed expression so endearing.
“What?” he asks, giving Dean his best wide-eyed innocent puppy eyes.
Amazingly, it still works after almost four-and-a-half decades.
“Just… can we talk about this later?” Dean tries, with a pleading look of his own.
Dean’s eyes are as green as ever, and he still has freckles. If there’s a bit of grey at his temples, it’s barely noticeable. Sam thinks he might like it anyway, though.
“Fine, but later isn’t ten years from now. I mean it, Dean.”
Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t make a joke or walk away. His expression is serious, and Sam can see both fear and hope warring there.
“I know,” he says finally, and then retreats to the living room, where their neighbors will distract him.
Sam pours a few more glasses of iced tea from the big pitcher they always keep in the fridge. His stomach flips nervously as he replays Dean’s words. This has been a long time coming.
The first time—what Sam remembers as the first time—wasn’t really a time at all. It was late August and they were staying in what passed for a motel at a beach resort on the Maryland shore that drew flocks of tourists from all along the East coast. It was a six-block walk to the beach from the SeaWitch (Sam thought Dad picked it as much because the name amused him as for the motel’s rock-bottom pricing), which meant nobody wanted to stay there when they could have a place in the thinnest part of the island and have the beach at their feet. The couple in the room three doors down complained loudly about the walk every day, as though six blocks was six miles and it was an affront to vacation protocol not to have the sand at their doorstep. Sam kind of liked the place. It was rare for them to stay on the grid long enough to be at an actual vacation destination, even in a run-down motel.
The week only got better when Dad announced that he’d be gone for a few days and didn’t need their help—the element of surprise was apparently more important than having his sons’ backup. Dean protested while Sam nodded politely and hoped Dad wouldn’t capitulate.
“Just don’t go anywhere,” Dad said as he shouldered his duffel. “Go sit on the damn beach or something; the sun will do you good.”
Dean scoffed, unconsciously rubbing a hand over his too-pale face, freckles faded almost to nothing. As the door closed, Dean grumbled about Dad being a stubborn bastard who took too many chances, but Sam could barely pay attention. The euphoria of being ordered to go to the beach overwhelmed any instinct to worry. This was Dad, after all. Sam had trained himself not to worry a long time ago; otherwise, he would have lost his mind by the time he was ten.
They didn’t have bathing trunks, so Sam cut off a pair of his most-worn jeans to make shorts, giddy with anticipation.
“What the hell, Sam? You can’t just cut up your clothes!”
Dean was still scowling, oblivious to their sudden good fortune.
“They’re actually yours,” Sam reminded him, smiling. “And they were so worn they were about to disintegrate anyway. Besides, I can’t swim in jeans.”
Dean looked up like the idea of swimming hadn’t even occurred to him.
“C’mon,” Sam urged. Even Dean’s foul mood couldn’t ruin this day for him. “Find your oldest pair and I’ll cut them off for you. I wanna hit the beach, Dean.”
Sam softened his expression, trying his best to look irresistibly hopeful, and damned if Dean didn’t sigh and give in. He fished through his duffel and pulled out a pair of jeans that looked like he’d been wearing them since middle school, handing them to Sam reluctantly.
Sam sliced the worn-soft denim with his favorite knife and the material parted like butter, like the jeans were ecstatic to be offered a new lease on life.
Dean shucked off the jeans he was wearing and reluctantly pulled the cutoffs on.
“Jesus, Sam, did you have to cut them so short?” he complained, trying to tug them down on his hips. He pulled his overshirt over his head and off, and pulled his tee shirt down to meet the waistband of the shorts, squirming uncomfortably.
That was the first time.
Maybe Sam had never seen Dean in shorts before; if he had, he couldn’t recall. It was different, somehow, than seeing Dean in his underwear or completely naked. It didn’t make sense, not really, that Dean in shorts should strike Sam as hot when Dean naked never had, but that’s what happened. It happened out of the blue, like Sam was suddenly seeing his brother through someone else’s eyes; someone who could appreciate the curve of Dean’s ass in butter-soft denim or the pale skin of his muscled thighs. Dean had always been everything to Sam, synonymous with the word 'love' going back to Sam's earliest memories. He already loved Dean more than he probably should; often more than he wanted to. But this. This was something different.
“Sam?”
Sam blinked back to reality, flustered by the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken.
“Huh?”
Dean rolled his eyes and stomped around the room looking for the key, and Sam hoped he didn’t see the blush that crept up Sam’s chest and neck and reddened his cheeks. Before Dean could turn around, Sam pulled off his own jeans and yanked up his shorts, aware of the fullness as he tucked himself in.
“Come on,” Dean grumbled. “Let’s go if we’re goin’.”
On their way, they helped themselves to two rickety beach chairs that were stacked up against the dumpster outside a neighboring motel. Once they reached the beach, Dean easily fixed the broken catch on one and gave it to Sam, and then settled himself in the other. It listed unhappily to one side, but Dean just dug a hole in the sand and put the higher side in it so the whole thing evened out. Sam smiled to himself. He was still young enough then to believe that his big brother could do almost anything.
It was weird to sit on a beach and do nothing; they had been taught that action was always necessary, and leisure was the enemy of the mission. Sam reminded himself that this was what Dad had told them to do, and tried to give himself over to it. He could tell Dean was struggling, too, wriggling in his beach chair. Dean dug his toes into the sand and then pulled them out restlessly, small explosions of sand scattering every time.
“We should be doing something,” Dean muttered after a while. Sam had been waiting for it.
“Dad told us to sit on the beach,” Sam reminded him. “It was an order.”
Dean glared at him sideways. “It wasn’t an order.”
Sam could tell by the tentative note to Dean’s voice that he’d won the argument already, so he didn’t try very hard with his comeback. “Yeah, he did. So sit there and soak up some sun.”
Amazingly, Dean did.
Even now, Sam can recall exactly what the beach looked like that day. The water was rough from a storm moving up the coast two days before, the waves high enough to knock over the swimmers trying to boogie board. Again and again, one of them would lose their grip and a board would catapult toward shore, washing up on the sand only to be sucked back in, grabbed by the current, and taken down the beach pursued by its owner.
Sandpipers raced along the water’s edge, pecking furiously at the bubbles left in the wake of the receding wave, feasting on the tiny crabs and insects collected in the line of frothy white. Every now and then a seagull would land on the sand, stalking around like it owned the beach, scavenging for something to eat. One family was foolish enough to toss some bread crusts into the air, and within seconds there were fifty seagulls instead of one, all of them dive-bombing the now-terrified family and loudly demanding more.
The sun was hot and both of them took off their T-shirts. Dean leaned back in his jerry-rigged beach chair and closed his eyes. Sam kept his open, watching his brother. He knew the moment Dean fell asleep, by the familiar cadence of his breathing and the way his lips parted; the way his fingers relaxed on the arms of the chair and his legs fell open. There was sand caught in the fine hairs on his calves and thighs, sun glittering on the blond, and sweat gathered in the slight indents at his hips and the thin trail of hair at his navel. The heat paradoxically pebbled his nipples, and he shifted slightly, digging his toes into the cool sand before he relaxed again.
Sam watched for a long time. The rhythm of the ocean lulled him into something close to sleep himself, the waves breaking with a primal sound that made it feel like everything was the way it should be for once in their lives. The splash of little kids playing in the surf and the calls of the seagulls seemed far away, like it was only Sam and Dean, like nobody else could see them.
Dean dreamt; Sam could see the darting of his eyes under his lashes and the twitch of his fingers. The muscles in his flat stomach bunched and he shifted again, and when Sam let himself look down, Dean’s cock was full, pressed against his thin shorts.
Sam can recall that image like it was yesterday. Dean splayed out like that in the sun, obscene, unaware that Sam was looking.
After a while, Sam became aware that he wasn’t the only one. Three teenage girls giggled as they walked along the ocean’s edge, nodding at Dean and covering their mouths, their faces pink from the sun. Dean made a pretty picture.
Sam should wake him, he knew. Still, he waited, unwilling to relinquish the quiet moment, or to stop staring at the way Dean was tenting his shorts.
He finally looked back at the ocean when Dean’s breathing changed and he stirred. The sun shimmered on the tops of the waves, glimmering ripples in constant motion. It was beautiful. But not quite so beautiful as Sam’s brother.
“’m goin’ swimming,” Dean announced, in what Sam knew was an attempt to hide his untimely erection.
Sam followed him into the surf, the chill of the water a shock against his heated skin. It soon evened out to a welcome coolness, and Sam dove into the waves, letting the water slick back his hair. Ahead of him, Dean had stretched his body out parallel to the waves and was swimming in long strokes, efficient and graceful.
Dean had taught Sam to swim the summer when Sam was eight, in the three days they’d spent at a lake near Pastor Jim’s place. Where Dean had learned, Sam didn’t know. Sam watched him now, how he paced himself and stayed just beyond where the waves were breaking. When Dean turned and swam back, Sam joined him. They swam like that, side by side, the salt water buoying them, and Sam tried to match his brother stroke for stroke, letting the vigorous exercise clear his mind and calm his body.
By the time they gave in to exhaustion and headed for shore, Sam had almost forgotten how hot Dean had looked lying there in the sun.
When they got back to the motel, Dean was already red as a lobster and nearly as cranky. Sam took pity on him and stole a tube of aloe from the convenience store across the street, and Dean complained for the next 24 hours and swore he’d never set foot on a beach again.
Dean spent the next day lying on the lumpy motel mattress and watching cheesy soap operas and cartoons to distract himself from the pain. Sam rolled his eyes and went to the beach alone, which made complaining useless. When it was nearly 7 p.m. and Sam wasn’t back, Dean put his clothes on and made his way across the island to the beach.
Sam was nowhere to be seen, but the sun was starting to sink low on the horizon, a brilliant crimson-and-orange ball over the ocean. There was a rock jetty a few hundred yards south of where the lifeguard stand was, and Dean walked out to get a better view and get away from the last few swimmers and sunbathers still soaking up the last of the daylight. One minute he was marveling at the speed with which the sky was darkening, and the next his foot slipped between two damp rocks and the ocean was rushing up to meet him. The cold water was a shock, and at first he was just annoyed that his clothes were wet; then the pain hit. The kind of pain that steals your breath and radiates right up your spine, and Dean thought, Shit, my leg.
He’d caught it between two rocks and it had been stuck there as he fell, wrenching his body to the side and bending the muscle and bone in ways they were never meant to go.
Every wave that hit him as he paddled back toward the beach shifted his leg and made his vision swim with pain. It was almost worse when the water was finally shallow enough to crawl, and Dean wondered what he looked like, in soaked clothes on hands and knees, biting his lip to keep from crying out.
Sam—who had some kind of sixth sense for when Dean was in trouble, same as Dean had for him—appeared just as Dean reached the sand and tried to get to his feet.
“Dean, what the hell? What happened?”
Dean would have loved to shrug off Sam’s big hands pulling him in, but he was too busy being grateful Sam was there so he wouldn’t have to crawl all the way back to the motel.
“Fell, shit,” he said and then hissed in pain when he tried to put weight on his right leg.
“Your leg?”
Sam was already patting him down, and Dean sank back to his knees and then fell to his side when that hurt too much.
“Hang on, hang on,” Sam was saying, his hands pushing up Dean’s wet jeans and patting over the skin, searching for something out of place.
“Fuck, hurts,” Dean hissed, but he let Sam assess. They were used to this.
“Don’t think your ankle’s broken,” Sam said finally, “but it’s a bad sprain. Come on; lean on me. Let’s get back to the motel.”
By the time they got there, Dean had changed his mind about the importance of one’s motel being close to the beach.
Sam helped him out of his wet clothes and threw a towel over him, laying Dean out so he could check his injuries more thoroughly, and Dean tried to be still, letting the pain die down.
“Contusions on your calf, abrasions probably from scraping against the rock, one gash that might need a few stitches. And a bad sprain, or possibly a break. Not a compound fracture, though, so that’s good. Damn it, Dean, what were you doing out there?”
Dean didn’t want to say appreciating the sunset, so he said nothing, pretending that the pain was too much to talk through. Sam probably didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press the issue.
Sam was a sneaky bastard. He called Dad while Dean was awkwardly trying to shower the sea water and sand off.
Sam didn’t bother knocking.
“Dad says you’re not supposed to move. Like, at all.”
Dean was balancing on one leg, trying to pretend that the other one wasn’t throbbing like a sonofabitch. He had shampoo dripping into his eyes.
“That’s ridiculous,” Dean said, and almost fell on his ass.
“Okay, that’s it,” Sam announced, and started taking off his clothes.
“Oh, c’mon, Sam, there’s no room in here for both of us.”
Dean blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging. He had one hand still braced against the wall to make sure he stayed vertical.
Sam shook his head and climbed right in.
“Hold on to the wall so you don’t fall and hurt yourself even more,” Sam ordered, and damned if he didn’t sound just like Dad. Dean was so surprised that he obeyed.
Sam washed the shampoo out of his hair with surprising tenderness, and that was when Dean started to feel weird. Sam’s fingers massaging his scalp felt good, and Dean wondered when Sam’s hands had gotten so big, so competent. He wanted to say Stop, that’s enough, but it seemed stupid to complain about something that felt so good. He wasn’t used to it, that’s all. It was him taking care of Sammy, always had been, and this… this was backwards.
Sam crouched down in the tub to wash the sand out of the scrapes and cuts on Dean’s calf, which put Sam’s head in way too close proximity to Dean’s junk, and that was weird, too. Who cared where Sam’s head was? It was Sam. They’d been closer than this half their lives, physically and mentally. What did it matter?
Sam’s wet hair brushed against Dean’s hip, and Dean flinched so hard he almost lost his balance.
“Sorry,” Sam said, probably thinking it was his manipulation of Dean’s calf that had almost toppled him.
Sam’s fingers brushed over the wet skin of his leg; felt over the place where his ankle was swollen up like a friggin’ baseball already.
“Shit,” Sam said, and looked up at Dean through his bangs. And that was it, right there. The way Sam was looking at him, like he was the most important thing in the world, like worrying about Dean’s stupid ankle was all Sam could think about.
“Does it hurt a lot?” Sam asked, so much concern on his face, and Dean shook his head, afraid his voice wouldn’t work with Sam looking at him like that.
The feeling stayed with him for the three days he lay in that lumpy motel bed and tried not to think about the gentleness of Sam’s touch; the movement of Sam’s fingers through his hair and against his skin. Dean tried to remember when he’d been touched like that, with concern and love. He thought maybe his mom had washed his hair the same way, and looked at him the same, too, like he hung the moon; like he was hers.
That Sam would look at him that way, touch him that way, was something he’d never dreamt, never wished for. Now the sense memory came whenever he closed his eyes, and half of him wished he could stay there forever, in a dingy motel room with a crappy air conditioner and his brother’s eyes and hands on him. He tried not to think about how warm the memory made him, how the burst of love he felt for Sam felt too big for his chest, threatening to break him apart from the inside out. He'd always loved Sam too much. But this. This was different.
Sam insisted that he stay in bed for three days, and Sam stayed there in the room with him the whole time. Dean expected his brother to bitch eventually, or to complain that Dean had ruined his one chance to get an actual tan at an actual beach.
“Don’t you want to go out? Hit the beach or go to the boardwalk or something?”
Sam was fiddling with the television, trying to improve the reception. He hadn’t quibbled once about Dean’s constant channel changing, although Dean knew that tended to drive his little brother crazy.
“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t want two of us being sunburned.”
“Very funny. The sunburn’s gone.”
Arguing with Sam felt like a safer option than this… whatever this was. Sam’s concern. It chafed on Dean, felt wrong in his bones.
Sam turned to look at him, and instead of a bitchface or a quip, he smiled softly. “I’m glad. Bad enough you have one injury; you don’t need two.”
Dean just blinked at him.
“I am gonna go out and get us some dinner, though. What do you want? Burgers? Pizza, maybe?”
Dean thought about the money they had left. It had been weeks since he’d hustled pool, and Dad hadn’t even left them enough to get through 24 hours.
Sam rolled his eyes. “I’ve got money,” he said.
There had been plenty of times when Dean had done things he didn’t really want to in order to keep them in cash. The thought of Sam doing any of them turned his stomach. Thankfully, Sam volunteered the answer to the question Dean didn’t want to ask.
“Set up those giant beach umbrellas for like a hundred people this morning while you were still out. Got some pretty good tips.”
“I bet you did.”
Sam raised an eyebrow.
Dean wasn’t sure what he’d meant, so he backtracked. “Pizza. I’m in the mood for pizza.”
Sam came back with Dean’s favorite, the meat lover’s, pepperoni and sausage and ground beef so thick that there was little tomato sauce or cheese showing through. There were those cheesy breadsticks that Dean loved, a six-pack of beer, and some powdered doughnuts.
“You stole a six-pack?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m a Winchester, too, you know.”
Dean stared. He felt off his game, like someone had changed the rules without telling him. Sam was a Winchester; of course he knew that. The thing is, Dean didn’t think of Sam like that. He was different. Special. Sam was the one who was going to do something with his life, use that big brain to be something. Dean wasn’t sure what, because he never let himself think about the fact that doing something might mean not doing it with Dean, but nevertheless he’d never wavered in his belief in his brother. Now Sam was stealing beer for him and bringing him his favorite food and refusing to bitch about anything at all. It was unnerving.
“C’mon, put your foot up; you have to keep it elevated.”
Sam rearranged the pillows under Dean’s foot and positioned his swollen ankle. It hurt a little, but Dean was too distracted by the touch of Sam’s hands to care.
“I’m gonna check your ankle and then re-wrap it,” Sam announced, and Dean just let him. A part of him kept wanting to protest, because he knew that was what Sam expected, but a bigger part of him never wanted this to end. Never wanted Sam to stop looking at him with so much love and concern, never wanted Sam’s hands to stop patting him, taking care of him.
Dean’s eyes watered unexpectedly as Sam pulled the gauze free and his long fingers felt carefully over the swelling.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam asked, and the gentleness in his voice and his fingers made Dean’s eyes sting even more.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Just… keep getting cramps in my leg, that’s all.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, and gentled his touch even more, until his fingers were barely brushing Dean’s skin and there were suddenly goosebumps there, and all over the rest of him too.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Sam said softly, his fingertips trailing higher now, up to Dean’s knee and along the front of his thigh where the skin was bare, and Dean was acutely aware that he was in his underwear and his brother’s hands were on him. “Let me try to get some of the kinks out.”
Sam’s fingers squeezed around his thigh, and every muscle in Dean’s body seemed to lock up at the sensation.
“Relax,” Sam said, and Dean closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the way Sam’s bangs hung over his face; the way he always stuck out his tongue a little when he was concentrating on something. Dean didn’t know how to be the object of all that caring, all that determination. He wished his leg would cramp so he’d have something else to feel besides his brother’s hands on him. Dean didn’t dare look down at himself, afraid the swell of his dick was obvious just above where Sam’s hands were.
“Better?” Sam asked, his fingers still working on Dean’s leg, inching up until Dean was sure Sam would see the impact this was having on him way too clearly, before slowly traveling back down.
“Yeah,” he said, and it came out a gruff whisper. He wanted Sam to stop; he didn’t want Sam to stop, ever.
Sam squeezed his leg and looked up, and Dean could see the way Sam’s hazel eyes darkened; the way he bit his lip as they looked at each other.
“Dean,” Sam whispered back, and neither of them moved.
“Sammy,” Dean answered, and he tried to look away, but the thought of giving up the sight of Sam looking at him with so much love was unbearable.
It was Sam who finally turned away, and Dean thought he saw a flash of sadness before Sam smiled and went back to wrapping his ankle.
In the morning, Dad was back, and Dean continued his recuperation stretched out on the backseat of the Impala, Sam glancing anxiously at him in the rearview every now and then. Every look brought back the goosebumps.
The first time really was when Sam was already at Stanford. His occasional bouts of lust for his brother hadn’t been any part of the reason Sam left. Not really. He loved Dean, more than he loved anyone or anything in this world. Sometimes he couldn’t even see anyone else; Dean was too close, took up too much room in Sam’s head and his heart. Sam needed space, which was exactly what the guidance counselors who gave talks about the “transition to college” kept saying was normal. Sam had never been normal, so it was a relief to know that now he shared something with other eighteen-year-olds. They needed space; so did he.
Dean didn’t get it, but Sam didn’t expect him to. Dean had never needed or wanted space when it came to his family. Sometimes Sam thought his brother would have been happy if they were joined at the hip literally; he’d had a dream about that once, but it turned into one of those dreams, the ones that always featured seagulls and cut-off jeans.
Dean surprised him with an envelope full of cash on the day he left, and a bone-crushing hug that left Sam breathless in more ways than one.
“Always knew you’d do something special,” Dean said as he patted Sam’s back and then pushed him away.
Sam was so surprised that he didn’t answer.
Sam also didn’t really expect Dean to stay away. California wasn’t that far, and Sam had no doubt that if Dean thought Sam wanted him to come, his brother would have found a way across an ocean if he had to.
Surprisingly, Dean gave him space. The first semester went by without a call, though there were plenty of nights when Sam wished for one. Finally, on Dean’s birthday, Sam called him.
“You okay?”
Of course that’s how Dean would answer his phone, after nearly five months of no contact.
“Yeah, Dean, I’m fine. I just called to say happy birthday.”
There was a pause, and Sam hated that he couldn’t see his brother’s face; didn’t know what he was thinking.
“Thanks,” Dean said.
“You’re welcome.”
A burst of homesickness hit Sam out of the blue. It felt like an elephant had landed on his chest, and he drew in a breath, trying to dislodge it.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dean prompted, sounding uncertain.
“Yeah, fine, I just… you know, if you wanted to come and visit sometime…”
He hadn’t planned on saying it, but hearing Dean’s voice without being able to see him… it was harder than Sam had anticipated.
Dean didn’t answer for a minute, and Sam lost his breath again. Finally, Dean made a noncommittal sound.
“I didn’t think you… I guess I could, if I’m in the area. Between jobs, maybe. If you want.”
Sam smiled, and wished Dean could see it.
“I do, yeah. That’d be great. If you can. Whenever.”
“Okay,” Dean agreed, but the conversation stayed awkward. “Well, you probably have class, so you should go.”
It was 9 p.m. in California.
“Sure, yeah. Happy birthday, Dean.”
Sam tried to tell himself that Dean might not come. That Dad might make it hard for him—If you go, stay gone—and Dean wouldn’t go against Dad, maybe not even for Sam.
The knock on his door three days later was unexpected.
“Dean!”
Sam pulled him inside before wrapping his arms around his brother, and Dean spluttered and patted his back before giving in and getting both arms around Sam too, muttering “Sammy” against Sam’s neck. They clung to each other far too long, and Sam couldn’t stop smiling but there were tears stinging his eyes, too. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Dean until his brother was there, everything about him familiar.
“Lemme go,” Dean complained eventually. Sam didn’t want to, but he forced his hands to unclench from Dean’s jacket and let him step back.
“Missed you,” Sam blurted.
Dean ducked his head and looked at Sam sideways, then shrugged. “Girl,” he said, but Sam knew it meant Me, too.
They went to the Old Pro and drank too much, and Dean insisted on riding the mechanical bull, much to the delight of every woman in the place and probably half the men. Dean took off his overshirts before he climbed on, and Sam watched the way the muscles in his arms bunched as he held on, the way his strong thighs curved around the plastic bull’s ribcage and kept him seated as the machine spun him around and around. He whooped and hollered like an idiot as he rode, and when the bull finally ground to a stop, a cheer went up from the audience.
Dean’s cheeks were red from exertion and exhilaration, and he made a show of bowing and tipping an invisible cowboy hat before rejoining Sam.
My brother, Sam thought, and if he’d known he missed Dean before, he was overwhelmed with it now.
Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, and Sam felt jealous eyes on him and liked it.
It was late when they stumbled up the stairs to Sam’s room, trying to stifle their laughter.
“Shhh, I’ve got a roommate,” Sam stage-whispered, and Dean elbowed him, making them both bump into the wall.
“Dean!” Sam said, but he was laughing too hard to make it sound threatening.
Brady was passed out on his bed, snoring and smelling like alcohol.
“Guess we don’t have to worry about waking up your roommate,” Dean snickered. For some reason, Dean didn’t like Brady—even though they’d never met.
Dean took off his jacket and boots and stepped out of his jeans, pulling a blanket off Sam’s bed to lay on the floor.
“Don’t be stupid,” Sam said before he really thought it through. “You can sleep with me; not like we haven’t shared a single a million times before.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow skeptically, his eyes traveling from Sam’s feet all the way up to the top of his head. The gaze made Sam flush warm all over.
“I dunno, Sammy, you’re kinda huge. I swear you’ve grown another two inches since I last saw you.”
Sam was busy pulling off his own shoes and shirts.
“You’re just jealous that I’m not the little brother anymore,” he said, kicking out of his jeans and flopping onto the bed.
“Oh no,” Dean answered, and he was on the bed before he finished his sentence. “Dream on, Sammy. You’ll always be the little brother.”
And then Dean was tickling him, the bastard, fingers finding the vulnerable places that Dean had exploited their entire lives, until Sam was a gasping, giggling mess, kicking out blindly to stop the torture. Three wild kicks later, he slipped off the side of the bed and landed on the floor with a thud.
“See?” Dean grinned, leaning over the side of the bed. His white teeth flashed in the dim light, and his eyes were bright, manic. “I always win. ‘Cause I’m the big brother.”
Sam huffed and crawled back onto the bed. Brady snored on.
“Shut up and be quiet,” Sam scolded, but instead Dean reached out to torment him again. Sam was ready for it this time, though, and he managed to grab Dean by both wrists. He used his weight to press Dean’s fists to his own chest and roll him to his back, Sam leaning over him.
Dean struggled for a few seconds, bucking and twisting beneath Sam, and then froze. He looked up at Sam, and the expression on his face was one of shocked surprise, eyes wide and mouth open, and Sam thought, You’re beautiful.
There was no thought to what he did next, just an easy dip a little lower and his mouth was on Dean’s. Dean’s lips stayed soft and open for a few madly pounding beats of Sam’s heart, and then he groaned and surged up, his tongue pushing into Sam’s mouth and his hips pushing up off the bed desperately. They grappled, familiar with each other’s bodies, years of knowing each other intimately and sparring together suddenly translated into something different, yet not. Dean got his hands tangled in Sam’s hair, and Sam got his hands between them and groped for their dicks, pushing their shorts down low enough to wrap his fingers around them both and stroking clumsily while they kept kissing, swallowing each other’s desperate moans. Sam came first, and Dean wrapped his legs around Sam’s hips and bucked against him and followed, until there was a mess between their stomachs and they were both breathless.
“Shit,” Dean said when they finally pulled apart, and Sam rolled to the side and wondered if Dean would ever visit him again.
“Don’t freak out,” he whispered, and Dean turned to look at him. His lips were plump and wet, and Sam wanted to kiss him again.
“Really? You’re not freaking out?”
Sam shook his head. “Old news,” he sighed, and reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand. He handed Dean a clump and tried to wipe himself off with another handful.
“Old news,” Dean repeated, and Sam watched as he shoved his underwear down and cleaned himself off.
Sam shrugged. “Can’t help what I feel.”
Dean tossed the balled-up tissues across the room, where they hit the edge of the trash can and bounced off. He reached over and pressed a finger to the bow of Sam’s lip, traced the curve that was still wet from their kissing.
“No, you can’t,” he agreed, and then leaned over and kissed Sam again. Gently this time, on the forehead. “Neither of us can.”
Sam slept curled around his brother, without any nightmares. In the morning, Dean was gone.
Part Two
Author:
runedgirlArtist:
risowatorPairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 11,500
Warnings: Written long before S10 aired, but oddly canon reflective in spots
Summary: The unconventional love story of Sam and Dean Winchester across four decades, from that fateful day at the beach to two weathered rocking chairs on the porch.
“This is the last time we’re going to pretend that nothing happened, Dean.”
Sam tries to say it like he means it.
Dean turned forty-eight yesterday. That’s the reason there are a dozen people in their living room right now.
The reason they have a living room is a bit more complicated, involving Dean and a broken leg thanks to a bad fall in an open grave while being chased by the ghost whose bones they were supposed to salt and burn. Sam decided they needed a rest (despite Dean’s profanity-laced protests) and so here they are, in a rented house in the suburbs. That was four months ago.
Dean doesn’t like to acknowledge the fact that he’s 48, especially when there’s a pretty young woman among the small group of people in their living room. Carly, the oldest daughter of Margie and Ed, who live three doors down, graduated from college a few weeks ago. She made it through only one semester late but it was a close thing; it’s part of the reason there’s a sheet cake on their coffee table, half of it decorated with some sort of pink and purple floral design and half of it with a distinctly manly blue and green border and a giant CONGRATULATIONS in the middle. Sam had ordered it from the bakery in town in advance, counting on the fact that Dean couldn’t insist he take it back if it was half Carly’s celebration. Sam even wisely refrained from adding a ‘happy birthday Dean’ to the bluer half. Congratulations was more fitting anyway. Who ever thought either of them would live to see almost half a century?
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean hisses back, darting a glance at the neighbors in the living room.
Carly and her mom look back, smiling. Carly’s little brother Joe has blue lips from choosing the slice of cake with the most icing.
“They all think we’re fucking anyway,” Sam points out, and Dean flinches.
“Sam!”
Sam really shouldn’t find his brother’s incensed expression so endearing.
“What?” he asks, giving Dean his best wide-eyed innocent puppy eyes.
Amazingly, it still works after almost four-and-a-half decades.
“Just… can we talk about this later?” Dean tries, with a pleading look of his own.
Dean’s eyes are as green as ever, and he still has freckles. If there’s a bit of grey at his temples, it’s barely noticeable. Sam thinks he might like it anyway, though.
“Fine, but later isn’t ten years from now. I mean it, Dean.”
Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t make a joke or walk away. His expression is serious, and Sam can see both fear and hope warring there.
“I know,” he says finally, and then retreats to the living room, where their neighbors will distract him.
Sam pours a few more glasses of iced tea from the big pitcher they always keep in the fridge. His stomach flips nervously as he replays Dean’s words. This has been a long time coming.
The first time—what Sam remembers as the first time—wasn’t really a time at all. It was late August and they were staying in what passed for a motel at a beach resort on the Maryland shore that drew flocks of tourists from all along the East coast. It was a six-block walk to the beach from the SeaWitch (Sam thought Dad picked it as much because the name amused him as for the motel’s rock-bottom pricing), which meant nobody wanted to stay there when they could have a place in the thinnest part of the island and have the beach at their feet. The couple in the room three doors down complained loudly about the walk every day, as though six blocks was six miles and it was an affront to vacation protocol not to have the sand at their doorstep. Sam kind of liked the place. It was rare for them to stay on the grid long enough to be at an actual vacation destination, even in a run-down motel.
The week only got better when Dad announced that he’d be gone for a few days and didn’t need their help—the element of surprise was apparently more important than having his sons’ backup. Dean protested while Sam nodded politely and hoped Dad wouldn’t capitulate.
“Just don’t go anywhere,” Dad said as he shouldered his duffel. “Go sit on the damn beach or something; the sun will do you good.”
Dean scoffed, unconsciously rubbing a hand over his too-pale face, freckles faded almost to nothing. As the door closed, Dean grumbled about Dad being a stubborn bastard who took too many chances, but Sam could barely pay attention. The euphoria of being ordered to go to the beach overwhelmed any instinct to worry. This was Dad, after all. Sam had trained himself not to worry a long time ago; otherwise, he would have lost his mind by the time he was ten.
They didn’t have bathing trunks, so Sam cut off a pair of his most-worn jeans to make shorts, giddy with anticipation.
“What the hell, Sam? You can’t just cut up your clothes!”
Dean was still scowling, oblivious to their sudden good fortune.
“They’re actually yours,” Sam reminded him, smiling. “And they were so worn they were about to disintegrate anyway. Besides, I can’t swim in jeans.”
Dean looked up like the idea of swimming hadn’t even occurred to him.
“C’mon,” Sam urged. Even Dean’s foul mood couldn’t ruin this day for him. “Find your oldest pair and I’ll cut them off for you. I wanna hit the beach, Dean.”
Sam softened his expression, trying his best to look irresistibly hopeful, and damned if Dean didn’t sigh and give in. He fished through his duffel and pulled out a pair of jeans that looked like he’d been wearing them since middle school, handing them to Sam reluctantly.
Sam sliced the worn-soft denim with his favorite knife and the material parted like butter, like the jeans were ecstatic to be offered a new lease on life.
Dean shucked off the jeans he was wearing and reluctantly pulled the cutoffs on.
“Jesus, Sam, did you have to cut them so short?” he complained, trying to tug them down on his hips. He pulled his overshirt over his head and off, and pulled his tee shirt down to meet the waistband of the shorts, squirming uncomfortably.
That was the first time.
Maybe Sam had never seen Dean in shorts before; if he had, he couldn’t recall. It was different, somehow, than seeing Dean in his underwear or completely naked. It didn’t make sense, not really, that Dean in shorts should strike Sam as hot when Dean naked never had, but that’s what happened. It happened out of the blue, like Sam was suddenly seeing his brother through someone else’s eyes; someone who could appreciate the curve of Dean’s ass in butter-soft denim or the pale skin of his muscled thighs. Dean had always been everything to Sam, synonymous with the word 'love' going back to Sam's earliest memories. He already loved Dean more than he probably should; often more than he wanted to. But this. This was something different.
“Sam?”
Sam blinked back to reality, flustered by the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken.
“Huh?”
Dean rolled his eyes and stomped around the room looking for the key, and Sam hoped he didn’t see the blush that crept up Sam’s chest and neck and reddened his cheeks. Before Dean could turn around, Sam pulled off his own jeans and yanked up his shorts, aware of the fullness as he tucked himself in.
“Come on,” Dean grumbled. “Let’s go if we’re goin’.”
On their way, they helped themselves to two rickety beach chairs that were stacked up against the dumpster outside a neighboring motel. Once they reached the beach, Dean easily fixed the broken catch on one and gave it to Sam, and then settled himself in the other. It listed unhappily to one side, but Dean just dug a hole in the sand and put the higher side in it so the whole thing evened out. Sam smiled to himself. He was still young enough then to believe that his big brother could do almost anything.
It was weird to sit on a beach and do nothing; they had been taught that action was always necessary, and leisure was the enemy of the mission. Sam reminded himself that this was what Dad had told them to do, and tried to give himself over to it. He could tell Dean was struggling, too, wriggling in his beach chair. Dean dug his toes into the sand and then pulled them out restlessly, small explosions of sand scattering every time.
“We should be doing something,” Dean muttered after a while. Sam had been waiting for it.
“Dad told us to sit on the beach,” Sam reminded him. “It was an order.”
Dean glared at him sideways. “It wasn’t an order.”
Sam could tell by the tentative note to Dean’s voice that he’d won the argument already, so he didn’t try very hard with his comeback. “Yeah, he did. So sit there and soak up some sun.”
Amazingly, Dean did.
Even now, Sam can recall exactly what the beach looked like that day. The water was rough from a storm moving up the coast two days before, the waves high enough to knock over the swimmers trying to boogie board. Again and again, one of them would lose their grip and a board would catapult toward shore, washing up on the sand only to be sucked back in, grabbed by the current, and taken down the beach pursued by its owner.
Sandpipers raced along the water’s edge, pecking furiously at the bubbles left in the wake of the receding wave, feasting on the tiny crabs and insects collected in the line of frothy white. Every now and then a seagull would land on the sand, stalking around like it owned the beach, scavenging for something to eat. One family was foolish enough to toss some bread crusts into the air, and within seconds there were fifty seagulls instead of one, all of them dive-bombing the now-terrified family and loudly demanding more.
The sun was hot and both of them took off their T-shirts. Dean leaned back in his jerry-rigged beach chair and closed his eyes. Sam kept his open, watching his brother. He knew the moment Dean fell asleep, by the familiar cadence of his breathing and the way his lips parted; the way his fingers relaxed on the arms of the chair and his legs fell open. There was sand caught in the fine hairs on his calves and thighs, sun glittering on the blond, and sweat gathered in the slight indents at his hips and the thin trail of hair at his navel. The heat paradoxically pebbled his nipples, and he shifted slightly, digging his toes into the cool sand before he relaxed again.
Sam watched for a long time. The rhythm of the ocean lulled him into something close to sleep himself, the waves breaking with a primal sound that made it feel like everything was the way it should be for once in their lives. The splash of little kids playing in the surf and the calls of the seagulls seemed far away, like it was only Sam and Dean, like nobody else could see them.
Dean dreamt; Sam could see the darting of his eyes under his lashes and the twitch of his fingers. The muscles in his flat stomach bunched and he shifted again, and when Sam let himself look down, Dean’s cock was full, pressed against his thin shorts.
Sam can recall that image like it was yesterday. Dean splayed out like that in the sun, obscene, unaware that Sam was looking.
After a while, Sam became aware that he wasn’t the only one. Three teenage girls giggled as they walked along the ocean’s edge, nodding at Dean and covering their mouths, their faces pink from the sun. Dean made a pretty picture.
Sam should wake him, he knew. Still, he waited, unwilling to relinquish the quiet moment, or to stop staring at the way Dean was tenting his shorts.
He finally looked back at the ocean when Dean’s breathing changed and he stirred. The sun shimmered on the tops of the waves, glimmering ripples in constant motion. It was beautiful. But not quite so beautiful as Sam’s brother.
“’m goin’ swimming,” Dean announced, in what Sam knew was an attempt to hide his untimely erection.
Sam followed him into the surf, the chill of the water a shock against his heated skin. It soon evened out to a welcome coolness, and Sam dove into the waves, letting the water slick back his hair. Ahead of him, Dean had stretched his body out parallel to the waves and was swimming in long strokes, efficient and graceful.
Dean had taught Sam to swim the summer when Sam was eight, in the three days they’d spent at a lake near Pastor Jim’s place. Where Dean had learned, Sam didn’t know. Sam watched him now, how he paced himself and stayed just beyond where the waves were breaking. When Dean turned and swam back, Sam joined him. They swam like that, side by side, the salt water buoying them, and Sam tried to match his brother stroke for stroke, letting the vigorous exercise clear his mind and calm his body.
By the time they gave in to exhaustion and headed for shore, Sam had almost forgotten how hot Dean had looked lying there in the sun.
When they got back to the motel, Dean was already red as a lobster and nearly as cranky. Sam took pity on him and stole a tube of aloe from the convenience store across the street, and Dean complained for the next 24 hours and swore he’d never set foot on a beach again.
Dean spent the next day lying on the lumpy motel mattress and watching cheesy soap operas and cartoons to distract himself from the pain. Sam rolled his eyes and went to the beach alone, which made complaining useless. When it was nearly 7 p.m. and Sam wasn’t back, Dean put his clothes on and made his way across the island to the beach.
Sam was nowhere to be seen, but the sun was starting to sink low on the horizon, a brilliant crimson-and-orange ball over the ocean. There was a rock jetty a few hundred yards south of where the lifeguard stand was, and Dean walked out to get a better view and get away from the last few swimmers and sunbathers still soaking up the last of the daylight. One minute he was marveling at the speed with which the sky was darkening, and the next his foot slipped between two damp rocks and the ocean was rushing up to meet him. The cold water was a shock, and at first he was just annoyed that his clothes were wet; then the pain hit. The kind of pain that steals your breath and radiates right up your spine, and Dean thought, Shit, my leg.
He’d caught it between two rocks and it had been stuck there as he fell, wrenching his body to the side and bending the muscle and bone in ways they were never meant to go.
Every wave that hit him as he paddled back toward the beach shifted his leg and made his vision swim with pain. It was almost worse when the water was finally shallow enough to crawl, and Dean wondered what he looked like, in soaked clothes on hands and knees, biting his lip to keep from crying out.
Sam—who had some kind of sixth sense for when Dean was in trouble, same as Dean had for him—appeared just as Dean reached the sand and tried to get to his feet.
“Dean, what the hell? What happened?”
Dean would have loved to shrug off Sam’s big hands pulling him in, but he was too busy being grateful Sam was there so he wouldn’t have to crawl all the way back to the motel.
“Fell, shit,” he said and then hissed in pain when he tried to put weight on his right leg.
“Your leg?”
Sam was already patting him down, and Dean sank back to his knees and then fell to his side when that hurt too much.
“Hang on, hang on,” Sam was saying, his hands pushing up Dean’s wet jeans and patting over the skin, searching for something out of place.
“Fuck, hurts,” Dean hissed, but he let Sam assess. They were used to this.
“Don’t think your ankle’s broken,” Sam said finally, “but it’s a bad sprain. Come on; lean on me. Let’s get back to the motel.”
By the time they got there, Dean had changed his mind about the importance of one’s motel being close to the beach.
Sam helped him out of his wet clothes and threw a towel over him, laying Dean out so he could check his injuries more thoroughly, and Dean tried to be still, letting the pain die down.
“Contusions on your calf, abrasions probably from scraping against the rock, one gash that might need a few stitches. And a bad sprain, or possibly a break. Not a compound fracture, though, so that’s good. Damn it, Dean, what were you doing out there?”
Dean didn’t want to say appreciating the sunset, so he said nothing, pretending that the pain was too much to talk through. Sam probably didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press the issue.
Sam was a sneaky bastard. He called Dad while Dean was awkwardly trying to shower the sea water and sand off.
Sam didn’t bother knocking.
“Dad says you’re not supposed to move. Like, at all.”
Dean was balancing on one leg, trying to pretend that the other one wasn’t throbbing like a sonofabitch. He had shampoo dripping into his eyes.
“That’s ridiculous,” Dean said, and almost fell on his ass.
“Okay, that’s it,” Sam announced, and started taking off his clothes.
“Oh, c’mon, Sam, there’s no room in here for both of us.”
Dean blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging. He had one hand still braced against the wall to make sure he stayed vertical.
Sam shook his head and climbed right in.
“Hold on to the wall so you don’t fall and hurt yourself even more,” Sam ordered, and damned if he didn’t sound just like Dad. Dean was so surprised that he obeyed.
Sam washed the shampoo out of his hair with surprising tenderness, and that was when Dean started to feel weird. Sam’s fingers massaging his scalp felt good, and Dean wondered when Sam’s hands had gotten so big, so competent. He wanted to say Stop, that’s enough, but it seemed stupid to complain about something that felt so good. He wasn’t used to it, that’s all. It was him taking care of Sammy, always had been, and this… this was backwards.
Sam crouched down in the tub to wash the sand out of the scrapes and cuts on Dean’s calf, which put Sam’s head in way too close proximity to Dean’s junk, and that was weird, too. Who cared where Sam’s head was? It was Sam. They’d been closer than this half their lives, physically and mentally. What did it matter?
Sam’s wet hair brushed against Dean’s hip, and Dean flinched so hard he almost lost his balance.
“Sorry,” Sam said, probably thinking it was his manipulation of Dean’s calf that had almost toppled him.
Sam’s fingers brushed over the wet skin of his leg; felt over the place where his ankle was swollen up like a friggin’ baseball already.
“Shit,” Sam said, and looked up at Dean through his bangs. And that was it, right there. The way Sam was looking at him, like he was the most important thing in the world, like worrying about Dean’s stupid ankle was all Sam could think about.
“Does it hurt a lot?” Sam asked, so much concern on his face, and Dean shook his head, afraid his voice wouldn’t work with Sam looking at him like that.
The feeling stayed with him for the three days he lay in that lumpy motel bed and tried not to think about the gentleness of Sam’s touch; the movement of Sam’s fingers through his hair and against his skin. Dean tried to remember when he’d been touched like that, with concern and love. He thought maybe his mom had washed his hair the same way, and looked at him the same, too, like he hung the moon; like he was hers.
That Sam would look at him that way, touch him that way, was something he’d never dreamt, never wished for. Now the sense memory came whenever he closed his eyes, and half of him wished he could stay there forever, in a dingy motel room with a crappy air conditioner and his brother’s eyes and hands on him. He tried not to think about how warm the memory made him, how the burst of love he felt for Sam felt too big for his chest, threatening to break him apart from the inside out. He'd always loved Sam too much. But this. This was different.
Sam insisted that he stay in bed for three days, and Sam stayed there in the room with him the whole time. Dean expected his brother to bitch eventually, or to complain that Dean had ruined his one chance to get an actual tan at an actual beach.
“Don’t you want to go out? Hit the beach or go to the boardwalk or something?”
Sam was fiddling with the television, trying to improve the reception. He hadn’t quibbled once about Dean’s constant channel changing, although Dean knew that tended to drive his little brother crazy.
“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t want two of us being sunburned.”
“Very funny. The sunburn’s gone.”
Arguing with Sam felt like a safer option than this… whatever this was. Sam’s concern. It chafed on Dean, felt wrong in his bones.
Sam turned to look at him, and instead of a bitchface or a quip, he smiled softly. “I’m glad. Bad enough you have one injury; you don’t need two.”
Dean just blinked at him.
“I am gonna go out and get us some dinner, though. What do you want? Burgers? Pizza, maybe?”
Dean thought about the money they had left. It had been weeks since he’d hustled pool, and Dad hadn’t even left them enough to get through 24 hours.
Sam rolled his eyes. “I’ve got money,” he said.
There had been plenty of times when Dean had done things he didn’t really want to in order to keep them in cash. The thought of Sam doing any of them turned his stomach. Thankfully, Sam volunteered the answer to the question Dean didn’t want to ask.
“Set up those giant beach umbrellas for like a hundred people this morning while you were still out. Got some pretty good tips.”
“I bet you did.”
Sam raised an eyebrow.
Dean wasn’t sure what he’d meant, so he backtracked. “Pizza. I’m in the mood for pizza.”
Sam came back with Dean’s favorite, the meat lover’s, pepperoni and sausage and ground beef so thick that there was little tomato sauce or cheese showing through. There were those cheesy breadsticks that Dean loved, a six-pack of beer, and some powdered doughnuts.
“You stole a six-pack?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m a Winchester, too, you know.”
Dean stared. He felt off his game, like someone had changed the rules without telling him. Sam was a Winchester; of course he knew that. The thing is, Dean didn’t think of Sam like that. He was different. Special. Sam was the one who was going to do something with his life, use that big brain to be something. Dean wasn’t sure what, because he never let himself think about the fact that doing something might mean not doing it with Dean, but nevertheless he’d never wavered in his belief in his brother. Now Sam was stealing beer for him and bringing him his favorite food and refusing to bitch about anything at all. It was unnerving.
“C’mon, put your foot up; you have to keep it elevated.”
Sam rearranged the pillows under Dean’s foot and positioned his swollen ankle. It hurt a little, but Dean was too distracted by the touch of Sam’s hands to care.
“I’m gonna check your ankle and then re-wrap it,” Sam announced, and Dean just let him. A part of him kept wanting to protest, because he knew that was what Sam expected, but a bigger part of him never wanted this to end. Never wanted Sam to stop looking at him with so much love and concern, never wanted Sam’s hands to stop patting him, taking care of him.
Dean’s eyes watered unexpectedly as Sam pulled the gauze free and his long fingers felt carefully over the swelling.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam asked, and the gentleness in his voice and his fingers made Dean’s eyes sting even more.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Just… keep getting cramps in my leg, that’s all.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, and gentled his touch even more, until his fingers were barely brushing Dean’s skin and there were suddenly goosebumps there, and all over the rest of him too.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Sam said softly, his fingertips trailing higher now, up to Dean’s knee and along the front of his thigh where the skin was bare, and Dean was acutely aware that he was in his underwear and his brother’s hands were on him. “Let me try to get some of the kinks out.”
Sam’s fingers squeezed around his thigh, and every muscle in Dean’s body seemed to lock up at the sensation.
“Relax,” Sam said, and Dean closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the way Sam’s bangs hung over his face; the way he always stuck out his tongue a little when he was concentrating on something. Dean didn’t know how to be the object of all that caring, all that determination. He wished his leg would cramp so he’d have something else to feel besides his brother’s hands on him. Dean didn’t dare look down at himself, afraid the swell of his dick was obvious just above where Sam’s hands were.
“Better?” Sam asked, his fingers still working on Dean’s leg, inching up until Dean was sure Sam would see the impact this was having on him way too clearly, before slowly traveling back down.
“Yeah,” he said, and it came out a gruff whisper. He wanted Sam to stop; he didn’t want Sam to stop, ever.
Sam squeezed his leg and looked up, and Dean could see the way Sam’s hazel eyes darkened; the way he bit his lip as they looked at each other.
“Dean,” Sam whispered back, and neither of them moved.
“Sammy,” Dean answered, and he tried to look away, but the thought of giving up the sight of Sam looking at him with so much love was unbearable.
It was Sam who finally turned away, and Dean thought he saw a flash of sadness before Sam smiled and went back to wrapping his ankle.
In the morning, Dad was back, and Dean continued his recuperation stretched out on the backseat of the Impala, Sam glancing anxiously at him in the rearview every now and then. Every look brought back the goosebumps.
The first time really was when Sam was already at Stanford. His occasional bouts of lust for his brother hadn’t been any part of the reason Sam left. Not really. He loved Dean, more than he loved anyone or anything in this world. Sometimes he couldn’t even see anyone else; Dean was too close, took up too much room in Sam’s head and his heart. Sam needed space, which was exactly what the guidance counselors who gave talks about the “transition to college” kept saying was normal. Sam had never been normal, so it was a relief to know that now he shared something with other eighteen-year-olds. They needed space; so did he.
Dean didn’t get it, but Sam didn’t expect him to. Dean had never needed or wanted space when it came to his family. Sometimes Sam thought his brother would have been happy if they were joined at the hip literally; he’d had a dream about that once, but it turned into one of those dreams, the ones that always featured seagulls and cut-off jeans.
Dean surprised him with an envelope full of cash on the day he left, and a bone-crushing hug that left Sam breathless in more ways than one.
“Always knew you’d do something special,” Dean said as he patted Sam’s back and then pushed him away.
Sam was so surprised that he didn’t answer.
Sam also didn’t really expect Dean to stay away. California wasn’t that far, and Sam had no doubt that if Dean thought Sam wanted him to come, his brother would have found a way across an ocean if he had to.
Surprisingly, Dean gave him space. The first semester went by without a call, though there were plenty of nights when Sam wished for one. Finally, on Dean’s birthday, Sam called him.
“You okay?”
Of course that’s how Dean would answer his phone, after nearly five months of no contact.
“Yeah, Dean, I’m fine. I just called to say happy birthday.”
There was a pause, and Sam hated that he couldn’t see his brother’s face; didn’t know what he was thinking.
“Thanks,” Dean said.
“You’re welcome.”
A burst of homesickness hit Sam out of the blue. It felt like an elephant had landed on his chest, and he drew in a breath, trying to dislodge it.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dean prompted, sounding uncertain.
“Yeah, fine, I just… you know, if you wanted to come and visit sometime…”
He hadn’t planned on saying it, but hearing Dean’s voice without being able to see him… it was harder than Sam had anticipated.
Dean didn’t answer for a minute, and Sam lost his breath again. Finally, Dean made a noncommittal sound.
“I didn’t think you… I guess I could, if I’m in the area. Between jobs, maybe. If you want.”
Sam smiled, and wished Dean could see it.
“I do, yeah. That’d be great. If you can. Whenever.”
“Okay,” Dean agreed, but the conversation stayed awkward. “Well, you probably have class, so you should go.”
It was 9 p.m. in California.
“Sure, yeah. Happy birthday, Dean.”
Sam tried to tell himself that Dean might not come. That Dad might make it hard for him—If you go, stay gone—and Dean wouldn’t go against Dad, maybe not even for Sam.
The knock on his door three days later was unexpected.
“Dean!”
Sam pulled him inside before wrapping his arms around his brother, and Dean spluttered and patted his back before giving in and getting both arms around Sam too, muttering “Sammy” against Sam’s neck. They clung to each other far too long, and Sam couldn’t stop smiling but there were tears stinging his eyes, too. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Dean until his brother was there, everything about him familiar.
“Lemme go,” Dean complained eventually. Sam didn’t want to, but he forced his hands to unclench from Dean’s jacket and let him step back.
“Missed you,” Sam blurted.
Dean ducked his head and looked at Sam sideways, then shrugged. “Girl,” he said, but Sam knew it meant Me, too.
They went to the Old Pro and drank too much, and Dean insisted on riding the mechanical bull, much to the delight of every woman in the place and probably half the men. Dean took off his overshirts before he climbed on, and Sam watched the way the muscles in his arms bunched as he held on, the way his strong thighs curved around the plastic bull’s ribcage and kept him seated as the machine spun him around and around. He whooped and hollered like an idiot as he rode, and when the bull finally ground to a stop, a cheer went up from the audience.
Dean’s cheeks were red from exertion and exhilaration, and he made a show of bowing and tipping an invisible cowboy hat before rejoining Sam.
My brother, Sam thought, and if he’d known he missed Dean before, he was overwhelmed with it now.
Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, and Sam felt jealous eyes on him and liked it.
It was late when they stumbled up the stairs to Sam’s room, trying to stifle their laughter.
“Shhh, I’ve got a roommate,” Sam stage-whispered, and Dean elbowed him, making them both bump into the wall.
“Dean!” Sam said, but he was laughing too hard to make it sound threatening.
Brady was passed out on his bed, snoring and smelling like alcohol.
“Guess we don’t have to worry about waking up your roommate,” Dean snickered. For some reason, Dean didn’t like Brady—even though they’d never met.
Dean took off his jacket and boots and stepped out of his jeans, pulling a blanket off Sam’s bed to lay on the floor.
“Don’t be stupid,” Sam said before he really thought it through. “You can sleep with me; not like we haven’t shared a single a million times before.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow skeptically, his eyes traveling from Sam’s feet all the way up to the top of his head. The gaze made Sam flush warm all over.
“I dunno, Sammy, you’re kinda huge. I swear you’ve grown another two inches since I last saw you.”
Sam was busy pulling off his own shoes and shirts.
“You’re just jealous that I’m not the little brother anymore,” he said, kicking out of his jeans and flopping onto the bed.
“Oh no,” Dean answered, and he was on the bed before he finished his sentence. “Dream on, Sammy. You’ll always be the little brother.”
And then Dean was tickling him, the bastard, fingers finding the vulnerable places that Dean had exploited their entire lives, until Sam was a gasping, giggling mess, kicking out blindly to stop the torture. Three wild kicks later, he slipped off the side of the bed and landed on the floor with a thud.
“See?” Dean grinned, leaning over the side of the bed. His white teeth flashed in the dim light, and his eyes were bright, manic. “I always win. ‘Cause I’m the big brother.”
Sam huffed and crawled back onto the bed. Brady snored on.
“Shut up and be quiet,” Sam scolded, but instead Dean reached out to torment him again. Sam was ready for it this time, though, and he managed to grab Dean by both wrists. He used his weight to press Dean’s fists to his own chest and roll him to his back, Sam leaning over him.
Dean struggled for a few seconds, bucking and twisting beneath Sam, and then froze. He looked up at Sam, and the expression on his face was one of shocked surprise, eyes wide and mouth open, and Sam thought, You’re beautiful.
There was no thought to what he did next, just an easy dip a little lower and his mouth was on Dean’s. Dean’s lips stayed soft and open for a few madly pounding beats of Sam’s heart, and then he groaned and surged up, his tongue pushing into Sam’s mouth and his hips pushing up off the bed desperately. They grappled, familiar with each other’s bodies, years of knowing each other intimately and sparring together suddenly translated into something different, yet not. Dean got his hands tangled in Sam’s hair, and Sam got his hands between them and groped for their dicks, pushing their shorts down low enough to wrap his fingers around them both and stroking clumsily while they kept kissing, swallowing each other’s desperate moans. Sam came first, and Dean wrapped his legs around Sam’s hips and bucked against him and followed, until there was a mess between their stomachs and they were both breathless.
“Shit,” Dean said when they finally pulled apart, and Sam rolled to the side and wondered if Dean would ever visit him again.
“Don’t freak out,” he whispered, and Dean turned to look at him. His lips were plump and wet, and Sam wanted to kiss him again.
“Really? You’re not freaking out?”
Sam shook his head. “Old news,” he sighed, and reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand. He handed Dean a clump and tried to wipe himself off with another handful.
“Old news,” Dean repeated, and Sam watched as he shoved his underwear down and cleaned himself off.
Sam shrugged. “Can’t help what I feel.”
Dean tossed the balled-up tissues across the room, where they hit the edge of the trash can and bounced off. He reached over and pressed a finger to the bow of Sam’s lip, traced the curve that was still wet from their kissing.
“No, you can’t,” he agreed, and then leaned over and kissed Sam again. Gently this time, on the forehead. “Neither of us can.”
Sam slept curled around his brother, without any nightmares. In the morning, Dean was gone.
Part Two
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Date: 2014-11-30 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-01 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-07 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-08 02:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-16 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-02-17 11:21 pm (UTC)And of course when Dean was hurt Sam did everything he could to look after his brother, because that doesn’t just go one way between them 😄 and I really like that it was that moment when Dean realised Sam meant more to him.
But then they have that frantic night together at Stanford after they have missed each other and Dean just doesn’t know what to do with it. Poor confused boys, things can never be easy for them 🤗. I’m looking forward to seeing what the other situations were 😄
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Date: 2022-02-20 04:20 am (UTC)