runedgirl | Crash and Burn, Sam/Dean, NC17

Title: Crash and Burn
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 5,480
Warnings: Vague passive suicidal thoughts
Summary: For the prompt: Stanford era. Dean is crashing and burning and so is Sam.
A/N Written for

spn_j2_xmas as a gift for

nahemaraxe. Hope this fits what you had in mind -- I love Stanford era fic, so thank you! And happy holidays! Thanks to

without_me for the awesome beta, even while under the weather.

Christmas Eve, Stanford University. Autumn-quarter grades came out a week ago, with a flurry of excitement for the people calling home to brag… and a bottle of snuck-in liquor and too many shots for the people avoiding making that call until the last minute. Sam hadn’t bothered to check his, much to his roommate’s incredulity. Brady had finally pestered him into it.

“Dude, don’t you want to know how you did? Hang on, Mom, I’m talking to Sam.”

Brady’s eyebrows were up so high he looked ridiculous. Sam thought about Brady’s mother on the other end of the phone, anticipating her son’s return for the holidays.

“You’re the smartest guy I know; why are you so afraid to see them? Your folks will be over the moon,” Brady persisted.

“I’m not,” Sam started, but Brady had already gone back to trying to convince his mother that nobody in his Stats class got better than a C.

A… A… A… A… A. Sam closed the laptop and grabbed his room keys, waving at Brady on the way out.

“Hey, wait, how’d you do?” Brady called after him, but Sam just kept walking.

Brady was probably arguing with his mom in person now; he and practically everyone else were gone, the campus emptied out for the holiday break. Sam and the handful of other students without a way home (or, in Sam’s case, nowhere to go) were housed in the graduate residence. It was comfortable enough, one of the oldest buildings on campus, with an ancient heater that banged and shrieked and whistled most of the night as the temperature finally dipped below 60.

“Sounds like it’s possessed,” Sam said to the guy next to him in line at the small cafeteria that served food twice a day.

The guy frowned at him; maybe that was a weird thing to say. It had only been three months, and Sam wasn’t sure yet how much of what had been normal to him his entire life was too weird to talk about. How much of what he instinctively wanted to say to the person next to him.

“Uh-huh,” the guy finally said, and took a seat at the corner table.

The res life staff unlucky enough to have to work on Christmas Eve had made an attempt to get the place into some sort of holiday spirit. There was a scraggly artificial tree in one corner of the common room next to the television, and someone had strung sparkly garland over the domed entrances to the building. There was even a plate of cookies that looked homemade. Dean would like the reindeer ones, Sam thought; then carefully chose a Santa.

In the early afternoon, Sam caught the bus into Palo Alto, where he had a shift at the Starbucks on the Ave. He liked his co-workers there; they were a transient group, working one semester and leaving the next, so everyone kept their boundaries and didn’t get too close. That suited him fine.

He whistled when he walked in; the line was at least 25 people long, weaving through the store and almost out onto the street. The aroma of eggnog latte and caramel mocha and cinnamon swept over him. He’d indulge in something later, once his shift was over.

“You do that, Samantha,” said the voice in his head, the one that he sometimes wished would stop and then panicked about the possibility.

“C’mon, Sam,” the assistant manager called, sounding annoyed. “Stop daydreaming and grab an apron! Oh, and some reindeer antlers, too, if you want.”

“Of course he wants to,” the voice in Sam’s head said. “Right up your alley, right, Sammy?”

He sighed and put them on, feeling ridiculous.

The woman working next to him nudged him. “You look kinda hot,” she said, and smiled.

The voice in Sam’s head didn’t say anything to that.

* * *

It was Christmas Eve. Dean knew because they announced it on every single fucking storefront, big signs screaming “CHRISTMAS EVE SALE – GET YOUR LAST-MINUTE GIFTS!”

“Don’t have any last-minute gifts to get, thanks anyway,” Dean grumbled, irrationally angry at the stupid sign and the stupid store and the stupid people bumping into him because the sidewalk was too fucking crowded. How many gifts did these people need to get, anyway?

A woman struggling with five giant plastic bags of merchandise slugged him with her purse as she tried to redistribute her packages.

“Watch it,” Dean said out loud, and the woman’s eyes went wide.

“Sorry!” she said; then smiled. “You know how it is—holidays, family wish lists…”

She trailed off when Dean didn’t smile back.

He sort of felt bad, until someone else nearly knocked him off the curb into the street as they rushed into the Toys R Us.

Fuck California. So beautiful, everyone said. As far as Dean could tell, it was overcrowded, ridiculously expensive, and too damn windy. Even his hair wasn’t staying the way he wanted it. Sam’s hair would be all over the place, in his eyes and blowing around like a girl’s.

Dean cursed under his breath, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that never really went away intensifying for a moment. He swallowed hard and turned into the next bar he passed.

The darkness inside was a relief; so was the relative paucity of patrons. A handful of booths were filled, mostly with couples or small groups, laughing as they warmed up and shared stories—probably of their shopping adventures. A half-dozen more people sat at the bar, and Dean joined them. Here there was less cheer, each person—each man—intent on his drink and the football game on the television above the bar.

The bartender gestured a whaddya have and Dean let the whisky warm him; it was a familiar chill, nothing to do with the San Francisco wind.

Beside him, an older man sighed, contemplating his own drink.

Dean nodded in silent acknowledgement. The loneliness was palpable here; he felt at home.

“Fuck you,” Dean said to the voice in his head that was cautioning him to take it easy. “Why should I?”

There hadn’t been an answer to that question in a long time. About three months.

He tripped on a loose piece of pavement on the way back to the Impala and landed gracelessly on both knees and one hand, and for a moment he just wanted to collapse on the sidewalk and say fuck it all. Why get up, why keep going, why the hell was he in California anyway? Nothing mattered.

Dean woke up an hour later with a crick in his neck, remembering when the back seat was Sam’s to curl up in, his ridiculously long legs folded up like a child’s, his head turned toward Dean in the front seat. He shook his head to clear the memory. Don’t think about him. His favorite jeans were torn, stuck to the bloodied skin of both knees. There were pebbles embedded in his palm. His head ached like a sonofabitch.

The Impala turned herself toward Palo Alto anyway.

* * *

“You can head out, Sam,” the manager repeated. “You weren’t on clean-up tonight, were you?”

“Switched with Lucy,” Sam said, making circles with the wet mop on the tile floor. It was hypnotic, keeping his mind free of what seemed to be the theme of the day. Family. Theme of the whole fucking season, really.

To Toby’s quizzical expression, Sam shrugged. “She has kids. It’s Christmas Eve.”

Toby nodded. Sam kept mopping until Toby was done counting the registers and ready to lock up before he finally dumped the bucket and put the mop away.

The wait for the bus was almost 45 minutes at midnight on Christmas Eve. Two other people stood waiting, expressions forlorn as they repeatedly checked their phones for the time. Sam was in no hurry to get back; the walk would have been quicker, but that didn’t seem like a good thing tonight. He sat on a bench and looked up at the sky, that stupid old expression creeping into his head when he wasn’t being vigilant. It’s the same sky; maybe he looked up today. Maybe he wondered if I did the same.

A car went by, the people inside singing Christmas carols loud enough that Sam could hear them clearly. Stupid to be thinking about the sky and people who weren’t thinking of him at all.

He thought about the bottle of whiskey stashed beneath all the clothes he owned in the duffel he still liked to store them in. Should have gotten eggnog to mix it with, but straight up would have to do.

“Fucking finally,” the woman standing nearest to Sam said when the bus rounded the corner. The driver looked as dismal as she did as he opened the door and let them in. Sam wanted to say It’s not our fault; you would have had to drive the route whether there were passengers here or not. But he figured everyone was entitled to their misery on this night, and settled back into his own.

* * *

The Impala knew where to go, and mostly stayed on the road getting there. The annoying voice in Dean’s head kept telling him he shouldn’t be driving, and he kept telling it to go to hell—or back to college.

At least there wasn’t much traffic, most cars and their passengers already safe at home or wherever they’d traveled to for the holiday. There were a few weaving vehicles, and Dean nodded to them as he drove by, recognizing kindred spirits when he saw them.

Sometimes, to keep himself awake, he let himself indulge in a little fantasy, just for the masochistic thrill of it.

Sam opening the door to his dorm room, hair all over the fucking place because he’d been asleep, his expression changing from shock to face-splitting grin when he saw Dean standing there. Somehow they’d end up in the Impala, or maybe on her hood, looking up at the stars. They’d clink their beers and Sam’s shoulder would be warm and solid against Dean’s, Sam’s smile enough to ward off the cool of the night.

When he found himself nodding off for real Dean let his thoughts drift even further, to the places he didn’t usually let them go unless he’d had his hand on his dick for a long time already and needed that extra burst of ohgodfuckyes to push him over the edge. The long line of Sam’s neck, below the slight stubble of his jaw and the vulnerable softness of his earlobe; the place where Dean thought about putting his mouth. His lips, his tongue, his teeth. The way Sam would gasp and squirm, and his hips would push against Dean’s where they were plastered together, hard and sweating.

A horn sounded and shocked Dean out of his thoughts as the Impala swerved to the right, squealing her protest. His jeans were too tight and his stomach twisted in knots of desire and disgust, all of it making him even more lightheaded than before.

Cut it out, Winchester. Stupid to think about that.

Dean was surprised to find his face was wet when he turned on the radio to drown out thoughts of Sam. He gave the car more gas, angry at himself, angry at the world. He didn’t let himself think about why, or look too long at the places he could easily steer the Impala off the road and into something that would stop her forever. And him with it.

* * *

Sam was remembering the time Dean tried to make Christmas happen despite the two of them being stuck in a shitty motel with no Dad and no tree and no presents. Just a kid himself, spinning lies that he desperately hoped Sam would believe, just a little bit longer. Stealing and sneaking and not thinking about what he might have wanted; only about Sam. What kind of kid doesn’t want something for himself at that age?

The look on Dean’s face when Sam handed over the amulet and said, “I want you to have it.” That was something Sam would never forget, not if he lived to be a hundred. The pure joy in his brother’s eyes, the reverent way he put the cord over his head and let the amulet come to rest against his chest. Was it still there? Did Dean still wear it, even after Sam left him behind?

Sam was surprised to find his cheeks were wet when the bus turned the corner before his stop. He wiped the back of his hand across his face impatiently. That’s why he wasn’t holding on to anything when the bus swerved violently to the left, tires screeching, and came to a very sudden stop. The woman who’d gotten on with Sam lost her balance and went flying into the aisle, and Sam instinctively reached out to break her fall, helping her back onto a seat.

“What the hell?” the bus driver was cursing, throwing the doors open.

Sam didn’t think; just leapt down the stairs and out the back doors into the street. A car was there, half on the sidewalk from trying to avoid an imminent collision with the bus, the engine still running.

The engine.

Sam froze, time stalling to a halt at the sound.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the bus driver yelled through the open doors, at the driver who had climbed out of his car.

The car’s driver didn’t answer him; in fact, he didn’t even look in that direction.

“Dean?” Sam said, and his voice came out high-pitched, incredulous.

Green eyes went wide, caught in the headlights of the bus, and the gold of the amulet glittered against his brother’s chest.

Like it was happening far away, Sam heard the bus driver checking to be sure everyone on the bus was all right.

“You need some help?” the bus driver finally called to Dean, though it sounded like helping the person who had almost caused him to have an accident was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

“I—I’m fine.”

The sound of Dean’s voice, gravelly and as strained as Sam’s, made the reality of what was happening start to sink in. Dean was here. Dean was here.

“You coming?” the bus driver said, and Sam realized that was directed at him.

Sam shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m good.”

“Go home and get off the goddamn road,” the bus driver yelled at Dean as he lurched the bus into gear and back onto the road.

* * *

Dean recovered the power of speech after the bus was already half a block away.

“This is my goddamn home!” he yelled, sending the bus off with a one-finger salute.

Sam was still staring at him, and he didn’t know what was going through his little brother’s head. What the hell are you doing here? Get the fuck out of my college life before you taint it?

“Sorry, I…” he began, and realized there was no good explanation for why he was drunk-driving in Palo Alto at 1 a.m. on Christmas Eve.

In fact, the reason seemed obvious, and more than a little pathetic.

Dean wanted to lie, to fabricate a believable story about a case and a Christmas Eve tie-in, maybe Krampus, yeah, that might work… but then he looked at the way Sam’s hair was longer, curling around his ears and over the nape of his neck. He saw the way Sam’s eyes glittered in the reflected light and the way his lips were still parted in surprise, and he couldn’t make the words happen.

“I’m a little drunk,” is what he said instead, and Sam’s eyes widened.

“Why are you driving, then?”

It was a fair question, but there was no acceptable answer. Because I can’t stop thinking about you, and having so much distance between us is killing me? Because I can’t sleep without knowing where you are and I’m always wondering what you’re doing and I can’t live like this anymore? Because maybe I could drive off the road without having to decide to do it?

The look on Sam’s face said he could read Dean’s mind as well as ever, despite the three months that, it seemed to Dean, had changed everything.

Sam shook his head like he was arguing with Dean’s unspoken reasons. He stepped forward, and Dean thought that maybe Sam had grown another six inches since coming to Stanford, maybe all that California health food, right up Sam’s alley…

“Dean,” Sam was saying, and he was so damn close, and Dean was too drunk for this. He looked down; didn’t want to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam had already figured out too much.

“Dean,” Sam said again, more softly, and he put his hands on Dean’s arms, right over his biceps, wrapped his fingers around and held on tight.

Dean could feel the warmth of him, right through the flannel and leather. Sam’s hands, on him.

His breath caught with an inappropriate response to that thought, and he could feel the blush creep up his cheeks. He turned to the side, too close to hide and, damn it, Sam was nothing if not perceptive. Best fucking hunter there was, other than the other two Winchesters.

“Dean.” This time it was raspy, and Sam had leaned in enough that Dean could feel the puff of Sam’s breath against his cheek. “Dean, look at me.”

When he turned his head, unable not to comply, his chin bumped Sam’s and there was an electric shock when Sam turned into it for a moment, their lips brushing.

“Ahh,” he said, because he couldn’t not make a noise, and Sam heard it, the bastard. He put his fingers against Dean’s cheek and held him in place while Sam’s mouth pressed against his own again, more deliberately but still barely there; a second, maybe less.

“I missed you so much,” Sam confessed, millimeters away.

Dean tipped his face up; felt the prickle of Sam’s stubble against his lips as he tried to say it back. He only succeeded in a mumbled, “Me too, fuck” before his body tried to say it for him, lurching forward to press against the solid warmth of Sam’s chest as he brought their mouths together again.

Sam kissed him this time; there was nothing else to call it. It wasn’t an accident; it wasn’t casual. Dean opened up for it, trying to give Sam the clearest invitation anyone had ever given anyone to come and take whatever you want. And Sam did, his big hands framing Dean’s face and his tongue going places that lit Dean up like fireworks.

* * *

This was a fantasy Sam had indulged in only a few times, late at night when he was alone and the way he missed his brother felt like a spear gutting him right down the middle, so much pain he couldn’t breathe through it. This was the fantasy he only allowed himself when it seemed like otherwise he couldn’t go on. A reminder of what it felt like to be alive; to want. To want so fucking bad he couldn’t keep his hand off himself. It never took long, once he let himself think of Dean’s mouth, Dean’s hands, the cut of Dean’s hip.

For a while perception narrowed to the way Dean’s mouth moved against his own, the scratch of stubble under his hands. Then it hit him, with enough force that Sam made himself pull away.

“Dean,” he said again, and waited for his brother to look at him. “Why are you here?”

The unspoken ‘Who’s dead, are you okay?’ hung in the air between them for a moment as Dean bit his lip, slick from their kissing.

“Dean,” Sam said again. He still had his hands around his brother’s face; let his thumbs slide slowly downward, and Dean’s eyes fluttered shut when Sam made it a caress.

“Don’t make me say it,” he whispered, eyes still closed.

Sam huffed, but leaned in again to kiss Dean chastely on the mouth.

“Drive me home?” Sam asked instead, and Dean went up on his toes to deepen the kiss for a second before stepping back.

“Get in, jerk.”

Sam climbed into the passenger side, grinning. “Just drive, bitch.”

Dean did, trying to hide his own smile, but Sam could see the telltale smirk.

As they crossed the common room, with its tiny Christmas tree and garlands, Dean whistled.

“Wow Sammy, they really went all out with the Christmas, huh? Pretty lame.”

Sam turned to see his brother standing by the tree, lit by the glow of twinkling multicolored lights and tinsel. It didn’t seem lame at all anymore.

Dean made fun of the size of the beds and the size of the room and the lack of decorations and everything else he could think of until he found Sam’s duffel filled to the brim with everything Sam owned and stopped short. His fingers moved over the tee shirts overflowing the zip, and he cleared his throat, at a loss for words. And in that raw, unguarded moment Sam came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and kissed the nape of his neck until Dean said “Sam, Sammy,” and entwined their fingers. Sam leaned in and nipped at the soft skin of his throat, at the lobe of his ear, lower to the join of his shoulder.

“Do you really want to?” Sam asked, because he had to, even if he knew the answer with more certainty than he’d ever known anything in his life. It was hard to believe the answer was yes. It was hard to believe he was asking the question.

“God, yes,” Dean answered, and Sam let their joined hands slip lower, brushing over Dean’s fly just barely. Dean sucked in a breath; Sam could feel his stomach muscles flutter. There were goosebumps on the back of his neck where Sam had licked him.

It was an unexpected aphrodisiac, the idea of Dean’s body reacting to his touch. Sam pressed his hand to the bulge of Dean’s dick beneath his zipper, rubbed slowly up and down, and Dean curled forward with a groan. It was intoxicating.

“Sam,” Dean said when Sam didn’t stop. The hard line of Dean’s dick was thick under his hand now, and Sam wanted to feel it. “Sam, come on,” Dean groaned, his whole body undulating, like he was trying to both get away and get closer.

Of course he could have escaped any time he wanted, and eventually he did, squirming out from Sam’s busy hands and spinning around to face him.

“Jesuschrist,” he said, and then his hands were all over Sam; underneath his shirts, warm and rough as he traced over Sam’s ribs, thumbed at his nipples.

Sam leaned in and kissed his brother again, both of them trying to touch as much of each other as possible, pushing and shoving to get clothing out of the way. They unzipped each other’s jeans, rough with each other’s dicks as they pulled at one another, both of them slick and leaking.

It was like the first time he smoked a joint and it hardened him up so fast it made his head spin. Sam couldn’t move his mouth from his brother’s long enough to breathe, even when the grip of Dean’s fist around his cock made him gasp with pleasure. He staggered backwards, knees going out from under him when they hit the bed, and they tumbled onto it, somehow coordinated—or determined—enough to keep their hands in each other’s pants anyway. Sam rolled on top and got his other hand under Dean’s shirt, pinching a stiff nipple, and felt the spurt of slick as Dean’s dick jerked hard in his hand. His own reacted in kind, and Dean grunted when he felt it, hips rising off the bed as he started to come.

Sam stopped kissing him then, trying to catch his breath as Dean shot into his palm.

Sam stared down at his brother, the shocked look on his face, the way his mouth fell open and his eyes rolled up for a second as he lost it.

“Yeah that’s right, do it,” Sam panted. It was nonsense, like some cheesy porn dialogue, but Dean grunted again beneath him, his cock dribbling more into Sam’s waiting hand.

* * *

It felt like he was floating for a minute, like his head had disconnected from his body and all Dean could feel was the electric coil of pleasure zinging up his spine, curling his toes and leaving his body pulsing with it. It was almost painful, too intense; it was Sam’s hand holding him, Sam pulling every last bit of his orgasm out of him, until Dean felt like he might never move again. He must have forgotten to breathe, because his brain came back online at the same time his lungs realized they’d needed oxygen for a while, and he gasped, blinking his eyes open.

Sam leaned over him, flushed and panting, with his hair hanging in his face and his eyes dark and predatory. Dean felt like he could come again, just looking at his brother looking at him like that.

He realized he’d stopped moving his hand when his climax took him by surprise, but now Dean pushed Sam to his side and slid his fist down the sticky mess of Sam’s stiff cock, twisting back up roughly, and Sam closed his eyes and moaned. Dean could see it now, the flushed-red swollen head slipping wetly through his fingers. He could feel how big Sam was, and a wave of misplaced pride swept through him. That’s my boy, he thought, though it was inappropriate right now, a remnant of the way he’d thought of Sam before, as a kid.

“All grown up,” he said, because he needed to make it clear, and Sam opened his eyes and nodded.

“You grew up fuckin’ big,” Dean kept on, squeezing Sam’s big dick for emphasis.

Sam grinned, white teeth and dimples, and Dean smiled back. It was stupid; they were grinning at each other like idiots while Dean jerked his brother off, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He felt giddy, on the best kind of high, like he could do anything.

Sam rolled to his back, and Dean used his other hand to tug Sam’s jeans down farther, so he could see the deep cut of his hips and the six-pack of his flat stomach. It was more obscene this way, Sam’s cock standing up straight as Dean pulled on it, the shadow of Sam’s balls barely visible. There was so much Dean wanted to do; so much he wanted to see and touch and taste and know.

“Fuck,” Sam said, and picked that moment to come, spectacularly, all over Dean’s hand and his own chest and belly.

Dean watched it all, fascinated, not letting go until Sam batted his hand away.

“That’s a good look on you,” Dean said. He wasn’t kidding.

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean could tell, even though they were still closed.

“Stop staring and get us some tissues.”

“You really want me to stop staring?”

Sam opened his eyes. Dean was still grinning.

“No,” Sam admitted, “but this is gonna be disgusting really quickly.”

Dean relented; he could feel Sam’s eyes on him as he crossed the room.

“Weird to be able to look now, isn’t it?” he asked before he could censor himself, but Sam just laughed.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. You’ll stay tonight, right? No roommate or anything; it’s just me here.”

The warm feeling of being able to do anything swept over Dean again, more in his chest than in his dick this time.

Dean pulled his shirts over his head and started toward the other bed, but Sam held out his hand and scooted over.

They lay on their backs for a long time, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

Dean wondered what they were doing, why he’d come, what it meant that they’d crossed a line tonight. Would Sam hate him in the morning?

“So I guess I got what I wanted for Christmas,” Sam said finally.

“What’s that?” Dean said, hoping he knew.

Sam rolled to his side, and Dean turned to look at him.

“Idiot,” Sam said.

Dean smiled in a way he hoped didn’t look too sappy.

“I’m not leaving school, you know,” Sam said, and Dean tried to keep his face frozen in its smile. Not that he expected anything of the sort; of course he didn’t.

“But maybe you could… I don’t know, come around sometimes? Visit me? I really—I miss you, Dean. You don’t know how bad I miss you.”

Sam looked anguished, and Dean couldn’t have that, not tonight. He reached over and brushed Sam’s hair out of his face, tucked it behind his ear.

“Yeah, I do,” he said quietly. He tried to shore up the courage to say more.

“So will you?” Sam persisted, and Dean admired his guts. Sam always was the brave one.

“If you want me to,” Dean agreed. There was a spark of hope inside him that was in danger of taking him over; he could feel it. It was unfamiliar, but he couldn’t bring himself to squash it.

Sam’s smile only made it burn hotter, all of Dean warm and sleepy with something that felt like happiness.

“I’m not leaving Dad, though—not leaving hunting.”

Dean thought Sam’s smile faltered a little, but his eyes stayed warm.

“And this?” Sam continued, waving his hand between them. “Do you want this, too?”

Surprisingly, it didn’t take any courage at all for Dean to answer that one.

“Not the only one who got your Christmas wish, Sammy,” Dean said, and tried his best leer.

Sam’s 100-watt smile returned, lighting Dean up. He could take a few weeks off; Sam probably needed someone to make him eat something other than rabbit food, and besides, it was Christmas.

Sam slid his hand along Dean’s side, the warmth of his fingers on Dean’s naked skin immediately arousing.

“Already?” he teased, but he was leaning in for a kiss, his own body eager for more of Sam.

In a few weeks, he’d turn the Impala back toward wherever John Winchester needed him. He’d drive her more carefully, though; spring break was only a few months away.