|Sometimes you get fulgurites (luzdeestrellas) wrote,|
@ 2007-12-12 15:23:00
|Current music:||Bruce Springsteen - Livin' In the Future|
Fic: Supernatural, The Wake Up Call (Sam/Dean, PG)
Title: The Wake Up Call
Summary: it doesn't make it any less weird when he wakes, from the kind of sleep that's more like a coma, and finds Sam sliding into bed with him.
very belatedly for The Supernatural-West wing title Challenge. Beta thanks to merryish who is awesome, even factoring in her weird aversion to run on sentences, and to musesfool, who made this a much better story than it was, and who put up with a lot more whining than anyone only mortal should ever have to, and who is generally delightful and delicious.
The Wake Up Call
It happens somewhere between Tennessee and South Carolina, which is about right. As far as Dean can figure it, South Carolina has only ever given him the worst case of food poisoning he's ever had, and a run in with a witch that he still tries not to think about (when Sam asks about the scar, he lies, says he got caught on a fence. It's not the best lie he's ever told, but it's better than admitting he was almost disembowelled to save some old woman's cat.). Now, Tennessee is finding out Sam's been working with Ruby all along, and spilling secrets of his own he was kind of hoping to take to hell with him. It would take a lot to be worth noticing in among all that, but Sam losing his mind is pretty much the definition of a lot.
It's not like Dean doesn't get it; Sam died and Dean's on a ticking clock and there's a demon war and maybe the electric chair waiting for them if they ever slip up, but it doesn't make it any weirder when he wakes, from the kind of sleep that's more like a coma, and finds Sam sliding into bed with him.
"We stopped this when you were eight," Dean says, the words coming out like they've been soaked in glue and are making a valiant attempt to stay stuck to his tongue.
"For a couple of years back there, I was allowed to listen to music made after 1985, too." Sam fluffs his pillow, like there's actually something there to be fluffed, and like it's not just some paper-thin motel crap. "Things change, so move the fuck over." It's the most they've said to each other in days, wires of anger stretched dangerous between them, waiting for the smallest pressure to snap them.
Sam attempts to push Dean farther across the bed, and thing is, Dean really wants to knock his elbow back and send Sam sprawling, but there's a tight quality to his voice, gunshot sharp, a lost little brother-ness in the way he crowds Dean that Dean's never forgotten. He's spent a lifetime trying to keep Sam safe from his nightmares, the literal and the figurative, and stopping now isn't written anywhere in his programming, no matter all the reasons this is a bad idea.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, and gives in to the pressure at the small of his back. Sam yawns and settles down, catches Dean in the thigh with his knee, hard enough to bruise, and apparently some things don't change at all. "You're gonna be doing my laundry until I say different." Behind him, Sam mumbles something that might be agreement, but is more likely some variation of fuck off and die--except probably not, because Sam's stopped finding those jokes funny these days.
His breathing steadies soon enough, until it's deep and even, the rhythm of it as familiar as Dean's own, and Dean falls asleep with his hand curled a little looser around his knife, and Sam's hand not quite curled in the back of his t-shirt, the fear that's been gnawing at his gut quieted for the first time in days.
Hours later, he wakes with a crick in his neck, and he's so hard it's like he's wielding a deadly weapon, but he tells himself there's nothing new about that. It doesn't help that he has to spend five minutes wriggling out from under the Sam-sized blanket he's acquired, and he'd kick Sam onto the floor just on principle, but he looks kind of peaceful for once, flopping right over into Dean's vacated space. Dean starts up the shower, content that his brotherly duty has been taken care of. He doesn't think about dodged bullets as he jerks himself off, tries to forget the sleepy, clean smell of Sam, comfort and want distilled straight into his bloodstream.
When he gets out, Sam's rummaging around for clothes, some local talk show on in the background, and all he says is, "There's a woman having a baby with her boyfriend's father while she's sleeping with his aunt. Or...something. I'm starting to feel all warm and fuzzy about the supernatural," like the fights over Sam's anger, or putting their lot in with a demon, never happened.
"All that book learnin' done gone made you uppity," Dean says, his best southern drawl, and Sam laughs, happiness that spreads through Dean, too. When he ducks past Dean, already stripping off his shirt, Dean's too drawn by his smile to jerk away from the hit Sam aims at his shoulder.
"I want pancakes," Sam says, still smiling, and Dean has a stupid, crazy moment when he thinks everything's going to be fine.
But after that, it's like Sam figures it's on the list of things they do: kill monsters, eat all the fried food Dean can find, and now, sleep together.
It's not like it happens all at once--they're in New Mexico by the time it happens again, a week later, and Sam's head is damp with sweat, his breath a helpless hitch right in Dean's ear when Dean jerks out of sleep.
"For fuck's sake," he says, but he lifts the covers anyway, curls a hand over the top of Sam's shoulder before turning his back.
Sam's eyes are still shadowed in the morning, his hands on Dean every chance he gets, like he's afraid Dean might disappear unless he keeps holding on to him. Dean gets it, drove out of Wyoming making excuse after excuse to keep Sam under his fingers, only Sam's hands are huge, sure and impossible to ignore, and every touch feels like a plea, a question Dean can't answer.
"Stop fucking doing that," he finally says, shaking Sam's hand off his arm, and it's not what he means at all. It's just that Sam's everything, like water and oxygen and gas in the Impala, and he still won't be enough to keep him in the world when the time comes. Sometimes, Dean's not sure which part scares him most.
"Right. NO PDA. I forgot that," he says, smiling and shoving his hands in his pockets, as if Dean didn't hurt him at all. "I'll go track us down a case while you regain your masculinity."
Sam can lie to the whole world, could probably lie to whatever god he believes in and take him in in a heartbeat, but Dean spent years trying to keep Sam out of trouble with Dad, and he's learned better perception by necessity. "Sam, you can't--"
Sam cuts him off before he can explain one more time about the whole Sam dying if he keeps trying to save him (and maybe that's not true, because whoever the hell's holding the contract isn't exactly being forthcoming, as Sam keeps pointing out), smacks him on the head as he goes by. Dean feels as if he's unspooling like a tape, Sam's fingers wrapped around his hope and his fear and everything he needs to keep locked down. He won't be able to reel himself back in if Sam keeps going, and he can't explain to Sam that one day he might need a pencil because Dean lost his grip a while back.
He fucks and he hunts, fills the hours while Sam researches and pretends not to, sure if he fakes okay long enough, it'll eventually be true.
Illinois blows it all apart. It's partly Dean's fault this time, the voice of an old woman, thin as silk, still echoing in Dean's head days later with promises of hellfire and torture he can't forget. He's never seen Sam so angry, felt the fury like an air current he was wrapped up in; he's pretty sure Sam would have shot her, if the colt hadn't been safely tucked in the back of Dean's jeans.
He keeps looking at Sam all the way back to the motel, questions he's too afraid to ask bubbling up anyway. "You, uh," he says, finally, not even sure where he's going with it, and Sam cuts him off.
"Don't," he says, and glances at him, and Dean's chest goes painful and tight, in a way he associates with rawheads and electric shocks. Sam looks broken open, like someone took a crowbar and let his insides spill out, left him bruised and beaten and bloody. In his life, Dean's never, ever wanted to be the reason Sam looks like that, and for a moment, he can't even remember how to breathe.
It's all the opportunity Sam needs to roll over him, words that sound like they burn Sam's throat and fall on Dean like acid. "It's not going darkside, or coming back wrong, or whatever the fuck. It's just." He drops his head to the window, and Dean drives. They both lie awake all night, until Dean bridges the gap and climbs in to bed behind him.
"I was fucking sleeping," Sam says.
"Liar." Dean touches his fingers to the skin of Sam's wrist, feels the pulse beating there, the staccato rhythm of everything he's done right. In the dark, he says, "I'm sorry."
Sam doesn't say anything for a long time, and Dean doesn't push, just lies and breathes him in. "I won't be able to bring you back," Sam says finally, his voice all tied up with the little kid who used to freak out when Dean left for school without him. "When you're gone, that's it, and I won't be able to bring you back."
"Yeah," Dean says. "Fuck, Sammy." They don't say anything more, and in the morning, they pretend there's nothing to talk about, but Dean falls asleep, his fingers still wrapped around Sam's wrist, like Sam's pulse can be enough for both of them.
After that, it's pretty much whenever Sam wants, which, apparently, is a lot of the time. Dean remembers when they were kids, and it was a fight just to get him to share a room, but now whenever Dean protests, Sam is all logic and matter-of-fact, like of course this is what they should be doing. It's cold, he says, which is true, because October's sneaking up on them, like they're the ones being hunted this time. I sleep better--also true, and, though he'll never admit it, Dean does, too, like his brain's only ever been waiting for the confirmation that Sam's right there.
"It's fucking weird, is what it is," he says, as Sam takes a hundred years wriggling around to find a position that's comfortable, which is hardly unreasonable, no matter how much Dean bitches: the beds aren't big enough for Sam's freakass size at the best of times, never mind when Dean's there, too. It makes it a whole lot harder for Dean to pretend they're still kids, or that his skin isn't stretched too tight with wanting all the goddamn time. He's woken up more mornings than he can count since this started, hard and needing, his mouth full of his brother's name, just waiting there to tumble out and fuck him up for real.
"Yes, of course." Sam digs an elbow into Dean's kidneys, and Dean honestly can't be sure if that's intentional or not. "I'm so sorry I introduced the element of strange into our lives."
"I used to beg Dad to beat you more as a kid." This time, the elbow is definitely deliberate, and the breath of laughter Sam huffs against his neck makes Dean shiver. Dean keeps talking, trying to cover, listening for Sam's smile. "Seriously, just, like, once a week, you know? Even offered to do it myself."
"I could totally have taken you." He's finally stopped moving, stretched out behind Dean, so close that Dean can feel every inch of him, is almost touching him everywhere, and Dean keeps being surprised by it, somehow--that Sam isn't a kid, is tall and strong and capable. Big enough to hold Dean's world up, if Dean would let him.
"Yeah, well," he says, same way he does every night. "Just don't forget the many ways I'll kill you if you come any closer."
"Your aversion to physical contact is a manifestation of your other major issues, you know," Sam says, or at least, Dean thinks that's what he's aiming at; Sam's reached the point in the proceedings where wrapping his mouth around distinguishable sounds is more effort than he's willing to put in.
"Shut the fuck up."
Sam drops his hand to Dean's hip, worries his thumb over the bone for a second, because even if words are too much, pissing Dean off never is. Dean feels a little ragged, like Sam's tattooing all the codes to unlock him right on his skin, but he lies perfectly still, can't pull away and let Sam win, and maybe doesn't want to as much as he should.
Mostly, he can live with it. Sam doesn't touch him, not deliberately, anyway, though Dean'll probably die happy if he never wakes up again with Sam's stupid pointy knees and elbows digging into the most painful places Sam can find. But sometimes--when they've bypassed exhausted and moved straight into nearly dead territory, or when Bobby calls and Sam's eyes light with hope, only for the spark to die out a few hours later--he forgets, curls against Dean, his head against his shoulder, and his arm draped over his chest, breathing warm and deep against his skin.
"We could buy you a teddy bear," Dean says, the first time he does it, but it's half-hearted. Since Gordon, Sam's stayed close, taken comfort like he used to when he was a kid, and hugs and hair ruffles were all he needed to make things better. Dean likes that pretense, can't offer Sam anything else, and the part of him that would have made the deal for no time at all would do a lot more to take the haunted look from Sam's eyes. The part of him that knows a year will never be enough just wants, wants Sam near and everything he'll give, a nameless ache under every inch of his skin.
"I used to chew on the one I had," Sam says, and Dean really doesn't need to think about that, can't even mock properly, either, not when Sam's sprawling right into his space like he gets it, too. "I'm not gonna let them have you," he says, and then, "Ruby knows a way," and Dean's hands are tight on his shoulders before he's even part way through.
"Don't you even," he says, shake in his voice he can feel all through him. "Don't you even."
Dean likes it better when Sam's pissed, when he's mad like he should be, because the desperation is too familiar for Dean to ignore. "I'm an idiot, remember?"
Sam doesn't say anything, just burrows in, his face pushed hard against Dean's neck, and Dean rests his chin on his head, his hand in his hair, only because it's the most convenient place there is for it.
"I have a whole lot more of those fairy tales I know you like," Dean says. "Goldie Cocks and the Three Whores. Don't tell me you haven't heard that," and Sam almost laughs, says, "Pervert," thick and mumbled into Dean's skin. If he touches Dean more than usual, like he's claiming him, Dean pretends not to notice.
It's still better than the mornings when Dean wakes up wrapped around Sam, his hand pressed firmly to Sam's back, pulling him close like safety is measured in the points of vertebrae he can feel beneath his fingers, and the in-out rhythm of Sam's breath against his neck. Even on waking, he can tell how tight he's been holding, his comfort and desperation mixed up with sleep and need, and Sam doesn't pull away, tucks against him like they have nothing to fear and nowhere to be. Dean always jerks out of reach like Sam's some sort of freak offspring of Phyllis Diller and Howard Stern, heart beating too fast, the hard line of his cock the one secret he still has to keep, and sometimes he can feel Sam's grin following him all the way to the shower, a spreading patch of light between his shoulders.
"I'm so glad you've finally decided to cuddle, Dean," Sam says the morning after the hunt with the crazy undertaker, when Dean hasn't been quick enough to get to the bathroom before Sam can latch onto him, and Dean would really like to know when the hell Sam really did develop octopus arms. He's sleepy and shivering, motel carpet filthy and scratchy beneath his bare feet, and Sam's instantly right behind him, flopping all over him, face pushed right against his neck. "Doctor Phil would be so proud." His laughter tickles Dean's skin, bubbling inside him like it's his own. It's almost okay that it's November, this payment for each month Dean has left, and it's a little like being drunk when Sam's like this, warm happiness and something else--something he won't let himself name, like the feeling when he's laughed too long, off balance and untethered, helpless and giddy.
"I will feed your balls to Bobby's dogs if you don't get the hell off me," he says, flailing his arms back. Sam just squeezes him once more, his gargantuan hands spread out all over his chest, and then he ducks past Dean to beat him to the bathroom, humming some song Dean doesn't recognize under his breath, and Dean can almost taste the shape of it in his mouth.
He goes out for coffee, doesn't think about things he'll never have and shouldn't want, and they go on like they always have, holding on because it's all they know how to do, like it might make a difference when it never has before.
It's mostly just that they're so tired they can hardly speak, Sam frustrated he hasn't somehow gotten one over on time, hasn't found answers that don't exist. And tonight, there's a dead werewolf, an angry cut down Sam's stomach, and Dean just--sometimes it's happiness and easy smiles, and sometimes it's this, like the world is rooted in Sam, and Dean's carrying it around in his chest, a desperate, squeezing fit, and he can't breathe past it, can't do anything but open himself up and let it power through him. He wraps his hands around Sam's wrists, can't even shake him, and Sam says, "Jesus, I know, all right?" as if Dean's chewing him out instead of having some kind of nervous collapse by the side of a deserted road.
He flips his wrists to get free, and Dean's off balance for a second before Sam's fingers are on his shoulders, and then Sam's kissing him, like he slipped, like the world tilted and their mouths aligned because there was nowhere else for them to end up. It's a bright flash of heat, like the click of Dean's lighter sparking flame in the night, and Dean's caught, Sam's hands anchoring him, the shimmering warmth of his body wherever it touches him. It's only a second before he pulls away, but he feels it everywhere, like the curlicues of Sam's name have made their way into his blood, multiplying there, more vital than the cells he used to have.
"How much fucking blood did you lose, anyway?" he says, because it's all he can think to.
"A lot. I guess," Sam says, his words more like grinding metal than anything Dean wants to hear.
Dean stitches him up later, thirteen of them while Sam grits his teeth and gives Dean a detailed description of all the many ways he can fuck himself, and Dean doesn't think about the heat of Sam's skin beneath his hand, the way his muscles stretch as Sam breathes. He doesn't measure every inch of Sam--it used to be enough that he was tall, built for fighting even if he never wanted to, but now it's a reminder the kid Dean half raised is gone, though the power to make Dean stupid and lost hasn't. What's left is dangerous and terrifying.
"Dean, man," Sam says, eyes already closed, pills and pain knocking him for a loop.
"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean tells him, and Sam does, just like that.
Dean doesn't for a long time, lies under the covers of his own bed, feeling like one of those puzzle pieces Sam used to love, the ones he could do in five minutes flat.
They don't talk about it the next day, and it's all business as usual--Sam does research Dean wishes he wouldn't, and Dean looks for demonic patterns, and Dean bets Sam driving privileges the Bears will kick the Giants' asses. When they don't, Sam cackles, an honest to God cackle, and Dean says, "Aw, come on, I don't have many driving chances left."
He thinks he's gone too far, still lets his mouth run because it's the only thing that can, but Sam just grins. "Shoulda thought of that, jackass. Keys."
Dean's on the verge of refusing; it's expected, but they're in his jeans and Sam'll fight him for them, and Dean's more than a little terrified--more than a little desperate--to have his hands all over Sam again, to have Sam's all over him. He throws the keys and Sam catches without looking, eyebrows raised, and it's all perfectly normal, except now Dean knows things he shouldn't, the curl of Sam's tongue and the way he breathes against Dean's mouth, and it's more dangerous than all the other things he was never supposed to know.
He wants to drink until there's nothing in his body but alcohol, fuck himself stupid and get lost in the kind of women he loves, long hair and pretty smiles, tits and pussy his mouth was made for, until the taste of whiskey and tequila and sex is all he knows, drowning out the feel of his brother's tongue against his. If he's really lucky, he'll fall over and smash his head open, forget he ever knew what it felt like to feel Sam tremble and know it was because of him.
"Don't go," Sam says, while Dean shrugs his jacket on and feels in his jeans for his wallet.
"I checked the closet and under the bed. There's nothing there."
"Bite me." Sam kicks his feet up on the desk, and Dean focuses on the hole in the heel of his sock--or Dean's sock, actually, because he's pretty sure it's his. "I'm sorry about last night."
Dean should've known better. Sam never forgets anything, never does the smart thing and skirts around the issue if he can talk it to death, instead. He waves a hand, his other already brushing the door handle. "Forget it. It's been a rough--week, year, whatever." Sam's got that earnest look, eyebrows drawing together and mouth turned down. "Seriously, Sammy. On the list of weird shit that's happened to us, it doesn't even make the top hundred."
"Yeah?" Sam says, kind of non-committal. Dean nods, and Sam grins. "Then you should stay. 'S'not like I got many more opportunities to ask you, right?"
It's long past time he had that turned around on him, but for a second, he's too surprised to even remember what a comeback is. "You're such a little fucker," he says eventually, and by then, Sam's already shutting the laptop, and Dean can't pass that up, won't put that hopeless look back in Sam's eyes any sooner than he has to, no matter how badly he's fucked up everything else. Still doesn't mean he's going to stay in, Sam only feet away, his voice creeping under Dean's skin like water.
"Come with," he says, and when Sam just looks at him, he shrugs. "You can pick where we go."
Sam grins and snatches the keys off the desk. "Driver picks the music."
He threatens Dean with Coldplay, but even Sam's musical taste isn't that bad, and in the end, it's Pearl Jam he slips into the tape deck. Dean hasn't ever hated them as much as he tells Sam, and Sam knows it, so when Rearviewmirror comes on, Dean just grins as he turns the radio up. He rolls the window down, and Sam bitches about the cold, but it's good, Sam singing along and forgetting every other word, some weird genetic thing because Dad used to do it, too, no matter how many rituals and obscure facts he could pull out of his head like flipping a switch. Sam's got his foot right against the floor, making his baby fly, even though they're in no hurry, just because that's how she feels best: outrunning every stoplight and every evil thing, the world rushing up to meet them and opening out before them.
"You got a plan, Bullitt?" He doesn't really care, is content to do this, like when they were kids and Dean would take them driving. He likes pretending they've got as much time as road, the only thing stopping them going forever the amount of gas in the tank.
Sam just grins, and it's another half hour before he pulls in to an all-night convenience store. When he comes out, he tosses a bag at Dean. Inside, there's a whole lot of beer, Cheetos and M&Ms for Dean, about a gazillion Gummi sweets for Sam, and--
"Dude," Dean says, looking over at him.
"There's a place not far from here perfect for making s'mores," he says, and Dean just stares at him.
"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but it's not actually the time of year for that--not when it's fifty below."
Sam clears his throat and looks away. "If it's too cold for you..."
"Fucking drive." He reaches out, slides his palm across Sam's neck for a second before they're moving again.
Sam's perfect place is pretty much just a huge field, woods close enough to get fuel, and not close enough that they're gonna burn anything important down. It smells like winter, and fuck if Dean doesn't want that not to be true, but the air's cold in his lungs, crisp and clean; he's always loved it, the way it isn't promising anything, isn't full of endings, just cold snap of happiness that never faded, even after Mom.
Sam lights the fire, and the smoke spirals into the air, and Dean sits by him, shoulders touching for warmth as he holds his marshmallow over the flames.
"You're probably breaking the law, Sammy. City ordinances and bylaws and whatever else."
"Yeah." Sam burns his mouth and downs half of Dean's beer instead of his own. "That's what they're gonna remember us for when they catch us." Dean opens his mouth, an argument that's already old about getting the Feds off their backs--off Sam's--and Sam pokes him in the leg. "Don't wanna hear it." He's warm through two layers of denim, his hand curled tight around his bottle. He balances it on Dean's leg, his thumb moving along Dean's jeans as he scratches at the label, just like he always does.
Dean clears his throat, feeling every breath Sam takes like they're his own. "It'd just be sad, is all, if that's how they caught us. 'Cause you can't make s'mores for shit."
The tension leaves Sam, and he grins. "I'm not the one--"
"You're really not still talking about this, are you?"
"--who set fire to Dad's leather jacket."
"Firstly, I did not do that. It was only, like, a little bit. And secondly, it was all your fault." He unscrews his flask while they talk--full of good whiskey, because Dean isn't about to spend his last year drinking the cheap shit he normally fills it with--shoves a couple handfuls of Sam's sweets into his mouth and washes them down, flipping Sam off when he makes a disgusted sound. "Gummi liqueur, man. Very high class."
Sam throws Cheetos at his head, because the little geek has never appreciated the finer things in life, but he takes the flask when Dean offers, sits back against Dean's side, easy and companionable like there's nothing between them but the cold. Dean measures out time in their dwindling supply of alcohol, in the rise and fall of Sam's words, the way he's always turning in towards Dean, eyes wide and bright, hands constantly reaching for him.
"I think there's a very real possibility I'm at the beginning of an awesome winning streak," Sam says, pulling his last beer from the pack. Dean glances over, eyebrows raised, and Sam dumps strips of beer wrapper on his jeans. "I called Bobby today."
"Aw, shut the fuck up. I do not need to hear this."
"No, seriously, I'm pretty sure he wasn't alone." The light of the fire catches in the corners of his smile, like it's finding secret places to hide, and his voice fills up the night. "There was all kinds of, you know, rustling and...furtiveness."
"Maybe it was his dogs, you freak."
"Nope. You're gonna have to pay up that two hundred dollars--" he pauses for a second, all mock serious. "And admit that he only stopped wearing that cap to make Ellen happy. I mean, seriously, he wasn't gonna wear it during--"
"I will jump in that fire if you don't stop talking. I think I might do it anyway, because there's an image that just won't die."
Sam laughs, loud and warm, and Dean stretches up to touch him, just to smack his head, or whatever, instinct and what he's spent his life doing, but Sam leans forward to get more marshmallows at the same time, and he's so close, Sam's laughter might as well be Dean's. Dean can smell the cheap motel shampoo Sam used that morning, even over the smoke, remembers how the world tilted before, only now it's like being pitched overboard. He thinks about reaching out, holding onto Sam and letting all the consequences go to hell right along with him. He can already taste Sam, sticky sweet, smoky warmth on his tongue, sliding down his throat.
"Dean?" Sam says, kind of breathes it out as if it's all the air in his lungs, and Dean shakes his head.
"Still think you're delusional, Sammy, and I ain't paying up until you have proof."
He makes to move, stands with nowhere to go, knows he could never leave, anyway. "Gotta--the fire--" And then Sam's hands are in his shirt, whiskey on his breath, and Dean thinks of haunted motels and promises, and how Sam's never learned not to take what he wants.
Dean breathes him in, feels his heart beat against his side. Then he uncurls Sam's hands from his shirt, but Sam steps right in. He reaches out, fits his hands over Dean's hips like he'd hold a gun, sure and steady and deadly. "Just once," he says. "'Cause I'm drunk and you're dying, and because you're chickenshit."
When he kisses him, Dean meets him, instinctive as grabbing on for help when he's drowning, and all he can think is that it's not once; it's twice, and twice makes a fucking pattern, the kind of thing they hunt down and burn the hell out of. Sam slides his tongue past Dean's lips, whiskey sharp and fierce, one hand pressed flat and warm against Dean's back. Dean knows he should pull away, but Sam holds fast, turns Dean inside out, and Dean is too tired to do what he knows he should.
By the time he's got himself under control, he's shaking, like he's been running for miles, and Sam won't take his hands off his face, keeps running his thumbs over his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, like he can make this okay.
"It's not," Dean says, though he'd let Sam convince him of anything--has. Snuck out of windows to take him to debate camp, of all things. Stole comics. Took him to the bus station when every instinct told him to make Sam stay.
"It's totally okay," Sam says, and the curl of his voice sounds like victory. "Christ, Dean," He laughs, like daylight rushing in. "You gotta stop fighting me all the damn time."
"This isn't ever what I'm supposed to do to you," he says, and he doesn't think he'll ever work Sam out from under his skin, ever untangle them enough.
Sam bites his lip, and Dean looks away, and then Sam's pushing the keys into his hand.
"You should drive," he says, and Dean's never been so glad to have the wheel to wrap his fingers around.
He's not exactly under the limit, but he's never crashed her, and he never will. He gets them back safely, and in the motel room, Sam moves around too quietly, like Dean'll spook if he isn't careful around him.
Before he gets into bed, he glances over at Dean and says, "In your life, have you ever been able to do anything to me I didn't want?"
Dean goes into the bathroom, his heart hammering in his chest, and he brushes his teeth again and again, like some fucked up version of that Macbeth chick. It's so ridiculous and emo he makes himself laugh, nearly chokes on a mouthful of foamy toothpaste.
He comes back out, looks at the gargantuan expanse of Sam, pretending to be asleep, and Dean knows he's not, because Dean knows everything about him, always has, learned it like an art form and like breathing, because Sam always ran too deep for him to do anything else.
"Move the fuck over," and it feels like everything's changed and nothing has.
Sam turns to look at him, lights from the parking lot picking out the hope on his face. "I meant what I said. You've never--"
"Sam, shut up," and then he pushes him across the mattress, catches the side of his mouth, sloppy and messy until Sam turns his head, and Dean curls his hands in his hair, holding on and almost more scared than he's ever been in his life.
"Are you gonna want to talk about this?" Sam asks, in a stupid voice that sounds nothing like Dean's, and the laughter spills out of Dean. Sam smiles back, and everything else--fires and death and gravesides, long stretches of road and bitter promises, all the definitions of his life--none of it ever means anything, not set against that.
"Your impression sucks," he says, and then he kisses him again.
Feedback is treasured.