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The Only Time is Now, Supernatural, Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Only Time is Now
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean, R
Word Count: ~3600
Disclaimer: Sadly, the Winchesters are not mine; no infringement intended, no money being made. Title borrowed once again from the Grateful Dead.
Notes and warnings: I wrote this for the ever after challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spnflashfic and originally posted it there. Posting it here, too, so I can keep track of it.
Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kestrelsan and without_me for most definitely making this one better.
Also posted to AOOO, here.
"Sam?"
Dean pulled the door closed behind him, giving it the little lift-slide it needed to close all the way, and dropped his duffel in the hall. The house was neat, which wasn't a surprise--the first thing Sam did whenever Dean picked up a gig up in Baja was have the place cleaned--but it was late enough in the day that Dean expected there to be dishes in the sink or to be tripping over a stack of books or something. Everything was still and quiet, though.
He didn't see a note, but then he hadn't called to tell Sam that they'd finally wrapped the shoot and he was on his way back south. He grabbed a beer out of the tiny fridge, happy to see that even if Sammy hadn't given up on the micro-brew crap, he at least had some normal shit in there, too.
He leaned against the tiled counter and rubbed absentmindedly at his bum knee while he tried to decide if it was worth trying to track Sam down. His knee said hell, no, not at all happy about the last couple of days in planes and the car, not to mention the last 10 weeks of stupid-long hours. It definitely voted for Dean to stretch out on the big bed and crash for a while. The rest of him really wanted to see Sam, make sure he was okay. It was the bad time of the year, when everything tended to weigh on them both. Dean hadn't meant to be away so long, but the shoot had been a nightmare and way, way over schedule.
Then again, he could just be going soft. It wasn't like anything had ever actually gone wrong. Sam got a little more emo; Dean maybe edged toward the louder side of the scale, but it was only a couple of dates on a calendar, and God knew they'd had their entire lives to learn how to get around shit like that.
He drained his beer and went for the compromise: another beer and a quick shower and then he'd hit the Mercado, see if anyone had seen Sam. They kept to themselves mostly, but Sammy still was a giant freak of nature, hard to miss, especially in a town that wasn't much more than ten blocks square.
For all its low pressure--some days the hot was barely more than a trickle dripping out of the wall--the shower felt really damn good. Dean stayed in longer than he planned, letting the water wash away the two days of travel. It was crazy, going up almost to TJ for a job, but the money was good, better than Dean had ever seen for anything legit. A couple times a year--less, if Sam sold an article or three--and they were set. They could move closer, but Dean liked it down here in Guerrero. It was quiet, with enough touristy junk that a couple of gringos didn't stand out too much. Pretty, too, and cheap as all hell to live, just people going about their lives, fishermen and their boats, and a pretty decent-sized artists' colony. Not that he particularly cared about the artist-types, but most of their stuff was cheap and after a lifetime of crappy motels, he kinda liked having someplace where he got to pick what hung on the walls.
Okay, where Sam got to pick what went on the walls, because Dean apparently got carried away when people started talking about how they made things and ended up buying stuff that made his own eyes bleed when he got it home. They had a closet full already. Sam wouldn't let him throw it away on account of the person who made it might see it in the trash, and they didn't need that kind of karma floating around, so they were waiting until somebody made it big and they could turn a profit. Or until they were strapped for cash and would take anything on eBay, but so far, they were doing pretty okay. The house had been a dump to start, but it didn't even look like the same place now.
Dean finished off the shower with a blast of pure cold that got his blood pounding and sent him stumbling back into the bedroom in search of something to wear that wasn't the same three things he'd been wearing for the last few months. Of course, Sam had rearranged the fricking drawers while he was gone, again, and Dean had no idea where his t-shirts had ended up. Life was definitely easier when everything you owned fit into an Army surplus duffel, but he finally managed to find his jeans and a clean black shirt that wouldn't make him feel like too much of a freak while he hunted Sam down.
The bed looked really good, felt really good when he sat down to put on his boots, but he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he found Sam, no matter how worn out he was from the trip. He'd just bribed himself to walk down the hall with the promise of a fresh beer before he left the house when the door slammed open and Sam was yelling for him.
"In here," Dean called and flopped back on the bed. It felt as good as he remembered.
"Hey," Sam said, stopping in the doorway, filling it up, tan and sandy and smiling wide. "You're back."
"Good to see you didn't go blind while I was away, Sammy." Giving Sam grief was required, but Dean knew he was grinning just as big.
Sam huffed a little--also required--before he came further into the room and peeled off his shirt. "I didn't know you were done."
"Hell, I might not be, the way they kept re-shooting every damn thing, but they called it a wrap so I got the last week's money and took off before they could change their minds."
Sam stopped at the foot of the bed, close enough that Dean could see the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took, close enough that Dean could've reached out to touch the tiny strip of pale skin along the waistband of the ratty boardshorts he was wearing.
"I was up in Troncones," Sam said, which explained the sand and the darker than normal tan. "Hitched a ride with Javier and Marguerite at dawn and hung out until they were ready to come back."
"Yeah?" Okay, Dean was a sap, but it was good to see Sam throw himself into something other than tearing himself up. "You figure out how to stand up for more than two seconds yet? Or are you still wiping out on every wave?"
"Fuck off," Sam said, but there was no heat in his voice. "That was the first time I ever tried; so, yes, I can stand up for more than two seconds now. I just meant, I''ve been gone all day; there's no food in the house, so if you're hungry--"
"Nah, man, what you meant was, you spent all day out on the waves and forgot to eat, so I shouldn't go to sleep because we need to take you out and fill that bottomless pit you call a stomach."
"Some of us haven't spent the last few months eating craft services out of their entire budget, but, uh, yeah." Right on cue, Sam's stomach growled and Dean snickered.
"Go. Shower. I'm gonna lay here and stretch this damn knee out and then we can go up to the Paseo and you can take me to whatever frou-frou place has got your panties in a twist this week."
Sam's hand dropped down on Dean's knee, big and warm even through the denim, rubbing gently over the scar tissue that never had healed up right, but all he said was, "Pozole and Michelada hardly count as frou-frou."
"Whatever," Dean said. "There was a statue of a freaking mermaid at that last place."
Sam's thumb rubbed lightly over the edge of where Dean's kneecap sat awkwardly, a permanent souvenir of their last-ever hunt and the frantic days after. "I'll be quick."
He didn't quite close the bathroom door; Dean half-dozed to the sounds of water splashing against the tile and Sam getting ready. The sun slanted through the window, a little too hot on Dean's face, but not enough that he needed to get up and close the blinds. He watched as Sam came out of the bathroom with a towel riding low on his hips, shaking the water out of his hair while he pulled clothes out of drawers, still lean and strong even if he'd joined Dean on the wrong side of thirty now.
Sam had, God help them both, a box on the dresser where he kept all the rings and bracelets he picked up at the market. Dean let him poke around long enough to get the turquoise chunk that'd been mined with iron in it around his wrist, but only because Dean liked the way it looked. "C'mon, princess. Less primping, more food."
Sam flipped him off and kept going until he also found the ring he wanted--God forbid he not be all accessorized or something, Dean supposed--but he didn't actually voice any of the 'old man' cracks Dean knew he was capable of when he offered Dean an arm to haul him off the bed, so Dean decided not to mention it.
They walked down toward the tiny wharf where all the cafes and tourist places were, Sam trying to go slow and Dean not letting him. Sam kept shooting him glances out of the corner of his eye, trying to be all subtle and shit, but every time Dean looked at him, he'd whip his eyes back straight ahead. Dean considered smacking whatever was up out of him, but they'd made it to the paseo and Sam was sticking his head into the tiny storefronts to see what was fresh. It was all for show, though; they still ended up at the mermaid place, like Dean figured they would.
It was all right--they had good beer and it didn't really matter to Dean what kind of fish they put on his plate, even if Sam did think he had a thing for bonito, and there was a table open outside, so they could sit and watch the ocean. He still grumbled about the mermaid, though, just because. Sam would probably try to exorcise him if he didn't.
"To Bobby," Sam said, tapping his bottle against Dean's.
"Bobby," Dean answered.
Sam took two long drinks, then said, "This last week, I was thinking about him. A lot."
Dean nodded. It was that time of year.
"I think, I mean, I know there wasn't anything we could have done, but he knew we were there, right?"
"Yeah," Dean said. "He knew he wasn't alone." It'd been quick, quick enough that Dean had only barely managed to catch him when he stumbled, so quick that he'd been gone before Sam, on the other side of the room with the girl they'd just exorcised, could take the four steps to get to them. If anybody deserved that, Bobby did.
Since it was that time of the year, Dean figured they might as well get it all over with, get everything out in the open. "To Ellen," he said, like they always did, because they wouldn't be here without her. Sam echoed him, but he wouldn't meet Dean''s eye.
"She knows," Dean said. "Okay? Yeah, it'd be nice to let her know for sure, but as long as she knows the FBI is still looking for us, which they are, she's gonna assume we're okay."
"Yeah," Sam said, taking a deep breath and looking up finally. "I'm really glad you're home."
Dean was, too, but all he said was, "I'm gonna remind you of that tomorrow, when I start hearing how I'm messing up your nice, neat life and why can't I put my shit away instead of leaving it out for you to trip over. It's not my fault you can't manage to walk on those boats you call feet."
Sam rolled his eyes, but the food arrived, and Dean got him off on a tangent about all the day-to-day shit that never made it into their calls: the stuff he was writing that he hadn't sold yet, the little village they were crazy about surfing at. He let himself be talked into going up there the next day, on the condition that his participation was limited strictly to a hammock and beer without all the fruity crap people tended to like around here. He thought maybe they were getting better at navigating through the memories. The first couple of years had been rough, but they had dug themselves in here, made it less strange.
On the way back to the house, Sam kept pretending he was looking at stuff in the store windows, walking slower and slower, and Dean knew he should appreciate the concern, but that didn't mean he did.
"Dude," Dean finally said. "A little old lady could lap us, the rate we're going." Sam didn't answer, but the look on his face was enough. "It's better when I push it. Pretend like it's PT," Dean added, which was exactly the wrong thing to say; he knew it before the words were out of his mouth.
"Shut it," Dean growled as soon as Sam turned toward him. "I know you want to believe every bad thing in the world is your fault, but this one isn't on you."
Sam shrugged, but Dean could still see the set of his jaw. He actually didn't remember much of that day, only waking up in his hospital room because Sam, white-faced and strained, was shaking him and slapping him out of the haze of post-op meds. The trip down the service elevator and out to the loading dock was something Dean was happy to leave in the blurred state of a nightmare, but he knew he'd puked at least twice from the pain before Sam got him into the back seat of the Impala. "You didn't exactly have a choice, Sammy. Ellen called; you moved and it's a damn good thing you did."
"No," Sam said. "But I could have stopped sooner, gotten you someplace where it could have healed up better."
"Sam," Dean said, stopping in the middle of the square. "If the feds were looking for us before that disappearing act you pulled off--after? I doubt there was a single therapist within a thousand miles who didn't get a visit from guys with guns and sunglasses."
"Yeah, I guess," Sam said, after a long couple of seconds. "I just... I didn't know what to do. Bobby was gone and Ellen was telling me that she was gonna lose our numbers and you were barely out of recovery..."
"You did what you had to do," Dean said. "But we're here, man. We're good."
"Are we?" Sam's voice was so quiet, Dean could hardly hear him.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, and it came out sharper than he meant, but Sam not looking at him was starting to freak him out.
"It means, this," Sam answered, throwing his arms wide. "Zihuatanejo isn't exactly where you planned to end up, don't tell me differently."
"It's not where you wanted to be, either," Dean snapped. "Is that what this is all about?"
"No," Sam answered, quickly, and it sounded sure to Dean, but maybe that was because he wanted it that way. "No," Sam repeated. "I like what we have here."
"Yeah, well, I do, too," Dean said.
"Even though you're just picking up jobs on B-movies shooting in Baja? Dean, c'mon, you're not helping people, not hunting--"
"Kinda hard to do that and stay alive with a knee that won't take much more than walking," Dean interrupted and, for good measure, added, "And for the last goddamned time, Sam, that isn't your fault either."
Sam didn't say anything, but he wasn't dodging Dean's eyes, and when they started walking again, he fell into step with Dean and stopped with the snail's pace. The night was still warm, even with the sun down, and the air was fresh and salty from the ocean. They brushed arms and shoulders occasionally, and once a taxi came barreling down the road and they jostled together as they stepped back to give it plenty of room. Dean could smell the faint traces of the cheap sunblock Sam used, and his more expensive citrus shower goop, all underlaid with Sam and sun and the lime that he'd squeezed on his dinner.
Sam jingled the keys as they walked up the short path to the house; in a small, distant corner of his brain, Dean remembered Dad doing the same thing. Genetics, he thought, because that was a memory from before, no way for Sam to have known it at all. It was dark inside, but Dean didn't need any light to find Sam's wrist, to circle it with his hand, rub his thumb over the leather cord and the chunk of turquoise, feel Sam's pulse strong and steady against his skin. Sam moved with him, down the tiny hall and into the bedroom, but he stopped when they got inside. He didn't pull away, just reached out and turned on the light next to the bed.
"Are we good here, too?" he asked, eyes and voice calm, but guarded, so Dean couldn't read him.
"Sammy--"
"Do you want this?" Sam twisted his hand around so he could lace his fingers through Dean's. "Not because you think I want it, or I need it, or whatever goes on in your head, but do you want it?" Dean went still, like in that split second when a werewolf howled or a poltergeist attacked and he needed to know exactly where to be. Sam tightened his hand, holding Dean so he couldn't step back. "You asked me that, over and over."
Dean had--Sammy, are you sure; please be sure; there's no going back from this, are you sure--but that was what he had to do, what he'd always done.
"Dean," Sam said. "Dean. I'm--this isn't a trick question. I want to know." He took a deep breath, then said in a rush, "Everything else, being here, together, this house, everything, you don't have to do this just, just to have that, you can--"
"Is that what you think?" Dean jerked his hand away from Sam's, twisting until Sam let him go, his words coming fast and hard. "You think I'm going along with all this, fucking my brother, because I like the accommodations?"
Sam flinched, but he didn't move away and his voice was still even. "I don't know. I never asked."
Dean took two steps back, careful and slow, and sat down on the bed. "I tried, man. I tried to tell you then, that it wasn't what you wanted, that it wasn't right--"
"I know," Sam said. "And then you changed your mind and--"
Dean laughed, sharp and bitter-sounding even to his own ears. "Oh, I never changed my mind, Sam," he said, looking up when Sam made a quiet sound. "I just stopped trying to do what was right and went with what I wanted."
Sam stared at him, suddenly as still as Dean had been earlier. "Do you want this?" he asked again. "Me."
"Yeah," Dean said. "Always."
It only took Sam one step, and then he was sitting down next to Dean. "Okay," he said, and for the first time, he sounded unsteady and his hands were shaky, but he knew exactly how Dean liked to be touched, long, slow strokes down Dean's back. "Good," he murmured against Dean's mouth. "Me, too."
Sam was wearing a blue shirt, something Dean hadn't seen before he'd pulled it out of the wardrobe earlier; the buttons slid open easily under Dean's hands. Dean spread his hands along Sam's ribs, felt his skin, dry and tight and warm from the sun and right there, right then, Dean wanted more than anything to see if it still tasted of the ocean.
"I'm good, Sammy," Dean said, leaning forward to mouth along the curve of Sam's collarbone. "Want to be here."
"Yeah," Sam whispered, his breath hissing in as Dean bit down hard. He lay back on the bed, pulling Dean down on top of him. Dean kept on with what he was doing and let Sam deal with logistics, buttons and shirts and pants. He thought maybe they'd take it slow, but then they were skin-to-skin and Sam had one big hand wrapped around them both. Sam swallowed down the noises Dean was making, tongue pushing into Dean's mouth with the same steady rhythm until Dean dug his fingers into the hard muscles across the top of Sam's back, coming slick and hot between them, holding Sam steady when he followed.
"Dean," Sam gasped. "Dean, God."
"Yeah," Dean said. "'M here." He reached down and pulled the quilt up enough to make a cocoon, and let Sam sprawl out over him. He wasn't going to have any feeling left in his shoulder before long, but Sam breathed slow and steady into the curve of his neck and his heart beat against Dean's skin and that was really all Dean needed.
***
***
Plus, a little bit more (the next day) in This Time Forever.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean, R
Word Count: ~3600
Disclaimer: Sadly, the Winchesters are not mine; no infringement intended, no money being made. Title borrowed once again from the Grateful Dead.
Notes and warnings: I wrote this for the ever after challenge at
spnflashfic and originally posted it there. Posting it here, too, so I can keep track of it. Many thanks to
kestrelsan and without_me for most definitely making this one better.Also posted to AOOO, here.
"Sam?"
Dean pulled the door closed behind him, giving it the little lift-slide it needed to close all the way, and dropped his duffel in the hall. The house was neat, which wasn't a surprise--the first thing Sam did whenever Dean picked up a gig up in Baja was have the place cleaned--but it was late enough in the day that Dean expected there to be dishes in the sink or to be tripping over a stack of books or something. Everything was still and quiet, though.
He didn't see a note, but then he hadn't called to tell Sam that they'd finally wrapped the shoot and he was on his way back south. He grabbed a beer out of the tiny fridge, happy to see that even if Sammy hadn't given up on the micro-brew crap, he at least had some normal shit in there, too.
He leaned against the tiled counter and rubbed absentmindedly at his bum knee while he tried to decide if it was worth trying to track Sam down. His knee said hell, no, not at all happy about the last couple of days in planes and the car, not to mention the last 10 weeks of stupid-long hours. It definitely voted for Dean to stretch out on the big bed and crash for a while. The rest of him really wanted to see Sam, make sure he was okay. It was the bad time of the year, when everything tended to weigh on them both. Dean hadn't meant to be away so long, but the shoot had been a nightmare and way, way over schedule.
Then again, he could just be going soft. It wasn't like anything had ever actually gone wrong. Sam got a little more emo; Dean maybe edged toward the louder side of the scale, but it was only a couple of dates on a calendar, and God knew they'd had their entire lives to learn how to get around shit like that.
He drained his beer and went for the compromise: another beer and a quick shower and then he'd hit the Mercado, see if anyone had seen Sam. They kept to themselves mostly, but Sammy still was a giant freak of nature, hard to miss, especially in a town that wasn't much more than ten blocks square.
For all its low pressure--some days the hot was barely more than a trickle dripping out of the wall--the shower felt really damn good. Dean stayed in longer than he planned, letting the water wash away the two days of travel. It was crazy, going up almost to TJ for a job, but the money was good, better than Dean had ever seen for anything legit. A couple times a year--less, if Sam sold an article or three--and they were set. They could move closer, but Dean liked it down here in Guerrero. It was quiet, with enough touristy junk that a couple of gringos didn't stand out too much. Pretty, too, and cheap as all hell to live, just people going about their lives, fishermen and their boats, and a pretty decent-sized artists' colony. Not that he particularly cared about the artist-types, but most of their stuff was cheap and after a lifetime of crappy motels, he kinda liked having someplace where he got to pick what hung on the walls.
Okay, where Sam got to pick what went on the walls, because Dean apparently got carried away when people started talking about how they made things and ended up buying stuff that made his own eyes bleed when he got it home. They had a closet full already. Sam wouldn't let him throw it away on account of the person who made it might see it in the trash, and they didn't need that kind of karma floating around, so they were waiting until somebody made it big and they could turn a profit. Or until they were strapped for cash and would take anything on eBay, but so far, they were doing pretty okay. The house had been a dump to start, but it didn't even look like the same place now.
Dean finished off the shower with a blast of pure cold that got his blood pounding and sent him stumbling back into the bedroom in search of something to wear that wasn't the same three things he'd been wearing for the last few months. Of course, Sam had rearranged the fricking drawers while he was gone, again, and Dean had no idea where his t-shirts had ended up. Life was definitely easier when everything you owned fit into an Army surplus duffel, but he finally managed to find his jeans and a clean black shirt that wouldn't make him feel like too much of a freak while he hunted Sam down.
The bed looked really good, felt really good when he sat down to put on his boots, but he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he found Sam, no matter how worn out he was from the trip. He'd just bribed himself to walk down the hall with the promise of a fresh beer before he left the house when the door slammed open and Sam was yelling for him.
"In here," Dean called and flopped back on the bed. It felt as good as he remembered.
"Hey," Sam said, stopping in the doorway, filling it up, tan and sandy and smiling wide. "You're back."
"Good to see you didn't go blind while I was away, Sammy." Giving Sam grief was required, but Dean knew he was grinning just as big.
Sam huffed a little--also required--before he came further into the room and peeled off his shirt. "I didn't know you were done."
"Hell, I might not be, the way they kept re-shooting every damn thing, but they called it a wrap so I got the last week's money and took off before they could change their minds."
Sam stopped at the foot of the bed, close enough that Dean could see the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took, close enough that Dean could've reached out to touch the tiny strip of pale skin along the waistband of the ratty boardshorts he was wearing.
"I was up in Troncones," Sam said, which explained the sand and the darker than normal tan. "Hitched a ride with Javier and Marguerite at dawn and hung out until they were ready to come back."
"Yeah?" Okay, Dean was a sap, but it was good to see Sam throw himself into something other than tearing himself up. "You figure out how to stand up for more than two seconds yet? Or are you still wiping out on every wave?"
"Fuck off," Sam said, but there was no heat in his voice. "That was the first time I ever tried; so, yes, I can stand up for more than two seconds now. I just meant, I''ve been gone all day; there's no food in the house, so if you're hungry--"
"Nah, man, what you meant was, you spent all day out on the waves and forgot to eat, so I shouldn't go to sleep because we need to take you out and fill that bottomless pit you call a stomach."
"Some of us haven't spent the last few months eating craft services out of their entire budget, but, uh, yeah." Right on cue, Sam's stomach growled and Dean snickered.
"Go. Shower. I'm gonna lay here and stretch this damn knee out and then we can go up to the Paseo and you can take me to whatever frou-frou place has got your panties in a twist this week."
Sam's hand dropped down on Dean's knee, big and warm even through the denim, rubbing gently over the scar tissue that never had healed up right, but all he said was, "Pozole and Michelada hardly count as frou-frou."
"Whatever," Dean said. "There was a statue of a freaking mermaid at that last place."
Sam's thumb rubbed lightly over the edge of where Dean's kneecap sat awkwardly, a permanent souvenir of their last-ever hunt and the frantic days after. "I'll be quick."
He didn't quite close the bathroom door; Dean half-dozed to the sounds of water splashing against the tile and Sam getting ready. The sun slanted through the window, a little too hot on Dean's face, but not enough that he needed to get up and close the blinds. He watched as Sam came out of the bathroom with a towel riding low on his hips, shaking the water out of his hair while he pulled clothes out of drawers, still lean and strong even if he'd joined Dean on the wrong side of thirty now.
Sam had, God help them both, a box on the dresser where he kept all the rings and bracelets he picked up at the market. Dean let him poke around long enough to get the turquoise chunk that'd been mined with iron in it around his wrist, but only because Dean liked the way it looked. "C'mon, princess. Less primping, more food."
Sam flipped him off and kept going until he also found the ring he wanted--God forbid he not be all accessorized or something, Dean supposed--but he didn't actually voice any of the 'old man' cracks Dean knew he was capable of when he offered Dean an arm to haul him off the bed, so Dean decided not to mention it.
They walked down toward the tiny wharf where all the cafes and tourist places were, Sam trying to go slow and Dean not letting him. Sam kept shooting him glances out of the corner of his eye, trying to be all subtle and shit, but every time Dean looked at him, he'd whip his eyes back straight ahead. Dean considered smacking whatever was up out of him, but they'd made it to the paseo and Sam was sticking his head into the tiny storefronts to see what was fresh. It was all for show, though; they still ended up at the mermaid place, like Dean figured they would.
It was all right--they had good beer and it didn't really matter to Dean what kind of fish they put on his plate, even if Sam did think he had a thing for bonito, and there was a table open outside, so they could sit and watch the ocean. He still grumbled about the mermaid, though, just because. Sam would probably try to exorcise him if he didn't.
"To Bobby," Sam said, tapping his bottle against Dean's.
"Bobby," Dean answered.
Sam took two long drinks, then said, "This last week, I was thinking about him. A lot."
Dean nodded. It was that time of year.
"I think, I mean, I know there wasn't anything we could have done, but he knew we were there, right?"
"Yeah," Dean said. "He knew he wasn't alone." It'd been quick, quick enough that Dean had only barely managed to catch him when he stumbled, so quick that he'd been gone before Sam, on the other side of the room with the girl they'd just exorcised, could take the four steps to get to them. If anybody deserved that, Bobby did.
Since it was that time of the year, Dean figured they might as well get it all over with, get everything out in the open. "To Ellen," he said, like they always did, because they wouldn't be here without her. Sam echoed him, but he wouldn't meet Dean''s eye.
"She knows," Dean said. "Okay? Yeah, it'd be nice to let her know for sure, but as long as she knows the FBI is still looking for us, which they are, she's gonna assume we're okay."
"Yeah," Sam said, taking a deep breath and looking up finally. "I'm really glad you're home."
Dean was, too, but all he said was, "I'm gonna remind you of that tomorrow, when I start hearing how I'm messing up your nice, neat life and why can't I put my shit away instead of leaving it out for you to trip over. It's not my fault you can't manage to walk on those boats you call feet."
Sam rolled his eyes, but the food arrived, and Dean got him off on a tangent about all the day-to-day shit that never made it into their calls: the stuff he was writing that he hadn't sold yet, the little village they were crazy about surfing at. He let himself be talked into going up there the next day, on the condition that his participation was limited strictly to a hammock and beer without all the fruity crap people tended to like around here. He thought maybe they were getting better at navigating through the memories. The first couple of years had been rough, but they had dug themselves in here, made it less strange.
On the way back to the house, Sam kept pretending he was looking at stuff in the store windows, walking slower and slower, and Dean knew he should appreciate the concern, but that didn't mean he did.
"Dude," Dean finally said. "A little old lady could lap us, the rate we're going." Sam didn't answer, but the look on his face was enough. "It's better when I push it. Pretend like it's PT," Dean added, which was exactly the wrong thing to say; he knew it before the words were out of his mouth.
"Shut it," Dean growled as soon as Sam turned toward him. "I know you want to believe every bad thing in the world is your fault, but this one isn't on you."
Sam shrugged, but Dean could still see the set of his jaw. He actually didn't remember much of that day, only waking up in his hospital room because Sam, white-faced and strained, was shaking him and slapping him out of the haze of post-op meds. The trip down the service elevator and out to the loading dock was something Dean was happy to leave in the blurred state of a nightmare, but he knew he'd puked at least twice from the pain before Sam got him into the back seat of the Impala. "You didn't exactly have a choice, Sammy. Ellen called; you moved and it's a damn good thing you did."
"No," Sam said. "But I could have stopped sooner, gotten you someplace where it could have healed up better."
"Sam," Dean said, stopping in the middle of the square. "If the feds were looking for us before that disappearing act you pulled off--after? I doubt there was a single therapist within a thousand miles who didn't get a visit from guys with guns and sunglasses."
"Yeah, I guess," Sam said, after a long couple of seconds. "I just... I didn't know what to do. Bobby was gone and Ellen was telling me that she was gonna lose our numbers and you were barely out of recovery..."
"You did what you had to do," Dean said. "But we're here, man. We're good."
"Are we?" Sam's voice was so quiet, Dean could hardly hear him.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, and it came out sharper than he meant, but Sam not looking at him was starting to freak him out.
"It means, this," Sam answered, throwing his arms wide. "Zihuatanejo isn't exactly where you planned to end up, don't tell me differently."
"It's not where you wanted to be, either," Dean snapped. "Is that what this is all about?"
"No," Sam answered, quickly, and it sounded sure to Dean, but maybe that was because he wanted it that way. "No," Sam repeated. "I like what we have here."
"Yeah, well, I do, too," Dean said.
"Even though you're just picking up jobs on B-movies shooting in Baja? Dean, c'mon, you're not helping people, not hunting--"
"Kinda hard to do that and stay alive with a knee that won't take much more than walking," Dean interrupted and, for good measure, added, "And for the last goddamned time, Sam, that isn't your fault either."
Sam didn't say anything, but he wasn't dodging Dean's eyes, and when they started walking again, he fell into step with Dean and stopped with the snail's pace. The night was still warm, even with the sun down, and the air was fresh and salty from the ocean. They brushed arms and shoulders occasionally, and once a taxi came barreling down the road and they jostled together as they stepped back to give it plenty of room. Dean could smell the faint traces of the cheap sunblock Sam used, and his more expensive citrus shower goop, all underlaid with Sam and sun and the lime that he'd squeezed on his dinner.
Sam jingled the keys as they walked up the short path to the house; in a small, distant corner of his brain, Dean remembered Dad doing the same thing. Genetics, he thought, because that was a memory from before, no way for Sam to have known it at all. It was dark inside, but Dean didn't need any light to find Sam's wrist, to circle it with his hand, rub his thumb over the leather cord and the chunk of turquoise, feel Sam's pulse strong and steady against his skin. Sam moved with him, down the tiny hall and into the bedroom, but he stopped when they got inside. He didn't pull away, just reached out and turned on the light next to the bed.
"Are we good here, too?" he asked, eyes and voice calm, but guarded, so Dean couldn't read him.
"Sammy--"
"Do you want this?" Sam twisted his hand around so he could lace his fingers through Dean's. "Not because you think I want it, or I need it, or whatever goes on in your head, but do you want it?" Dean went still, like in that split second when a werewolf howled or a poltergeist attacked and he needed to know exactly where to be. Sam tightened his hand, holding Dean so he couldn't step back. "You asked me that, over and over."
Dean had--Sammy, are you sure; please be sure; there's no going back from this, are you sure--but that was what he had to do, what he'd always done.
"Dean," Sam said. "Dean. I'm--this isn't a trick question. I want to know." He took a deep breath, then said in a rush, "Everything else, being here, together, this house, everything, you don't have to do this just, just to have that, you can--"
"Is that what you think?" Dean jerked his hand away from Sam's, twisting until Sam let him go, his words coming fast and hard. "You think I'm going along with all this, fucking my brother, because I like the accommodations?"
Sam flinched, but he didn't move away and his voice was still even. "I don't know. I never asked."
Dean took two steps back, careful and slow, and sat down on the bed. "I tried, man. I tried to tell you then, that it wasn't what you wanted, that it wasn't right--"
"I know," Sam said. "And then you changed your mind and--"
Dean laughed, sharp and bitter-sounding even to his own ears. "Oh, I never changed my mind, Sam," he said, looking up when Sam made a quiet sound. "I just stopped trying to do what was right and went with what I wanted."
Sam stared at him, suddenly as still as Dean had been earlier. "Do you want this?" he asked again. "Me."
"Yeah," Dean said. "Always."
It only took Sam one step, and then he was sitting down next to Dean. "Okay," he said, and for the first time, he sounded unsteady and his hands were shaky, but he knew exactly how Dean liked to be touched, long, slow strokes down Dean's back. "Good," he murmured against Dean's mouth. "Me, too."
Sam was wearing a blue shirt, something Dean hadn't seen before he'd pulled it out of the wardrobe earlier; the buttons slid open easily under Dean's hands. Dean spread his hands along Sam's ribs, felt his skin, dry and tight and warm from the sun and right there, right then, Dean wanted more than anything to see if it still tasted of the ocean.
"I'm good, Sammy," Dean said, leaning forward to mouth along the curve of Sam's collarbone. "Want to be here."
"Yeah," Sam whispered, his breath hissing in as Dean bit down hard. He lay back on the bed, pulling Dean down on top of him. Dean kept on with what he was doing and let Sam deal with logistics, buttons and shirts and pants. He thought maybe they'd take it slow, but then they were skin-to-skin and Sam had one big hand wrapped around them both. Sam swallowed down the noises Dean was making, tongue pushing into Dean's mouth with the same steady rhythm until Dean dug his fingers into the hard muscles across the top of Sam's back, coming slick and hot between them, holding Sam steady when he followed.
"Dean," Sam gasped. "Dean, God."
"Yeah," Dean said. "'M here." He reached down and pulled the quilt up enough to make a cocoon, and let Sam sprawl out over him. He wasn't going to have any feeling left in his shoulder before long, but Sam breathed slow and steady into the curve of his neck and his heart beat against Dean's skin and that was really all Dean needed.
***
***
Plus, a little bit more (the next day) in This Time Forever.
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Lynsey
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(Anonymous) 2008-02-14 08:21 am (UTC)(link)no subject
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I love reading after the hunt is over for them fics, especially when they are together.
Those two just have such issues sometimes I swear. Loved it.
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Loved this fic!
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