Rating: R for language, sex, violence
Length: 5,184 words
Summary: Dean’s made a list of ways to save Sam and he’s not giving up until something works.
Disclaimer: I do not own these boys, this show, that car. I wish.
Spoilers: Ep 2x17, Heart
Author’s Note: I started this as a short Wincest coda fic for Heart. It turned into something more and got long-ish, but that’s still an easy way to describe it because it takes place in the week following Heart. Huge, huge thanks to lostt1 for listening to me talk about this fic for a week and then still giving it a good read-through and just being utterly awesome. Thank you, Mel!
Dean put San Francisco in the rearview mirror in an hour.
There was sunshine and a sky the color of robin’s eggs. But when he met Sam’s eyes, they were flat and gray like winter, and Dean felt the chill.
Dean noticed drops of blood spattered on Sam’s t-shirt, across his jacket. A few on his neck, his ear. He had been close when he shot. He grimaced.
The air flowing through the open windows was warm and flower-scented, but Dean couldn’t stop smelling gunpowder, acrid and sharp.
The next time he checked, Sam was staring straight ahead. Drops of dark red still stark on his tanned cheek. Dean drove faster.
The first day, Dean tested out different weapons in his mental arsenal. For hours, he was quiet, the only sounds the rush of wind, the familiar engine rumble, the voice of Ozzy on the tapedeck. Just after crossing the California border, Dean caved and started talking. He expressed regrets, condolences, apologies. Which for Dean meant he said, “Sammy, I’m sorry. I wish it could have been different.” The words had no impact, pinging off Sam like hail on a tin roof, falling to the floorboards uselessly.
Still, Dean didn’t give up. He talked through dinner, on topics he deemed safe: the weather, the food, a new trick he learned playing nine ball. Anything but girls and hunting, which took a major chunk out of Dean’s resources. Sam pushed the spaghetti special around his plate, ate a few bites, made vague non-committal noises. Drank his soda with a faintly shaking hand that Dean pretended not to notice.
Dean drove until he couldn’t see straight, the lines on the road blurring. It was after midnight and they were somewhere in Nevada, heading north. Sam was slumped in the seat next to him, eyes on the ceiling. Not asleep, but not talking either.
“Okay.” Sam’s voice lacked every ounce of warmth, of Sam.
Dean’s mouth thinned. Everything was so much more fucked than he would have thought possible.
When Sam got in bed, lights out, Dean was already crashing towards sleep, mind stripped bare and body gutted from days of sleep deprivation.
“I hate this, Dean.” Sam’s voice gave Dean goosebumps.
But Sam didn’t answer. He turned away and Dean stared at his back for the span of several minutes before the burning behind his eyes caught up to him and he fell asleep.
Hours later, Dean woke in a haze to the sound of choked sobs, to labored breathing. When he turned towards Sam’s bed, he barely caught a glimpse of wet cheeks gleaming in half-light before Sam’s arm came up to cover his eyes. He could see the hitch in Sam’s chest. Dean waited silently until Sam’s breathing slipped back into rhythm.
Dean sighed, took a moment to hate this too before letting himself drift back to sleep.
The second day passed in much the same way. Dean was not driving for a destination. He was just driving. Sam didn’t ask him where they were going. Dean tried a few other things, since conversation seemed to be a lost cause. He offered to let Sam drive when they got out to stretch their legs at a rest stop. Sam declined with a shake of his head, cocking his head to squint over at Dean in the midday sun, a half-smile on his face. Back in the car, Dean told Sam he didn’t care what music they listened to next, shoulder shrug nonchalant. Without speaking, Sam fumbled around in the box and slid one in.
The second night, Dean suggested getting a beer after dinner. He thought maybe a beer or two would put a few cracks in the walls Sam had so carefully and thoroughly erected.
First mug still half-full, Sam turned in. Said he was tired. Dean drained his own beer and went back to the room with Sam, frustration edged with a tinge of panic.
Dean stared at the ceiling long after Sam fell asleep. The room was slightly chill, the heat less than stellar in this backwoods motel in Colorado. He mentally checked through his list. Nothing was coming even close to working. How was he supposed to save Sam, protect Sam from whatever was coming if he couldn’t even get Sam to talk to him? Couldn’t get Sam to come back from the place that single gunshot had sent him?
Sam woke with a start, his voice a shot in the dark, yanking Dean out of a fitful sleep. Dean half sat up and turned toward Sam, who was sitting up, hand on his mouth. He started to get up from his bed and Sam held up his hand, palm out. “I’m okay. Dean, just a dream.” His head ducked, his breathing accelerated. He repeated, more to himself than to Dean, “Just a dream.”
Dean didn’t sleep for hours, some part of him apparently believing that staying awake while Sam slept could fend off his brother’s nightmares. He went over the list in his head once again. He’d tried quite a few things on it, but two, he kept hovering around and backing off again and again, for what thought were obvious reasons. Hunting. And sex. The thought of putting a gun back in Sam’s hand right now was stupid. And the other. Dean snorted to himself, shaking his head. They were guys and they got horny and your right hand gets boring after awhile, and someone else’s right hand starts to look damn good. So, sex was on the list for a reason, because they went there sometimes, but that didn’t mean Dean was going to slide into bed with Sam right this second and go for it.
Dean shut his eyes, feeling his body respond to this line of thought. And all the crude words and justifications in the world could not explain why looking over at Sam made Dean’s chest go tight and his cock go hard. It just happened and Dean felt better if he didn’t think about it too much.
Dean moved sex to the bottom of the list.
He tossed and turned the rest of the night ‘til dawn pushed weakly through the thin cotton curtains, light cool and pale.
The third day Sam asked over breakfast where they were headed. Dean choked on a piece of bacon, then stalled, sipping bitter coffee to wash it down. Took a quick glance around the nearly empty diner they’d stumbled into across from the motel. A few sleepy truckers and some night shift workers and none of them seemed remotely interested in Sam and Dean’s conversation.
“Not sure, Sam. Guess...we need a lead.”
Sam turned the newspaper in his hand towards Dean, finger poking at a short column halfway down the page.
Dean scanned it, brow furrowing. “Local woman found dead in her home? And?” He flicked his gaze up to Sam.
Sam shook the paper. “Read on, Dean.”
Dean did, mumbling to himself as he scanned the newsprint. “...police have ruled it a suicide. Cause of death unknown.” He cocked his head, re-read it. “How do they know it’s a suicide if ...”
Sam was nodding along as Dean spoke. “Exactly.”
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Dean looked at Sam through narrow eyes, early morning light penetrating the blinds behind his brother’s head. It made it hard to read his expression, but that was nothing compared to how hard it was to figure out why Sam was doing this.
“You want to...check it out, Sam?”
Sam was already draining his coffee, shifting over on the bench seat toward the door. “Yeah. See you back in the room, alright?” And he was gone, not even waiting for a reply.
The bell on the door jangled as Sam departed. Dean leaned slightly, watched his brother cross the parking lot, hands in pockets, head down.
“Fuck.” Dean tapped his fork against the chipped plate holding the remains of his breakfast, making a dull clink clink clink, before he threw a few bills on the table and slid across vinyl, grabbing his jacket on the way.
A few hours later, Dean decided he would just throw himself into the idea. The old ‘getting back in the saddle’ method of healing. It was actually something on his list to try, but he really didn’t expect Sam to bring it up before he could. To go at it with such gusto. As they quizzed the medical examiner, Dean had to actually glare at Sam three times, telling him with his eyes to back off, to let up a little. Dean ended up taking over the line of questions, thankful to talk to someone who was at least answering him without that look in his eyes.
When they left, Sam headed for the car with blind determination, outpacing Dean with his long legs. When Dean reached the driver’s door and looked over at Sam quizzically, Sam was already halfway into the car.
Shaking his head, Dean got in and slammed the door shut.
The third night passed quietly, Sam’s steady breathing more soothing than any lullaby. Dean slept soundly.
The fourth day, Sam was up like a shot, rousing Dean from a deep sleep as he fumbled with the coffeemaker. Scrubbing sleep from his eyes, Dean watched Sam move around the room, attention on the tasks at hand. He didn’t know if it was comforting or disturbing, but at least it felt somewhere in the neighborhood of normal. Their version of normal, anyway.
It was midday, and Sam was fully into clinical mode, all business. The review of blood spatter and estimated time of death gave Dean something to talk about, but things felt off. They were in the Impala, across the street from the house where the victim died. Something in Sam’s detached voice made Dean faintly queasy. The woman died a horrible death, alone, and Sam was flipping through the medical report like it was the sports section. Dean was supposed to be the hardass in this situation, not Sammy.
Dean sighed and Sam jerked his eyes up. “Am I boring you, dude?”
“No. Fuck. You’re just...are you okay? You’re not acting normal.” Dean rolled his eyes at himself. Stupid ass thing to ask. Of course he’s not okay.
Sam’s mouth jerked to the side in irritation, disbelief. His short, sharp laugh scraped over Dean’s nerves like metal on china.
“I think we can both agree my latest attempt at normal was a failure of pretty epic proportions, Dean.” His voice scratched over a wound much too recent, much too raw and open. It made Dean wince, the crack of gunfire in his head. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the speckles of red Sam didn’t wash off for that entire first day.
“Normal is overrated, Sammy. Look at me.” Dean tried a smirk out, but he was a little rusty.
And Sam did look at him. For much longer than Dean intended him to, actually. Sam stared at Dean, eyes cataloging and surveying.
“Okay, you’re...freaking me out, dude. I know I’m pretty, but...” Dean laughed, a little self-consciously. He tried desperately to ignore the heat flaring in his belly, the need to adjust himself in his jeans. That was on the mental list as well, but he didn’t quite think Sam was up to it just yet.
Sam dropped his gaze finally, mouth curled in a bitter smile. “Yeah. Who needs normal?”
Dean ached to think maybe Sam did.
And yeah, really not the right conversation to suggest a nice, distracting blowjob.
Before Dean could figure out a response to that question, Sam popped out of the car and headed for the house across the street, checking both ways for traffic and passersby. Dean snorted at his brother, the b-and-e expert, and followed him around to the backdoor of the victim’s house.
The fourth night it was too warm in the room, the heater back to full power.
Sam’s hands on Dean’s hips were hard and grasping. His breath hot against Dean’s neck as one hand moved down to palm Dean’s cock through his boxers. Dean felt Sam’s cock hard against his back, felt it skating up the groove of his spine on every thrust.
“Want me to fuck you, Dean? Like I fucked her?” His voice is thick, low, and Dean groaned in response.
“Gonna take that as a yes, big brother.” Sam pushed Dean’s boxers down, and he soon felt wet fingers probing and stretching.
“She liked it hard, liked it fast, Dean.” His mouth laid nips over Dean’s neck as he drove in and upward at a steady pace.
Sam’s free hand came around to stroke Dean’s half-hard cock, palm rough.
“Fucking hell, Sammy.”
Dean’s eyes rolled shut, sensation strong. Sam’s mouth was still against his neck, his teeth played along the tendons there.
He murmured soft against the hot skin. “You’ll never be able to save me, Dean. Never.” Dean froze. Sam licked against Dean’s neck, warm wetness, whispered, “It’s already too late.”
Sam’s teeth sank hard and sudden into Dean’s neck, tearing the skin, blood flowing thick and red. Sam pulled on Dean’s cock until he came so hard it hurt and -
Dean sat up, sweating and swearing. His hand shot to his neck, found bare skin unbroken. His fingers came away clean. He could hear the clicking whirr of the room’s heater, feel the stale warmth clustering around him.
He bit back the bile threatening to surge into his throat, and looked to his left. Sam was sound asleep in the other bed, mumbling in his sleep, forehead wrinkled. Dean covered his mouth, willing himself to calm down. To remember where he was, that it was just a dream. A nightmare. A fucked up nightmare.
Two hours later, Dean was still staring at the ceiling, listening to Sam breathe, waiting for the nausea to subside.
The fifth day, Dean slept late. He woke up with a splitting headache, a foul taste in his mouth. Sam was already up, sipping coffee at the rickety table in the kitchenette.
After a shower that lasted so long the water turned cool on his skin, Dean joined him, hair towel-dried, sticking up everywhere, t-shirt clinging to his skin where he didn’t bother to dry off. Sam looked at him, smiled a little. It lifted a tiny bit of the ache in Dean’s chest. They spent the day reviewing their plan, checking over the details of their reconaissance of Angela Mann’s house. Turned out a previous resident, Sarabeth Hillman, had a real jealous streak. Didn’t like any woman living in her house, sleeping in her room, painting her walls. Of course, Sarabeth had disappeared in 1907, last seen entering her own home one late summer night.
Sam had speculated, after hours of research, that she had been killed in the house, binding her to it. The waves of EMF readings from the basement and the shudder that ran through the walls when he and Dean had taken two steps down into it pretty much confirmed that theory.
They filled the day with tasks, waiting for nightfall. Sam carried in all the weapons and tools they would need that night. He dumped the guns on the table and walked away, leaving Dean to clean and load and check them over. Grateful for tasks his hands knew well, Dean set to it.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, reading a ratty book of cleansing rituals, committing several to memory, lips murmuring Latin.
When the sun went down and the moon started to rise, they packed up and headed out.
They spent most of the fifth night getting knocked around the basement by Sarabeth, or as Dean referred to her, that bitch, before finally locating her bones under the newly installed water heater.
In the backyard, Dean was sweaty, filthy, but the heat of the last flames dying down left him satisfied. Finally, he could stick a hunt, a successful one, between them and the last one. A barrier to that single gunshot still echoing in Dean’s mind. A look over at Sam, face glowing with reflected light and exertion and yes, satisfaction, gave him the tiniest flicker of hope Sam might be doing the same.
They each collapsed on their beds fully clothed, slept straight through to mid-morning.
It was the sixth day and they were eating lunch on a bench outside the local deli, watching some kids ride their bikes up and down the sidewalk when Sam spoke around bites of a tuna sandwich. The day had dawned unusually warm and sunny, clouds drifting. Dean’s brief happiness that Sam was at least eating again, that they were on steady ground maybe, disappeared quickly.
“I know what you’re hoping, what you’ve been doing this week, y’know. And Dean, thanks. I - but you won’t save me by letting me pick the next tape. By not bitching when I don’t talk for two days.” Sam’s voice was not cruel, just calm and steady, tinged with affection. He chewed for a minute, squinting into the sun, his voice soft. “It might take a bullet, Dean.”
“Fuck that, Sam. It won’t. I get that you think I’m fucking powerless or something, but for god’s sake, you think I’ll kill you? The only way I’m putting a bullet in you is if I put the next one in me.”
“Dean. I don’t think-”
“The only fucking way.”
Dean stood up, appetite gone, and threw his sandwich in the trash. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he strode over, got in the car and waited. Sam sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the sidewalk for three minutes. Dean counted.
He slid into his seat next to Dean without a word and Dean spun out, spitting gravel and leaving burnt rubber behind.
Dean slammed his way into the room, snapped his jacket off and onto the bed. He paced, hands on hips, anger flaring like flame. Sam sat on the end of the bed, springs creaking as he did.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
“You should be. Just, fuck, just stop talking about it.” Dean’s head was aching, his mouth dry.
“I know what I’m asking you. I finally do know what I am asking you, Dean and I’m really fucking sorry.” Sam stood up, came closer, took Dean’s shoulder in one hand.
“Sam. Stop.” Dean snapped his shoulder out of Sam’s grip, moved to stare out the window into the parking lot. The only things there a dusty Toyota and a stray dog, ribs showing as it trotted across the gravel lot. He covered his mouth with one hand. The anguish he’d been holding back, that he didn’t even admit was there, started to trickle through his fingers. He made a soft, choking sound, dropped his hand.
“I can’t, Dean.” Sam’s voice was so young, so heartbroken.
“I can’t, either.” Dean could see Sam’s face in his memory, streaked with tears, about to do the unthinkable and Dean knew. Dean knew he’d never be able to do it. He didn’t care if that made him wrong or weak or foolish...but how could he?
A surge of horror, of fear, of pure clean anger welled up in Dean, erupted in words. He spun on Sam. “No, you know what, Sam? Fuck you. Fuck you, Sam. You don’t know what you’re asking. You cared about her, Sam, I get that and Jesus, if I could have done that for you, if I could have changed any little thing about how it went down, you know I would.”
Sam’s lips parted, face drained of all color.
Dean jabbed him once in the chest. “I never wanted you to ever - I never wanted that.” Dean stopped, swallowed down tears, absolutely fucking refused to let them come. “But if you think shooting Madison, and fuck, Sam, I am sorry, but if you think that even touches what it would do to me if I had to - if I - “ The emotion thick in his throat shut off his words abruptly, and Dean said the rest with his eyes, desperate to convey the things he cannot say, the things he cannot do.
Neither one of them moved a muscle and Dean hated how vulnerable he felt, how raw. He stood stock still, hands in fists and stared at Sam, then turned his eyes on that bleak parking lot until it blurred.
Sam stayed silent behind him, but Dean could feel him just there, just out of reach.
It was late on the sixth night when Sam turned off the TV, unfolded himself from the ratty recliner in front of it. He stretched his arms above his head, pulling his body out long and lean.
At the click, Dean looked up, watched Sam move across the room, then dropped his eyes back to the task at hand. “Going to bed, Sammy?” Dean was sitting against his headboard, sharpening his pocketknife, the last of his collection. The rest were put away, stowed shiny and sharp. The rhythmic, familiar activity had soothed his frayed nerves. Dean was almost calm.
Sam’s hands appeared in Dean’s vision, gently pulling the whetstone, the knife out of his grip. Startled, Dean let them go. “I wasn’t finished...” His eyes jerked up, watched Sam snap the blade closed, set both things down on the bedside table before perching on the edge of his own bed.
Sam’s elbows were on his knees, hands sliding over each other, fingers wrapping and unwrapping. He was looking at the floor and Dean could just about hear him thinking.
His stomach dropped.
“Fuck. Sam, I’m not having this conversation again. You hear me? I am not going to-”
Sam looked up at him then, eyes flooded with an emotion Dean couldn’t name. It stopped him in his tracks.
“You’re gonna save me.” Dean didn’t know who Sam was trying to convince more.
“Not with a bullet.”
Sam pursed his lips, dropped his eyes to his hands. “I hope not.”
“You hope all you want, Sammy. I know. We’re getting out of this thing.”
“I believe you.”
Sam’s voice was so quiet, Dean barely heard him. He held his breath, waited. Unsure what came next.
“We’ll find a way.” Sam’s words were still directed at the worn carpet below his bare feet, voice quiet and calm.
“Yes, we.” Dean ducked his head, caught Sam’s eyes. And that was the end of his sentence, his thought. The discussion.
Sam nodded, standing up. Shot one glance at Dean and turned to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
When the door closed behind Sam, Dean exhaled, realized he’d been holding his breath.
For about six days, give or take.
Dean woke with no idea what time it was. It was still night, a glow from the parking lot creating a soft half-light as his eyes adjusted.
He felt the bed behind him dip down, felt the covers lift up, cooler air sliding in behind him. It was fast replaced by warmth and solidity and yes, Sam.
It wasn’t the first time Sam had joined him in his bed, and fuck, Dean hoped it wasn’t the last. So, when Sam’s hand came over his hip, fingers curling lightly in the cotton of his t-shirt, thumb stroking the bare skin under it, Dean didn’t freak out. And when Sam’s face nudged behind Dean’s ear, when his mouth touched against Dean’s neck, lips warm and dry, Dean also didn’t freak out.
Then Sam started to talk. And fuck, Sam and Dean did not talk about the things they sometimes did under the cover of night and cheap hotel bedspreads. Somehow the deep inky blackness of anonymous motel rooms and a complete avoidance of the subject during the daytime let them pretend it wasn’t happening. Lots of things the Winchesters did at night were best kept to themselves come daybreak, and this was another one. A big one.
“You awake, Dean?” His voice whispered against Dean’s ear, sending instant shivers down Dean’s body and straight into his cock. Sam’s hand slid lower, long fingers pressing into the soft skin along Dean’s hip, pulling him backwards. Sam was hard.
“Sam...” He meant to sound sharp, but came out breathless.
Sam’s hand glided in lazy circles on his abdomen, fingertips slipping under his boxers on each revolution. Dean caught the rhythm, started tilting his hips back into Sam each time skin caught cotton.
Open, wet kisses trailed down his neck, unexpected nips of sharp teeth making Dean jump almost clear out of his skin. He made a sound low in his throat, felt Sam smile against his jaw.
Sam’s hands were on him like a lover, and Dean was stunned by the blunt force of desire that slammed into him. Sam and he usually went after each other like horny teenagers, fumbling and fast, clothing shoved up and over and down until they were coming sticky and messy over fists and fingers.
It wasn’t this. It wasn’t - god, it wasn’t this.
The movement stopped and shifted upwards as Sam dug under Dean’s t-shirt, pulling it up and off. When skin met skin moments later, Dean realized Sam was already shirtless. Sam’s hand slid over Dean’s abs, over skin pulled tight on muscle and bone. He found a scar that angled along Dean’s hipbone, a ridge of tissue. His thumb traced over it gently before he took a tighter grip on Dean’s hip.
Sam’s mouth against the base of his neck made Dean mutter ‘fuck’ under his breath, made his hips jerk back into Sam’s dick. Sam’s words were almost lost in the haze building in Dean’s mind.
“Turn over, Dean. I wanna see you.”
He might have had to say it twice, Dean wasn’t quite fucking sure.
And they were face-to-face and really, usually by this time Dean was already halfway to a post-orgasmic coma and Sam was in the bathroom washing up. Instead, Sam was looking at him, eyes swimming with more things than Dean could read in the dimness.
Sam’s index finger pushed into the plushness of Dean’s bottom lip. “God, your mouth...” His voice trailed off. Tilting his head, concentrating his attention on Dean’s lips. He leaned forward, pushed his lips against Dean’s, testing, tasting.
Something went pop in Dean’s chest and he couldn’t be fucked to figure out what. Sam pulled back an inch, licked his lips and that was just it. Dean’s brow knit, and he surged forward, taking Sam’s mouth with his. He cupped Sam’s jaw, thumb stroking Sam’s chin as they kissed, powerful strokes of tongue, a nip of bottom lip with perfect white teeth.
When the kiss paused, Dean had his hands flat on Sam’s chest. Sam’s hand was nestled in the curve of Dean’s lower back. And Dean was shocked. Shocked by how much he wanted this. How much he wanted to feel Sam’s hands playing across his back, how much he wanted to feel Sam’s heart beating under his palm.
But, what if...
“Is this what you want, Sam?” He didn’t need to elaborate. They both knew.
He looked at Dean, face drawn tight, serious. Nodded. Rolled and pressed Dean down into the bed with weight and warmth.
“This is what I want, Dean.” He smiled a little, but his eyes added the emphasis to his statement.
Dean swallowed, not exactly sure what his response to this revelation was meant to be.
Luckily, Sammy took the words right out of his mouth. Sam’s mouth was on his again, pushing his lips apart with gentle pressure, licking across Dean’s bottom lip once, touching the tip of his tongue to Dean’s. Dean moaned, tilted his hips up, pushing.
Sam’s hand worked its way between them, shoved Dean’s boxers down until his cock was free, heavy in Sam’s hand. His thumb dragged up the underside of Dean’s cock, the pressure exquisite and pointed and Dean saw spots dancing in front of his eyes. He rolled upward into the movement, head pressing back into the pillow, neck arching, a wordless moan escaping him.
Sam bit into his Adam’s apple, softening the bite with wet lips. As his mouth traveled down Dean’s neck, his hand began to work his cock, slipping up and over and down in no particular hurry.
When they did this, it was about getting off and getting off hard and fast. It was supposed to be. It was one of Dean’s major justifications and Sam was pulling the rug out from under him with slow, careful words and slow, soft movements.
And Dean found himself slowly, steadily ceasing to worry.
Sam’s tongue lapped in the hollow of Dean’s throat, sucked hard along his collarbone. Dean’s cock was hard and getting harder and he was rocking into Sam’s touch like a pornstar, all breathless and moaning. If he’d had his wits about him, he might have been embarrassed.
But he didn’t especially, so when Sam said, right out loud, “Dean, can I fuck you? I wanna fuck you,” Dean came jerkily, making a hot, wet mess without warning.
Sam laughed and it was all rumbling and sure and Dean felt his cock twitch, asking for mercy. “Yes, then?” He absently licked his hand of come as he reached into the drawer of the bedside table and Dean covered his eyes with his forearm, biting back a whine.
“Yeah, Sam. Yeah.”
Which was how on the sixth night, Dean figured something really fucking important out. When he had Sam in the circle of his arms, and Sam was driving him slowly around the bend with hard, slow thrusts, he realized he probably should have figured this out on day one.
Because Dean had spent all week trying to reach Sam, trying to save him. In the end, as it turned out, Sam wasn’t the only one needed saving.
It had been a two way street and Sam had met him right the fuck in the middle.
Dawn broke on the seventh day, a sharp sliver of light cutting across the bed as the sun breached the trees. And right into Dean’s eyes. He woke, barely, held one hand up against the sun.
When he couldn’t ignore it, he half-rolled, half-fell out of bed and stumbled to the curtains. Jerked them closed, cursing under his breath, turned back towards the bed.
And his heart stuttered, making him feel like the biggest fucking pansy. But his brother, his Sam, was curled up in the bed, body still holding the space open Dean had left, even in sleep.
He paused at the bed’s edge for just a second. Then slid right back into the warmth, the feeling of home that was Sam. Sam was sound asleep; Dean brushed a kiss against his forehead. His skin was hot, tasted faintly of sweat and heat.
And since it was the seventh day, they rested.