Title: Dream A Little Dream
Rated: M
Summary: Dean runs into a djinn... again. This time, it's worse. Sam deals with the aftermath. Wincest, fluff, and angst to be later resolved!
Warnings: Mild language, graphic sex, and a little bit of torture.
Chapter One: Dean
Dean hated djinn just a little more than most monsters. Ever since the tattoo-ridden mind-hijacker had captured him the last time and given him a glimpse of a wonderful world, Dean felt like every one of them was out to get him. They made it personal, and he hated that. When Sam told him about the djinn problem in Wichita Falls, Texas, he jumped at the chance to kill more of those bastards.
The Impala's engine purred to a stop outside the once fancy neighborhood recently destroyed by a tornado. The sprawling mansions stood with caved-in roofs, missing walls, and bits of rock and wood strewn over the lawn. It looked like a ghost town.
"So, I think it's that one at the end of the street," Sam muttered to the papers in his lap, gesturing out the window. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he often did while thinking, and Dean tried not to look. The younger Winchester's long fingers brushed the missing persons reports. Dean heard the whisper of the paper against his skin and fought to get back to his warrior state. It was hard though, when Sam kept flexing his strong jaw and pushing back stray locks of hair and staring at him with those impossibly clear eyes, all olive and whiskey colors swirling around in that mesmerizing pattern and- "Dean?" those eyes were staring at him now, amused. Sam whistled as his big brother snapped out of it. "You with me now?"
"Yeah, uh," Dean mumbled. Sam's brows were raised, like he wanted an explanation. Dean was a pro at avoiding this particular piece of truth: the very non-platonic love of his baby brother. Take the comedic or serious route? Serious meant Sam was less likely bug him about it later. "Just remembering the last djinn we fought." He was right; Sam's amusement fell right off his face as he remembered finding his brother close to death.
They were silent for a short moment before Sam looked up at him again. "Let's kill those sons of bitches," he murmured with a little smile. They didn't do sappy talking, but Dean knew what that smile meant: I remember, it was horrible, I almost lost you, killing them will make you feel better, you take the lead, I got you, I always got you. Dean smiled back, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage a few times before he entered warrior-mode again.
The black car doors slammed simultaneously, both brothers wielding silver knives dipped in lamb's blood. The full moon behind fluffy storm clouds cloaked the darkened scene in an eerie gray light. Neither brother felt fear or excitement or anything specific like that. They felt focused, the adrenaline waiting to fuel them in combat.
The once beautiful double doors of the house lay inside the foyer, as well as much of the attached wall. It had been at least two months since the tornado hit and the owners had vacated, and in that time, dust and dirt and crumbling structure had claimed its residence here. Dean led Sam silently through the gaping hole, his boots silent against the hardwood floor. Sam cleared the corners of the room. If this was just the entryway, then the house was much bigger than they originally thought.
"Take the east wing," Dean's gruff voice commanded, "Yell if you find it." Sam nodded once and disappeared. Dean crept down the west wing, waiting for anything to pop out of the shadows. He turned through the endless maze of rooms and hallways before ascending a marble staircase.
Creeeeaaak. Dean's head snapped up at the noise. Two rooms up on the left, that's where the sound had come from. He doubted it was Sammy; if he had followed Dean's orders, he'd be searching the other side of the estate. The knife was warm and ready in his hand and his heartbeat picked up. He was ready to see the life drained out of those life-draining bastards.
Warm fingers touched the cold doorknob. Dean steeled himself for a moment, then blew the door open. The room was empty, save a few dead bodies. Dean knew they were dead, he had seen enough bodies to know. As he turned to leave, a wild-haired woman kicked him hard in the chest. Her strength sent him flying into a dusty armoire, which crumbled under the force of his fall.
"Found you," he growled, still clutching the silver blade. She said nothing from the side of the room. He remembered that djinn didn't like to talk much to their food. He lunged at her and she blocked him. They grappled for moments, Dean careful not to let her touch his skin. Her heart was right there, so close to his blade, but he wasn't there yet. She swept his feet out from under him and pinned his arms down in an iron grip. She sat hard on his torso and gripped his wrists over the thick jacket. The hand holding the knife was squeezed, and he grunted as she slammed his hand against the ground until the silver knife was forced out of it.
Dean's muscles were all tensed, ready to spring if she let up, even a little. "Looks like your hands are full," he quipped. "Can't send me into dreamland if you need to keep me pinned, huh?" She smiled then, a gentle, venomous smile. Her face came close to his and he held his breath. Was she going to kiss him? He struggled, but she was too strong, stronger than the ones before. She nuzzled his cheek, her lips brushing his ear.
"Into dreamland," she whispered, soft blue fire trailing up her face.
Dean managed a weak, "Sam!" before his vision tunneled and went black.
. . . . . . . . . .
Dean woke up slowly, pale light filtering through his eyelids. The first thing he noticed was silky softness surrounding him. He cracked open his eyes to the most amazing cream colored sheets he had ever felt. A fluffy comforter topped them, and as he rolled, he felt the memory foam mattress squish under him. The bed alone made him smile. The rest of the room made his jaw drop. Lush carpet covered the expansive bedroom. The intricately carved four-poster king bed he currently lay in stood regally at the back of the room next to floor-to-ceiling windows covered with white gauzy curtains. The double door leading out of the room was a rich cherry wood, matching the bed frame. He saw an overstuffed leather armchair and a matching love-seat couch at the front of the room next to an enormous television.
Dean's head was fuzzy. He couldn't remember anything- how did he get there? Was this his room? Did he even live here? He had been having the strangest dream, like he'd been hunting something. But he didn't hunt... did he?
The curtains billowed near the windows and Dean rolled out of the beautiful bed. He was clad only in grey boxers. That was fine, that was normal. He pushed aside the curtain and gasped The window was actually a door, and it lead out to a balcony overlooking an impossible expanse of turquoise water. The sun was warm outside, and- holy shit. Outside the first floor was a patio, an infinity pool, a fire pit, an outdoor kitchen...
Dean stumbled back inside. His muscles remembered the placement of the bed as if he had lived there for years and he sat without looking. He had amnesia, that was the only way he could justify what was happening. He had a very weird dream and woke up with amnesia in his house. It was then that the sticky note on the alarm clock caught his eye. Sorry I had to leave early, called in by Thompson, love you with a little heart next to it. What did that even mean? Dean stood with renewed energy. He needed to dig.
The house was beautiful. Dean explored each and every room after rooting through a huge closet for some clothes. Some were his size, and some were way too big for him. He was over six feet tall, how could he have clothes meant for someone at least three or four inches taller than him? That wasn't nearly the most interesting part of this world he was in though, so he disregarded it.
The few pieces of mail on the marble kitchen counter were addressed to one Mr. Dean Winchester. That was his name, Dean already knew that part. One was a car insurance update. He pulled out the sheet and read the list. A Camaro, Mustang, Firebird Coupe, and Impala were listed there. He automatically knew what amazing cars those were. He must be a car fanatic. He smiled at the words "1967 Chevy Impala," and was immediately hit in the face with bursts of color. The door of a car with an army man shoved in the side of it. The steering wheel, worn and comfortable between his fingertips, his leather jacket beside him. The stretch of the road as the Impala flew by, laughter echoing around the interior. Whose laughter was that? It was smooth and familiar and beautiful. He put the paper down and looked through the other two letters. One was another bill, and one was from a law firm, addressed to Mr. Sam Winchester.
"Sammy," Dean murmured. Sam! Of course! Sam was his baby brother, the person he was closest to in the world. A pang of something hit his chest. Where was Sam? Did he live here too? Dean looked at the fresh stack of magazines, one of which had his face on it. The magazine was called Need for Speed and had a picture of Dean in a suit, grinning at the viewer. "Dean Winchester, King of the Road: An inside scoop on what make's America's number one car designer tick," it read. Dean nearly ripped the pages flipping to his interview.
He had started off as an amateur car salesman, then rapidly climbed up the ladder and was hired by dozens of companies to design both modern and retro models for them. Dean was from Dallas, Texas. Texas... why did that place give him such an uneasy feeling? Dean read on about his designs and work and ideas, it told him little else. He rooted around the house some more and found nothing.
It was nearly four in the afternoon when he gave up and went to the kitchen. He found no pre-cooked food in the fridge or the giant pantry, just ingredients. But Dean could cook, he knew that. The bursts of images came back to him then. A dirty, dim-lit kitchen with bearded man smiling at him under the worn baseball cap. His hands in oven mitts, holding a hot pie out of little Sammy's reach. A dingy motel room that held a stove, Dean flipping pancakes over the sputtering flame. He came back and held onto the counter for support, gritting his teeth. What was happening?
He found that baking relieved some of the stress over his mysterious circumstances. He had just set out a nice apple pie to cool when he heard a door shut towards the front of the house. Without thinking, he snatched up a kitchen knife and backed up behind the doorframe. "Dean?" It was Sam. Why did Dean pick up the knife? It wasn't like anything was going to attack him. The knife clattered to the kitchen counter and a moment later, Sam appeared in the doorway.
For a moment, everything stood still. Sam felt right. If there was one thing Dean was absolutely certain about, it was that his brother Sammy belonged right there with him in any situation. "Sammy," Dean whispered, not bothering to hide his relief.
Sam grinned at the older Winchester and Dean's heart expanded painfully. He hadn't realized how much he needed Sam to be there. He saw flashes of Sam's face before his eyes. He saw Sam grow up from a tiny, clumsy kid to a strong, gorgeous man. He felt all his feelings, brotherly and not, that went along with those pictures. He knew that if Sam was here, everything would be okay. He would look into those impossibly clear eyes, all olive and whiskey colors swirling around in that mesmerizing pattern, and Sam would help him fix whatever was happening. Sam's strides were longer than Dean thought and at once, he was crushed into a hug. He felt, deep down, that he wasn't an outwardly affectionate person, but he hugged back for all he was worth.
"Sam, I-" Dean was cut off by Sam's lips pressing into his.
Dean froze. Sam, his brother, was kissing him. And not just kissing him- Dean felt Sam's hands snake around his waist and push the back of his flannel up, skin meeting hot skin. Dean was frozen. That emotion, the lust and love and desire in a very non-platonic way- that was only him. Sam was just his brother, he didn't feel that way towards Dean.
"Dean?" Sam's brows furrowed as he pulled back to look at Dean's terrified face. "Baby, what's wrong?" Did he say baby? Was Sam not his brother, but instead...? No, Sam was definitely his brother! Dean would know something as important as that. He was so confused. Dean's feelings hadn't changed one bit; he wanted Sam even when Sam was his brother. But if Sam wasn't his brother...
Dean flung his arms around Sam's neck and pulled him back, fingers tangling through his long hair. Their lips clashed almost violently and Sam immediately complied, humming contentedly into Dean's mouth. Dean kissed him for all he was worth until he struggled for oxygen. He would have rather blacked out kissing Sam, but his brain had other ideas.
Sam chuckled, skimming his thumb over Dean's cheek. "I guessed you missed me, huh?" Sam's eyes held unabashed love in them, something Dean had always longed to see. It nearly brought tears to his own.
"Sam," Dean began, unsure of what to say. Even if this... whatever he woke up to, was strange to him, did he really want to take a chance and screw it all up? This was his dream come true. "Sam, I think I hit my head or something, because I'm having a hard time remembering everything," Dean tried. Sam's expression immediately became serious.
"You hit your head? Where? And why didn't you go to the hospital? I know you like fixing yourself up, but-"
"Sammy, I'm fine, quit hovering," Dean pushed Sam's injury-probing hands off his head. "Just, don't make fun of me if I ask weird questions, 'kay?"
Sam narrowed his eyes, like he knew Dean was hiding something, but nodded. "You tell me the second you start feeling bad, okay? I will fly you to the hospital if I need to, dammit." Dean grinned and reached up to kiss Sam again. Sam melted into his touch, no longer angry. Dean felt giddy. This was only his third kiss with Sam, as far as he could remember, and he drank Sam down as if he were water in the desert. Suddenly, he was being lifted onto the kitchen counter and Sam's hands were everywhere: his chest, his back, his hair, his face, his ass, god. Sam was giving it just as much as Dean was.
"You sure you're okay?" Sam breathed as Dean sucked red marks onto his neck. "You're acting like I've never kissed you before."
"Just want you, 's all," he murmured against his neck.
That was enough for Sam. The taller Winchester wrapped Dean's legs around him and carried him into their bedroom. Dean was thrown onto the bed. Sam had just enough time to kick his shoes off and pull off the suit jacket before Dean was pulling him back onto the squishy mattress and sealing their lips together. This, this was what Dean had been longing for. His unbearable need for Sam was being fulfilled, and he relaxed into his warmth.
The more they touched, the more gentle their movements became. The scramble for skin became soft caresses which made Dean shiver. Dean could see that Sam knew this was different, and he took his time. Long fingers trailed down Dean's bare chest, igniting fire below his skin. Sam's tongue slid languidly along his. Dean was made of nothing but sensations, and he needed to touch Sam. Sam looked so hot in that suit, the smooth material was soft against his hands. Dean always thought Sam looked hot in suits, even the cheap fake FBI ones. Images flashed before his eyes of he and Sam dressed as FBI agents, flashing badges with old rock names.
The memory tickled his brain, but it was completely forgotten when Sam's rock solid member brushed Dean's through their pants. Dean moaned low in his throat. "Sammy, please," Dean thrust his hips upwards, consumed with need.
Sam's eyes widened and he grinded down on Dean, eliciting more needy noises from the shorter Winchester. "Begging, huh?" Sam panted. "That usually doesn't happen this early." But Sam complied, pulling the jeans from Dean's hips and pressing his hand to the clothed length.
"Ungh," Dean choked, pushing up into Sam's very large palm. "Yours too," he growled.
Sam's eyes were nearly black with desire. His pants were gone in seconds, the only thing covering their erections were Dean's boxers and Sam's very tight briefs. Dean grinned as he took a handful of Sam's perfect ass and pushed his hips down to his, earning a low moan from the taller man. "God, Dean," Sam breathed, covering Dean's lips once more.
Sam's fingers went to Dean's waistband. Dean got the feeling that Sam was used to ripping his underwear off, but Sam paused, looking up at Dean in silent question. Sam knew something was different, and he was asking Dean's permission. "Please, Sam," he breathed, ready to take his own underwear off if necessary. Sam beat him to it though, sliding the boxers off in one swoop.
Dean felt a little self-conscious right then, though he never had before. Of course, no one before had ever mattered as much as Sam.
"I never get tired of this," Sam murmured, eyes raking down Dean's entire body. Dean could feel his stare, like a beam of warm light. "Do you even know how beautiful you are?" Dean's eyes widened at Sam's words, but he couldn't say anything; Sam had pressed his lips to Dean's neck, trailing slowly over his collarbone, down his chest, pausing to flick his tongue over a nipple. The wet warmth that was Sam traveled downwards on his stomach muscles, which contracted under his touch. He kissed both Dean's hipbones. The shorter man needed to see this. He propped himself up oh his elbows just in time to see Sam's long tongue flick over the tip of his aching erection.
"Ahh," Dean gasped. Sam teased, licking tiny bits of his shaft at a time, nuzzling the skin at the base. Precome was steadily leaking out of the tip now, which Sam lapped up hungrily. "C'mon, Sammy, please," Dean whined, bucking his hips towards Sam's kissed-pink lips. Sam grinned at him, then took Dean's whole length in his mouth until his nose rested in Dean's soft curls.
Dean bit back a yell, the strangled noise dying in his throat. Sam pulled completely off. "Wanna hear you, Dean," he mumbled against the older Winchester's hip. When Sam swallowed him down again, Dean didn't hesitate he let out a surprisingly high pitched moan and thrust his hand into Sam's hair, gripping it like it was an anchor. Sam hollowed out his cheeks and pulled up, doing something with his tongue that-
"Sam, please, oh god, so good, Sammy please..." He didn't even know what he was begging for. He didn't think it was possible to feel more than what Sam was doing with his incredibly talented mouth. With all the brilliant fireworks of pleasure bursting through his body, he failed to see Sam lube up a few fingers. With a particularly forceful suck to the head of Dean's member, he slipped a very well-lubed finger into Dean's puckered hole.
The dual pleasure/pain sensation he was feeling confused him, and when Sam's mouth popped off him, he felt the burning creep in. "Dean, you feel like a virgin," Sam said reverently. Dean knew he was, he could feel the newness of these feelings, even if they had somehow done this before. "Dean?" His eyes found Sam's again, confusion flashing in the pools of black and hazel.
Dean knew he had to relax. He breathed deeply, forcing the tension from his muscles. He didn't push Sam off- he wanted this. "It's okay, Sammy," he breathed, fingers running through Sam's hair, "keep going." Sam pulled his finger out slowly, the burn slightly lessening. When he pushed it back in, it looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Dean's thought process was cut off when Sam pressed something inside Dean that sent an electric current up his spine. "OhgodfuckSammypleasedothatagain," he babbled, head falling back into the pillows. Sam hummed his satisfaction as he worked Dean's sweet spot like a pro, adding fingers and stretching him out until only nonsense syllables fell from Dean's lips.
When Dean's balls drew up, warning of his impending release, Sam slid his fingers out and sat back on his knees. Dean was a flushed, sweating, shaking mess before him, eyes black and mouth open with desire. Dean whined at the loss of Sam's fingers. He needed more, specifically the gigantic diamond-hard member that belonged to the beautiful man in front of him. Sam grinned. "The best is yet to come," he quoted. Dean had just enough brain cells to roll his eyes before the tip of Sam's erection pressed against his hole. Dean pushed his hips down, willing Sam to stop staring and complete him already. Sam's eyes softened and he leaned down, claiming Dean's lips in a slow, searing kiss. Dean's hands gripped Sam's ridiculous back muscles. His eyes went wide as Sam pressed himself completely into Dean.
"Jesus Christ," Dean gasped. Sam felt humongous, way more than the three fingers that used to be in the same place. The burn was there, but Dean didn't really mind. He was filled, wholly and absolutely.
"Call me Sam," he quipped, and before Dean could compose a sarcastic remark, Sam pulled out and thrust in again.
"Sam!" Dean cried out, Sam's velvety length pressing into that same amazing spot inside him.
"Dean," Sam murmured, gazing into Dean's eyes as he thrust. They rocked together, melding into one being. Dean didn't know where he ended and Sam began. The pleasure stretched for minutes or hours or days, Dean didn't care. Sam's murmured praise and his olive and whiskey eyes swirling around in that mesmerizing pattern and his lips kissing every inch of Dean he could reach, forehead, cheeks, lips, neck, chin, ears... Heaven wasn't found in death, heaven was found in Sam, right here, right now. Fire licked up Dean's spine as he shouted a mixture of nonsense words and Sam's name over and over until it became the steady mantra of "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy."
Dean felt the tsunami of pleasure nearing his shore. His nails dug into Sam's shoulders because he could no longer form words to warn of his impending orgasm.
"Oh, me too, Dean, Dean," Sam gasped. They tumbled down together, or more like up. Dean was being lifted, no, he was flying as spasms of something more than pleasure seized his body. Nothing existed, nothing at all but Sam, his Sammy who owned his soul. The white vision in front of his eyes was slowly turning black.
The next thing he felt was Sam's fingers threading through his. They both lay on the bed, but Sam was now next to him, not on top of him. Had he blacked out? Neither man spoke, but concentrated on refueling their bodies with oxygen. Dean was heavy, warm, and sated like he had never been before. It took a whole five minutes before Sam could speak. "You're... amazing..." he said between breaths. Dean managed a weak chuckle. A crinkling of plastic and Sam's removed hand drew his attention away from the haze of pleasure. Baby wipes. Sam had brought baby wipes to clean them up with.
"Always... prepared, huh?" Dean rasped.
"Like the good boy scout I am," Sam murmured, swiping the cool cloth over the puddle of come on Dean's chest and stomach. When they were both cleaned up, Sam pulled Dean into his arms. Dean didn't cuddle, for some reason he felt that was true, but nothing could keep him from rolling into Sam's embrace. He fit perfectly against Sam's body, like they were made for each other. It was such a cheesy thought, but it made Dean grin like a kid on Christmas morning.
Neither man fell asleep. Sam's fingers trailed softly up and down Dean's arm as Dean twirled a lock of Sam's hair around his fingers. "Sam?" Dean finally parted the comfortable silence.
"Yes, Dean?" Sam's voice was so smooth and content. He pulled away enough to look Dean in the eyes, the olive and whiskey swirls shining with happiness. Sam radiated happiness, and Dean could feel it down to his core. This was right, he and Sam. This was real, no matter what other notions his brain had. No matter how much of his life he had forgotten, no matter what weird images came to mind, no matter how unfamiliar he felt in the ornate house, Sam was real, and he was his. Even if they were brothers, which is what his mind kept insisting. "Dean?" Sam ran his thumb along Dean's jaw, snapping him back to the present.
"Are we brothers?" Dean asked quietly.
Sam gave him a little amused look and chuckled. "No, we aren't brothers."
"So then why are our last names the same? Winchester."
"I took yours," Sam brought Dean's left hand up to their faces, matching rings shining on their fingers.
Something swelled in Dean's chest, something he had never felt before. He felt tears well up in his eyes and fought to blink them back. "We're..."
"We're married," Sam kissed Dean's ring. "Nearly five years, now. And for the rest of our lives, and beyond that." He resumed stroking Dean's cheek. "You really don't remember?"
"I..." Dean didn't have words. He always had words, but his silver tongue failed him.
"Whatever you're going through right now, I'm staying right here. I won't ever leave you, you got that?" Dean nodded. "I love you."
"You love me?" the older man whispered.
"With every fiber of my being." Sam stared at him intently. "More than every word of every sappy love poem that anyone's ever written. More than myself, more than life, more than even I understand." Sam smiled and looked down. "You always tease me for being so girly, but it's true. I love you, Dean Winchester."
"I love you, Sammy," he gripped the taller man's hand. "My Sammy."
"Dean," Sam said, louder than their conversation had been.
"What?"
"Dean!" his voice was louder, his face contorted with panic. Dean felt himself yanked out of the bed by an unseen force. He felt a heavy, uncomfortable weight on his chest, and he struggled. He tried to yell, Sam! but his voice didn't work. The scene was fading before him, the walls vanished, then the bed. The last thing he saw were Sam's impossibly clear eyes.
"Dean!"
. . . . . . . . . .
"Dean, come on, Dean, come back to me," Sam's voice filtered through the black fog in Dean's brain. "Dean, you need to wake up!" His eyes cracked open, searching through the dim-lit images in front of him. They were in the half-destroyed mansion, he remembered, hunting the djinn. She lay on the floor several feet away from them with the silver knife still protruding from her back, dead. Djinn. It was all a dream, just a projection of his desires while the monster drained him. He wasn't married to Sam. They weren't even together. They were brothers, platonic only.
"Dean, thank god," Sam sat back on his knees, blood covering a good portion of his over-shirt. Dean's eyes darted to Sam's left hand. No ring. Completely bare, nothing to distinguish a connection between them. Something thick welled up inside Dean, something dark and painful and hungry. Sam looked concerned, the same concerned look as dream-Sam had given him in their kitchen. "Dean?"
Dean was too overwhelmed by the blackness. He rolled away from his brother and into a ball, sobbing into his dirty hands uncontrollably.