Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)
For Twinchesterangel
Sam shivers as the door swings open, ringing that generic bell that all typical American diners seem to have hung over the doorframe and letting in an icy gust of crisp winter air. An older couple wrapped up in down coats and scarves bustle though the door, calling a friendly, familiar greeting to a woman behind the counter named Flo, and then settling themselves in the booth right next to where Sam's standing, waiting for his 'to go' order of coffee and pancakes. The woman flashes him a kind smile that Sam only halfheartedly returns, dropping his gaze and hoping he doesn't look like he's in the mood to talk. He isn't, at all. It's freezing in here, mostly because the door keeps opening as people rush in and out, and Sam really isn't dressed for this kind of weather in just a hoodie and his thin canvas jacket. He just wants to pay for the food he ordered and get back to Dean and that warm bed as quickly as possible.
Sam will deny it vehemently if Dean asks him later, when Dean asks him later, but he's still a bit shaky after the events of the last forty-eight hours. Having grown up a hunter, he's not exactly unaccustomed to near-death experiences, and usually it would be something he could shake off in the time it takes to down a beer and shoot a round of pool or two. But being jumped in the middle of the night, waking up in an expertly-crafted iron cage and spending the better part of two days pretty sure he's about to be murdered at any second? That's definitely something he was never trained to handle. He's okay, and Dean's okay, and those hillbilly freaks are taken care of, so he really should be able to just put it behind him and move on, but for some reason he's having a bit more trouble doing so than he usually would. Maybe because, like Dean said, with people there aren't any rules. They could've killed him or even Dean for that matter, whenever they wanted and just for the hell of it.
"Dean?" Sam calls cautiously, opening a creaky, rotten wooden door and keeping a sharp eye in case there's more of them. He's already locked two in one of the cages, and Kathleen's watching the third one, but he's still got no idea what they're really dealing with.
"Sam?" Dean's voice rings tentatively out from the next room, followed by a grunt of pain and what sounds like a little girl squealing in fear, or maybe anger.
Sam darts as quickly as he can around a few tables and piles of inexplicable junk and trash and finally finds Dean, tied to a chair in some kind of living room with an absolutely filthy kid holding him at knifepoint.
"Sammy!" Dean yells in what sounds like relief mixed with disbelief, but before Sam can blink the girl is screaming and rushing toward him, brandishing a small switchblade.
Sam lunges to the side to avoid her advance, and then manages to get a grip on her arms and hustles her toward the nearest closet he can find. He wrenches it open and shoves her in, slamming the door behind her and grabbing a chair to wedge under the handle, effectively locking her inside.
"Are you okay?" Dean cries urgently.
"Yeah," Sam answers, hurrying over to his brother and untying him as quickly as he can. "What's that smell, did they burn you or something?"
"Yeah, shoulder," Dean says dismissively, whipping his arms forward as soon as they're free and grabbing a desperate handful of Sam's shirt. "But you …?"
He drags Sam to a standing position and feels up and down his chest quickly, checking for injuries, and then grabs Sam's face into his hands and searches his eyes frantically.
"You … you're really okay?" Dean gasps.
"Yeah, Dean I'm fine, what - ?"
But before he can even finish the thought, Dean's throwing his arms around Sam's neck and pulling him down into a bone-crushing hug.
"You're – fuck, I thought – but you're okay," Dean whispers.
"Sir? Sir? " a syrupy female voice says loudly.
Sam jumps. "Huh? Sorry, what?"
"I said your order's up." The blond, mid-thirties waitress is peering at him apprehensively.
"Oh. Right." Sam gives himself a mental shake and reaches for his wallet.
"I called you three times, you were really out of it," she comments, eyebrows knit in concern. "You alright, honey?"
"I'm fine." Sam smiles weakly and hands her a few bills. "Keep the change," he adds, grabbing two takeout cups of coffee and a Styrofoam container off the counter and bracing himself to make the short walk back to the motel through the frigid Minnesota wind.
Sam slips a little on an ice buildup as he struggles to open the motel-room door one-handedly. He manages to unlock it and bump it open with his hip, miraculously beforehe spills coffee all over himself but not quite quick enough to avoid a particularly strong gust blowing snow down the back of his neck.
"Shit!" Sam breathes, shivering all the way to his toes. God, he hates winter. He's more happy to have Dean back than he could ever say, but sometimes he really misses California. He drops the coffees and breakfast down onto the rickety motel table and leans back to slam the door shut as quickly as he can before a whole snow-drift blows in. He catches a glimpse of Dean in the process; standing on the other side of the room in boxers and a t-shirt, with his back to Sam and his cell phone to his ear.
"Dude, it's like the freakin' North Pole out there!" Sam laughs, shrugging out of his jacket as Dean snaps his phone shut and turns around. "Must've snowed three feet last night, we are so gonna be stuck here for – "
Sam stops short when he notices the look on his big brother's face. Dean's green eyes are wide and intense and his jaw is clenched in anger.
"… Dean?" Sam asks tentatively.
"Where the hell have you been?" Dean asks in short, clipped tones.
"I – I went to get breakfast," Sam stutters, motioning towards the table. "You – did something happen?"
"Yeah, something happened!" Dean explodes. "I woke up and you weren't here!"
"Dean – I always wake up before you. I was just – "
"Getting breakfast, yeah, I heard you, but how exactly was I supposed to know that, Sam?" Dean interrupts, throwing his arms up in exasperation.
"I …" Sam blinks in astonishment. He honestly has no idea what's going on.
"Shit, would it have killed you to leave a note? Or maybe answer your damn phone?" Dean barks, grabbing a pillow roughly off the bed and hurling it across the room at Sam.
Sam throws up his hands just in time to punt it out of the way. "Dean, what the hell?" he yells indignantly. It's only a pillow, so it's not like it would've hurt anyway, but still.
"I've been freaking out here, Sam, that's 'what the hell'!" Dean yells back.
"Yeah, I – okay, I can see that," Sam says slowly, trying his best to remain non-confrontational. "I get that you're upset, Dean, but you're gonna have to give me a clue here, cause I don't – "
"You were – everything's – " Dean takes a deep breath. "Your computer's still here, the car's still here, your fuckin' toothbrush was still here! But you were … just …"
Dean gestures around the room aimlessly for a few seconds, and then his jaw sets in fury again and he grabs another pillow, this time chucking it aggressively at the wall.
"Fuck!" he shouts, scrubbing a hand over his face and staying resolutely turned away from Sam.
Sam is left blinking in shock for a few more bewildered seconds until finally, as if through quicksand, something clicks. He was gone. Everything else was still here … and he was gone. Exactly like that night, when their bags had still been in the backseat and the weapons had all still been in the trunk. Dad's journal had probably even been sitting on the hood of the car where Sam left it, newspaper clippings and loose pages still in tact. Everything had been exactly where it was supposed to be. Everything except for Sam. Fuck. Why had he not considered this?
"Dean, I … I'm sorry," Sam mumbles, wishing Dean would look at him. "I didn't think."
Dean puffs a derisive breath through his nose. "Yeah, you never do, do you?"
"I just went to the diner right next door!" Sam protests. "I wasn't even gone ten minutes!" He feels awful for scaring Dean, but he hates being treated like the idiotic little brother who can't take care of himself.
Dean sighs heavily and turns back around slowly. He doesn't look angry at all anymore. Now his brow is furrowed and his lips are pressed together; eyes glassy and suffering, and Sam knows that look. It's the unmistakable 'I almost lost Sammy' look.
"Yeah, well, when those bastards grabbed you, I wasn't even gone for five minutes."
"Dean, I … I know." Sam echoes Dean's sigh. "But that was different, I mean, it was in front of a seedy bar in the middle of the night!"
"So?"
"So, just now I was in a crowded diner at eight-thirty in the morning. And look!" Sam puts his left foot up onto the edge of the bed, hikes up the cuff of his pants and pulls a Bowie knife in a leather sheath out from the ankle of his boot, and then rolls up the sleeve of his hoodie to show Dean the butterfly knife strapped to his forearm. "See? Oh, and – " he reaches behind himself and pulls out the .38 he'd tucked into the back of his jeans. "Loaded with silver bullets, just in case. I'm armed to the frickin' teeth, nothing was gonna happen to me!"
Dean nods shortly, casting his gaze toward the ground.
"I know you must've been going out of your mind the last two days," Sam says gently. "Hell, I know I would've been if you'd been the one they'd taken. But, shit Dean, I woke up in a cage. I listened to that Jenkins guy get murdered. I was pretty damn terrified too. I'm not about to just let it happen again."
Dean nods again, more steadily this time. He rubs his hands over his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He spares a briefly apologetic glance at Sam, and then reaches down to pick up the second abused pillow and toss it back to its place against the headboard. Then Dean collapses down onto the bed and throws an arm over his eyes.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," he says, quietly but sincerely.
Sam shakes his head even though he knows Dean can't see it. "Don't be. Just … maybe you could try to trust me a little every now and then?"
Dean huffs a harsh laugh. "Trust you. Yeah, that's. Yeah." He laughs again, almost cruelly this time. "That's what I need to do."
Sam knows that's just Dean's way of baiting him to get into it again, but he resists the urge to retort. There's been something distinctly off with Dean since this whole thing, and it feels like more than just Dean's usual over-protective big brother crap, so if Dean's gonna insist on having this all out right-the-fuck-now, then Sam's gonna find out what's really going on.
He moves slowly towards the bed and then settles himself onto it, sitting cross-legged beside Dean so that his left knee is just barely resting against Dean's ribcage. Just enough of a touch so that Dean knows he's there. Whatever else is going on, the bottom line is Dean was really scared when Sam had been missing, and Sam knows how much Dean hates feeling scared. Sam needs to be smart about his next move because if Dean thinks he's being patronized, he'll clam up and that'll be the end of it.
"Dean, did … something else happen?" Sam asks carefully.
"Whata'ya mean?"
"Just that … look, I know you were freaked out. But, we've been on a thousand hunts together, and it's not like this is the first time I've ever been in danger. Hell, it's not even the first time I've been grabbed by something. I get that you were worried about me, and – well, you kinda saved my ass, so, thank you, for being worried about me. But it just … feels like, maybe, there's something else. Something you're not telling me."
Sam's aware that he's babbling and tripping over his words like an idiot, but the direct approach is never a good idea with Dean. He'll just get defensive and they'll end up yelling again. Falling back into this unofficially monogamous, understood-but-not-defined relationship of theirs again certainly hasn't done a thing to soothe the fact that they're still brothers with relatively short tempers. Although, come to think of it, Sam's not sure he really wanted it to. Part of him loves the fact that, in spite of everything else, they're always brothers first.
Dean's been silent for a few long minutes, but Sam bites his tongue and waits. Dean will relent and give in to the dreaded 'chick-flick moments' when the situation calls for it, but never if he's pushed. Dean would kick his ass six ways from Sunday if Sam ever voiced it, but sometimes, to keep from losing patience, Sam has to think of Dean like he's a frightened animal or something – it's best to just be quiet and let him come to you.
"I thought you were dead," Dean says finally.
"… Okay." Sam doesn't say anything else, because there has to be more to it than that.
"No, like …" Dean exhales reluctantly and lifts his arm off his face so he can turn his wide, sad eyes to Sam's. "I … really thought you were dead."
Sam nods slowly, still not entirely sure what Dean's talking about but damn it hurts to hear so much pain in Dean's voice. Sam hopes his always-revealing eyes aren't giving away exactly how much his chest is clenching right now. Worried he's not going to be able to speak without saying something stupid and making Dean put his walls back up, Sam settles for unfolding his legs and sliding down to lie next to Dean, one arm propping up his head.
"They had me tied up," Dean continues quietly. "They were telling me all about how they hunt people for fun, how they give them a weapon so they have a chance to fight back. And then they decided to make me choose which one of you they were gonna hunt that night. They'd already stuck that poker against my shoulder, and they said they were gonna take an eye next if I didn't choose, and I couldn't just let that woman die, so … I picked you."
Sam nods again. It sounds reasonable to him so far – he'd have made the same call. He presses his free hand gently onto Dean's chest, rubbing just a little so Dean'll keep going.
"I picked you cause I thought they were gonna give you a chance, you know? Bunch of psycho, inbred hillbillies, I figured it was nothing you couldn't handle even if it was two against one."
Sam shifts his body forward just a little, so he's pressed completely into Dean's side; shoulders to ankles. Suddenly he wishes he were wearing less so he could feel Dean's warm skin right against his own.
"But then the older one said to … he told them …"
"What?" Sam urges gently.
Dean takes a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut, unable to stop a few tears from spilling down the sides of his face and onto the pillow. "He said not to let you out, to just … shoot you. In the cage. And then a minute later, I heard a gunshot."
Oh god. The back of Sam's throat suddenly feels like its being twisted like a bottle cap as Dean looks up at him again, moss-colored eyes sparkling with tears.
"I thought it was you, Sammy," Dean whispers feebly. "I thought they'd killed you."
"Dean …" Sam whispers back, but he has no idea what the hell else to say, so he leans down to rest his head on Dean's chest and slides his arm out to lie heavily along Dean's stomach.
"You're right, we have been in danger on hunts and I have been worried before that you were hurt, or worse," Dean continues unsteadily, sliding his arm under Sam's neck and curling it around Sam's shoulders to tug him a little closer. "But this time was different. This time I was absolutely positive that you were dead, and I … I've never had to feel that before."
Sam presses a few kisses into Dean's neck because he's still pretty damn speechless. He's never known what it's like to really think Dean was dead either, and he can't even imagine. Doesn't want to. Shit, Sam doesn't know what the hell he'd do if he ever lost Dean.
"And it would've been my fault," Dean chokes out after a long minute, pushing his nose into Sam's hair. "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. I'm supposed to keep you safe, Sammy."
"You did," Sam murmurs insistently. "Dean, I'm alive right now because of you."
"It's just – you didn't see all the things they had in that house. Pictures of themselves with the corpses of the people they'd killed and jars of teeth and freakin' wind-chimes made out of jaw bones, and – god, Sam, when I think about what they could've done to you …"
"Well don't, because they didn't." Sam pushes himself back up to his elbow so he can cup Dean's cheek in his free hand and rest their foreheads together. "I'm fine, and you're fine, and we can put this whole damn county behind us and never come back, okay?"
Dean nods and then arches up to meet Sam's lips in a kiss. For a few minutes, Sam just brushes his lips lightly back and forth against Dean's, keeping it soft and dry and hopefully comforting. He can't even fathom all the horrible things that must've been running through Dean's mind when he heard that gunshot, but Sam does know exactly how much Dean means to him, and the thought of losing him makes it hard for Sam to breathe. It's a good kiss, always is with Dean, but it almost feels more like Dean begging Sam to reassure him that they're both alive, that they haven't lost each other, and yeah, Sam can give him that. When Dean honest-to-god whines, quiet and needy from the back of his throat, Sam's protective instincts have him pressing down and parting his lips to let Dean taste him. Dean's tongue darts out to rub along Sam's bottom lip and then dips into Sam's mouth briefly before pulling back.
"Sam," he sighs, his voice just a broken whisper of breath against Sam's mouth.
"I'm right here, Dean," Sam soothes. "Not going anywhere."
Dean blows out another breath, but this time it sounds annoyed. Not with Sam, though; Dean's annoyed with himself. Twenty-two years of Dean being the single most important thing in his world has given Sam the ability to interpret all the noises Dean makes when he can't bring himself to say the words.
Sam leans back a little and gazes down into Dean's eyes. "You gonna be okay?"
Dean nods shortly. "I'll be fine."
And just like that, Dean's open, honest expression disappears and the mask slips into place. He pushes Sam off gently and sits up, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he has a headache.
"Dean …"
"Sam, it's … just, leave it, okay?"
The late February sun has completely risen now and strong, golden sunlight is filtering in through the thin curtains and Sam knows without knowing that it's the reason Dean's closing up again. Dean can allow himself to be stripped bare and vulnerable when it's just the two of them in the darkness, but those unguarded feelings have always been too fragile to withstand the tomorrow. In the daylight, Dean has to be stronger than his own weaknesses, and now Sam watches him pull away and build those walls back up like he does every morning.
"Hey, so, if it really snowed that much last night we should get stuff out of the trunk, yeah?" Dean asks briskly, all traces of any chink in his armor completely gone.
"Hm?"
"The stuff in the trunk that won't like the cold, we should bring it in," Dean clarifies. "You know, like wooden stakes that'll crack and holy water that's no good to us if it's turned to holy ice."
"Oh," Sam mutters distractedly. "Yeah, I guess we should. I hadn't thought about that."
Dean stands up and pads over to the chair where he'd dropped his duffle bag. As his brother busies himself with getting dressed, Sam's mind can't help drifting to the night before. He remembers how unusually quiet Dean had been, and now he understands why. After a few cracks about not staging another rescue if Sam ever got himself abducted again, (which Sam knew wasn't even close to the truth - Dean would always come for him), Dean had shut up completely and remained that way as they packed up the car and drove the twenty minutes to the next town in silence. At the time, Sam had just assumed Dean was as tired and strung-out as he was, so he'd been grateful for the chance to just sit together and not feel the need to talk. But now he knows better. Now he knows that Dean had been halfway between relieved that Sam wasn't dead and just plain terrified at how close he'd come to losing his little brother. How close he'd come to being left all alone.
Once Dean had checked them into a room, he pulled his shirt off gingerly and sat down on the edge of the bed (one bed, Sam remembers noticing with a small smile), to let Sam clean and treat the bloody, blistering flesh on his shoulder where a white-hot poker had been pressed into his skin. Sam kneeled in front of his brother, working as quickly and as gently as he could and letting Dean squeeze his free arm painfully as he dabbed antiseptic on the wound. Sam knew from experience that burns that bad hurt like a bitch whenever they were touched. He thinks he remembers whispering something like "Looks like it hurts", and he definitely remembers placing a tender kiss just underneath it when the gauze and bandage was taped securely in place. Dean had pulled Sam forward into the V of his legs then, and Sam had enjoyed a few brief moments of being pressed up against the warmth and security of Dean's chest before Dean hauled them both to their feet and into the shower to let hot water rinse them clean of blood and dirt and the memories of how close they'd both been to dying.
And then they'd collapsed into the bed on top of each other; still wet and naked but too exhausted to care, and the next thing Sam remembers is waking up with Dean's heat and scent all over him and finally feeling safe again.
"Coming?"
Dean's voice snaps Sam back to reality. He blinks up at the form of Dean standing with his hand on the doorknob, staring back at Sam impatiently.
"Yeah, I'll be right there."
Sam grabs the jacket he tossed onto the table earlier, pulls it back on and follows Dean out to the car.
"Shit," Dean mutters, shivering and popping the collar of his leather jacket to keep the wind off his neck. "You weren't kidding."
Sam smiles a little. "Dude, we're in Minnesota in the middle of February, why're you so surprised?"
"Not surprised, just pissed off," Dean grumbles, making his way through knee high snow-drifts over to the trunk of his almost buried car. "I'm a Kansas boy, Sammy, not equipped to handle sub-zero temperatures."
Sam's half a second away from pointing out that it's not like they were actually raised in Kansas, and just being born somewhere doesn't technically make it your home. But he catches the words as they're just about to leave his mouth, because the truth of it is, they should have been raised in Kansas. They should have spent scorching summers playing baseball in dusty fields, trying not to get heat-stroke, and mild winters hating the dull grey of the sky and ground and hoping it would at least snow for Christmas. And that thought hurts too damn much to vocalize. So Sam reaches into the backseat to grab the spare duffle bag they keep there, and then moves around the back of the car to help Dean load a small selection of their various weapons into it.
"See, what did I tell you?" Dean grins as he holds up an old milk carton full of holy water, completely frozen solid.
"Well, it wouldn't help us exorcise a demon, but we could probably knock one out with it," Sam jokes.
Dean laughs. "Very creative. You might actually make a decent hunter one day, kiddo."
"Hilarious. C'mon, let's get back inside before I freeze to death." Sam zips up the bag after Dean shoves in the last of the stakes and his favorite shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder and coughing a little as his lungs try to reject the dry, frigid air.
"Go ahead, I'll just be a minute."
Dean slams the trunk closed and then pulls his sleeve over his hand and uses his forearm to start brushing snow off the lid.
Sam snickers. "What, she doesn't like getting wet?"
Dean raises an eyebrow. "If the wind's been blowing like this all night, there's probably road salt in the snow. Salt will cause rust, and if she rusts Dad'll kill me."
Sam laughs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever you say, Bo Duke."
"Hey!" Dean points a playfully annoyed finger in Sam's direction. "The General Lee was sweet as hell, but she's got nothing on my girl."
Sam smiles and shakes his head. "Well I hope you two are very happy together."
"Aw, no need to be jealous, baby," Dean drawls as he saunters over to Sam and slides his arms around Sam's waist.
"Yeah, yeah. Are you comin' or what?"
Dean leans in and pecks a quick kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth. "Go. I'll be right in."
Sam bumps Dean's hip playfully with his own, and then turns back toward the room. His hand has just reached the icy doorknob when he hears a faint whooshing sound, followed by the sickly feeling of something wet and fuckin' cold hitting the back of his neck. Sam twitches involuntarily as it drips down his spine and spins around to face his smirking brother.
"Did – did you just throw a snowball at me?" he asks incredulously.
Dean smiles that devastating smile, and it lights up his whole face like a little kid at Christmas.
"I might have." He reaches down and scoops up another clump, bouncing it in his hand nonchalantly, still beaming mischievously. "Wanna do something about it?"
Sam rolls his eyes again. "You're an idiot," he says, pulling the door open.
As he tosses the bag inside, he pretends to slip a little on the ice so he can grab a handful of snow off the ground, and then whips around and chucks it as hard as he can at Dean, who doesn't have time to duck before it hits him square in the forehead. Dean makes a strangled noise of surprise and then displeasure as he wipes the snow from his face. Sam tries his best not to laugh; settling instead for mimicking Dean's earlier smirk.
"Oh, you are so dead!" Dean yells, not quite managing to mask a chuckle. He hurls his handful of snow in Sam's direction, but Sam sees it coming and manages to lunge out of the way.
Dean's just as fast, though, and before Sam can straighten up he takes a couple more ice-cold hits right to the chest, one after the other in rapid succession. Dean's laughing loudly, and Sam's brain takes a millisecond to enjoy the unbridled sound of joy that he doesn't get to hear very often. Then he aims a few deadly-accurate throws of his own directly at Dean's face, and drops down for cover behind the car.
"Hiding? That's weak, Sam, even for you."
Sam can't help but echo Dean's laugh this time as more snow flies through the air, arcing over the car and dropping down toward him like a fly-ball.
"Not even close, Dean," he calls mockingly.
"Maybe that one was just to distract you."
Dean's sugar-and-gravel voice is suddenly right behind him, and before Sam even has the time to turn around there's the dead weight of his entire brother crashing down into his chest and squashing him, breathless, into snow-covered pavement. Sam grunts as the wind is knocked slightly out of him and then gasps in horrible surprise as Dean grabs a handful of snow and smushes it right into Sam's face.
"Ugh, you are such an asshole!" Sam cries, spitting ice out of his mouth and trying to shake the rest off his face since his arms are pinned under Dean's weight.
Dean chuckles softly. "Maybe I just like how you look in snow."
Sam wrenches one of his hands free so he can wipe the stinging wetness out of his eyes and glares up at Dean, only half seriously.
"You planning on letting me up before I'm completely soaked?" he asks, shivering as the snow begins to melt through his clothes and bite at the skin on his back and legs. Fuck, that's cold.
But Dean just shakes his head, smiling seductively, and leans in to kiss Sam full on the mouth. Sam's cold and wet and he stays annoyed for about another three and a half seconds, and then it hits him that Dean's kissing him outside, away from the safety of a dark, locked motel room. There's no one around so it's not technically public, but still, someone could come along at any minute and see them lying together on the ground and making out, and for once Dean doesn't seem to care.
The thrill of it has Sam going from zero to turned-the-hell-on in record time, and he moans thickly and opens his mouth to let Dean in. Dean's tongue slides along Sam's in warm, gentle strokes and Sam's whole body shudders, only partly because of the weather. It's an interesting contrast of sensations; the harsh cold at his back matched with the searing heat of Dean's body on his front. After a moment, Sam decides it feels incredible. Even through layers of leather and thick cotton, Dean's so hot above him that Sam wouldn't be surprised if the two of them melted a Sam-and-Dean shaped hole in the snow.
Dean pulls back with a gasp when the need to breathe overtakes the need to tongue-fuck Sam's mouth. Sam's head lifts a little off the ground and his lips chase Dean's involuntarily – he'd been running out of air too, but he'd kind of liked it. He allows them one deep breath each and then reattaches their lips almost roughly. The lack of oxygen makes an already amazing kiss that much more dizzying and Sam's brain quickly loses the ability to focus on anything but his brother's mouth burning into his own. Even the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes sticking to his skin doesn't feel so bad anymore, until a sharp gust of what has got to be pure ice sweeps over them and Sam can feel Dean matching his shiver.
"Fuck, s'cold," Dean mutters, his warm breath turning almost instantly to frost on Sam's cheek.
"You know, the b-best cure for hypothermia is st-stripping naked and letting body heat d-do it's job," Sam comments, going for sexy but failing miserably when his teeth start to chatter. But it seems to work on Dean anyway, who gazes down at Sam with one cocked eyebrow and that look in his bright eyes.
"I could go for some naked," he practically purrs.
He presses a few more soft kisses to Sam's lips, and then crawls backwards off Sam's body and reaches a hand down to help him up. Sam grabs it, and swears silently as the squeeze of Dean's hand hurts his near-frozen fingers. Dean heaves Sam to a standing position and then moves behind him to brush the snow off the back of Sam's jacket. Sam clenches his hands in and out of fists a few times, attempting to regain some feeling in them.
"You know if I lose all my fingers to frostbite I'll be useless at hunting, right?" Sam asks, biting back a gasp as Dean's hand grazes his ass.
"You really will," Dean agrees. "Not to mention all the other equally important things we need your fingers for," he adds, crowding in close and licking a stripe from Sam's shoulder to his ear. He nips lightly at Sam's earlobe and then sucks it into his warm mouth. Sam shivers again as the bitter wind stings the newly wet patch of skin, and he spins around into Dean's arms.
"I guess we better get me inside, then."
"Definitely." Dean throws him a look of mock-concern, and then grabs a handful of Sam's shirt and pulls him toward the door.
"What about your baby?" Sam asks, hoping he already knows the answer.
Dean leans in to peck at Sam's bottom lip. "Suddenly I don't care so much."
"Knew you liked me more," Sam murmurs.
"Just don't tell her."
Dean winks, and then shoves the door open and yanks Sam in after him. Sam's brain barely has time to register movement before he's being pressed up against the closed door and his neck is being attacked by Dean's lips – pure molten heat against his cold skin. Dean rolls his hips into Sam's, hard, and damn that feels good. Sam's been half-hard for a good fifteen minutes now, and the pressure and warmth of his brother's thigh against his crotch makes his head spin a little. And Dean's lips are soft and warm and they kiss away almost all thoughts of being cold. Almost.
"Dean."
Dean pulls away from Sam's neck and grins up at him. "Still cold?"
"Freezing. Some jerk tackled me into a snow-bank and wouldn't let me up."
Dean clicks his tongue in mock-sympathy. "Poor Sammy. Want me to warm you up?"
"Mm, yes please," Sam hums happily, squeezing Dean's hips gently. He's always loved the way the jut of Dean's hip-bones fit so perfectly in his palms, like they were expertly carved just for that purpose.
Dean brushes his lips against Sam's so lightly that it's barely even contact. "Shower?" he mumbles.
"Sounds great." Sam slides his hands under Dean's lapels and pushes the old, time-softened leather jacket to the floor. Between Dad wearing it and then Dean, the sharp, musty smell of the leather has always been comforting to Sam. He can remember huddling under it in the back seat of the Impala next to Dean, shivering and waiting with bated breath for their Dad to come back out of some haunted house or sketchy patch of woods; tired and bloody but alive. Sam remembers hating those moments, but he also remembers feeling completely safe and protected the minute his big brother's arms were around him. Funny, how some things don't change even when everything else does.
Dean rids Sam of his jacket in turn, toes off his boots and then holds out his hand for Sam to take; Sam does and lets Dean lead him towards the bathroom. Once they're in the small, white room, Dean lifts Sam's hand and kisses the back of it. Then he steps away and leans down to spin the shower's temperature nozzle toward hot. Water erupts from the showerhead and quickly begins filling the room with steam. Dean turns back around and smiles at Sam; a little bit of lust and a seductive smirk hiding just behind his darkened green eyes, but mostly what Sam sees is something pure and powerful that he doesn't want to label, just in case he's imagining it.
Dean cocks his head a little. "What?"
Sam smiles, realizing too late that he must've been staring, and shakes his head. "Nothing. C'mere."
Dean smiles back and steps right up into Sam's space. He brushes his fingers lightly across Sam's lips, watching intently as they pass over Sam's skin. Sam's lips tingle when the soft pads of Dean's fingertips are gone, and then Dean kisses him again, this time slow and deep and so fervent that Sam's knees suddenly threaten to give out. Dean's hands slip under the bottom of Sam's shirt and press against his stomach, sliding slowly around Sam's ribcage and settling just below Sam's shoulder blades. Dean's rough palms are like hot coals against Sam's frozen skin, and the feeble noise Sam lets out is dangerously close to a whimper, but he can't help it – Dean smells like warm cotton mixed with the crisp, clean smell of snow and it makes Sam's mouth water.
"Shit, your skin is like ice," Dean murmurs.
"Yeah, wonder how that could've happened," Sam grins back.
"No idea." Dean pulls Sam's bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it, not quite hard enough to hurt but enough pressure that Sam can feel blood rushing to the spot where Dean's tongue is stroking back and forth. His lips are gonna be red and swollen and ridiculous looking when Dean pulls back, but Sam's so lightheaded that he can't bring himself to care. Dean might really be the best kisser on the planet and if Sam doesn't get some friction on his dick right-the-fuck-now, it might just explode of its own volition. His hips jerk forward into Dean's and his moan is echoed back into his mouth.
Dean grips the bottom of Sam's t-shirt and hikes it up, breaking the kiss for a minute to push the wet material over Sam's head. Then he reaches behind himself, grabs the neck of his own shirt and pulls it off. Sam unbuttons his jeans and lets them fall to the ground, followed by his boxers as Dean does the same. Dean's eyes sweep up and down Sam's body hungrily and Sam can't help the intense blush that spreads across his cheeks – the way Dean's just staring at him is a little unnerving and suddenly Sam feels very exposed. He almost expects Dean to laugh at him for flushing and hiding behind his bangs, but Dean doesn't. He just gets back into Sam's space and palms Sam's hot cheek.
"Don't need to be embarrassed, Sammy. You're fuckin' gorgeous."
"Shut up." Sam rolls his eyes and the heat spreads to his neck, but Dean ignores him and swipes his tongue over the shell of Sam's ear.
"Always been fuckin' gorgeous, baby boy."
Jesus-fucking-christ. Dean used to call Sam that all the time when he was a kid – to soothe him whenever he was scared or upset, and the fact that it used to be just an innocent brotherly nickname gives Sam this dirty, perverse thrill when Dean says it now. Especially when Dean's voice sounds all arousal-thick and whiskey-scratched like that. Sam's dick actually jumps even though Dean hasn't even touched it yet and he feels a bit like someone just poured steaming hot chicken soup down his throat, filling his insides with liquid warmth. When Dean leans back a little, the eyes that stare into Sam's own are so lust-blackened that just a thin ring of stormy green is visible around the edges.
"C'mon," Dean murmurs, taking Sam's hand again and pulling him into the shower stall.
When the hot spray first hits Sam's goose-bumped flesh it burns a little, but it quickly melts into holy crap, that feels good and his shoulders release the tension he wasn't aware they'd been holding. He rolls his head back and forth a few times, hissing a little as a kink makes itself known on the left side of his neck.
"Stiff?" Dean asks quietly, scratching lightly at Sam's stomach with blunt fingernails.
"Yeah, a little."
"Want me to rub your shoulders?"
"Really?"
"Sure. I like taking care of you." Dean licks water droplets off Sam's collarbone. "Or I could suck your cock."
Sam's whole body tenses and releases in one rolling wave of arousal and his breath catches in his throat. "Fuck, Dean."
Dean just smiles innocently up at him. "Your choice."
Sam smiles weakly and tries not to let Dean see just how painfully turned on he is, although his erection pressing into Dean's hip kind of defeats the purpose. But that shit-eating grin on Dean's face means they're playing a game, so Sam plays along.
"Hm, I don't know," Sam says, pretending to actually think about it, "my back is pretty sore. Slept on a floor for two days and all."
Half a second after the words pass over Sam's lips, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Dean's face clouds over instantly and his eyes go dull, and Sam would give anything, anything to pull the words back into his mouth and swallow them down and take back ever even thinking them.
"Dean …"
But Dean just shuts his eyes and shakes his head like it suddenly hurts too much to try to make his brain form words.
"Shit," Sam mutters, grabbing Dean's shoulders and pulling him in close. "Sorry, I didn't mean – I, I really don't know when to shut up sometimes, do I?"
Dean's arms slide around Sam's ribcage and he holds on so tightly it's almost hard for Sam to breathe. He buries his face into the crook of Sam's neck and inhales deeply, like he's trying to suck Sam's entire body into his lungs. Sam wouldn't be entirely against the idea.
"Can't believe it took me two god-damn days to find you," Dean mutters. "I was so fucking scared, shit, you must've been ..."
"Yeah, I was," Sam sighs, "but I knew you were coming, Dean. Knew you wouldn't let anything happen to me."
"Almost did."
"Almost doesn't count," Sam insists, holding Dean just a little tighter and mouthing at his wet hair.
"It's just … I, just, can't. I can't lose you again. Not now, not when I just got you back," Dean barely whispers.
"You won't," Sam assures. "Not going anywhere."
Dean lunges forward and attacks Sam's mouth so roughly that he can taste blood. He isn't sure if it's his or Dean's but he's positive he doesn't care. Sam kisses back with as much ferocity, meeting Dean halfway but more than happy to let Dean's probing tongue take control. Dean spent two days feeling completely out of control, and maybe all Dean really needs is to regain the feeling of being in charge. Dean kisses along Sam's jaw and down his neck, sucking and nipping marks into Sam's overheated flesh as he goes. Sam was already a bit beat up from being thrown in a cage, and he's well aware that his whole body is probably gonna be one giant bruise tomorrow, but he's way past the point of caring. Dean can do whatever he wants as long as he keeps kissing Sam like that. For now, Sam's body is alive with tremors and little jolts of electricity, and any thoughts of tomorrow can just go straight to hell.
Dean mouths his way quickly down Sam's chest, pausing briefly to swirl his tongue in and around Sam's bellybutton, and then sinks completely to his knees and forgets about foreplay altogether. He swallows Sam whole in one quick motion, and Sam gasps so forcefully it's like his lungs are trying to collapse in on themselves. His hand smacks against the wall and his fingers paw at the wet, slippery tile in a lame attempt to steady himself. It doesn't really work – his knees still shake and threaten to give out and if Dean didn't have the backs of his thighs in a vice-grip, Sam's pretty sure he'd have already fallen on his ass. As it is, he grips Dean's shoulders to keep himself balanced, so hard it just has to hurt, but Sam's brain has lost the ability to think about anything other than all that wet heat surrounding him, and Dean's tongue pressing into that vein that throbs almost painfully with every hard suck.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam breathes, his whole body vibrating like he's being electrocuted.
Dean moans a little but doesn't let up the fierce pace even for a second, and Sam's not gonna last much longer if he keeps that up. Dean usually does this slower; sensual and teasing and dirty-talking Sam into a frenzy, but this time he's ferociously concentrated like he's trying to suck Sam's soul right out through his cock, and Sam's definitely not complaining. He clutches at Dean's short hair as stinging heat burns from the base of his spine and radiates out through his limbs. Words went out the window several sucks ago, and suddenly his mouth can't even manage to form the noises to let Dean's know how close he is, but Dean seems to just know anyway. He increases the deliciously torturous suction just a little, and then Sam can feel his brother's throat relax; ready to take everything Sam has to give him. Just the thought of Dean like that – his body practically begging to swallow Sam down – and the fire in his spine rolls sharply through his body, crushing his lungs like a steamroller, and Sam's coming down Dean's throat so hard that his vision silvers out around the edges.
Dean drinks him down eagerly like it's the best damn thing he's ever tasted, and if Sam wasn't a gigantic, quivering pile of incapacitated goo right now, he could probably get hard again just from the sight alone. He pulls in big gulps of thick, steamy air as his body twitches like a junkie in withdrawal, pulsing out the last dregs of his orgasm. Dean lets Sam's softening dick slip out of his mouth but continues to lick at it tenderly, almost petting it with his tongue until Sam shudders right down to his toenails and gently pushes Dean away. Dean moves enough to back off of Sam's over-sensitive flesh, but then leans right back in and pushes his face into the crease of Sam's thigh. He draws in a few deep breaths that must taste like sweat and come, and Sam's pretty sure he can feel a whispered "Sammy" against his skin. But it's not an I-really-love-sucking-your-cock kind of 'Sammy', it's definitely more of an I-still-can't-believe-how-close-I-came-to-losing-you kind of 'Sammy', and even in his sex-haze that just breaks Sam's heart a little bit.
"Dean," Sam murmurs, smoothing his knuckles against Dean's hair. His breath still catches just a bit as he comes down from an intense orgasm high. "Dean, c'mere."
Dean looks up at Sam with eyes so dark and intense he almost looks possessed. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then licks it, seemingly trying to get every bit of Sam that he can.
"Damn, that's hot," Sam grins lazily, reaching for his brother and pulling him to his feet. Dean stands willingly, but he's still completely devoid of his usual post-blowjob bravado. Especially after getting Sam off so hard and so fast, normally Dean would have a lot of smirking to do right about now. But he doesn't; he just leans his forehead against Sam's and grips the back of Sam's neck tightly. Sam feels another twinge in his chest and brushes his nose back and forth on Dean's.
"Dean," he whispers again, because he really can't think of anything else to say. He runs his fingers down Dean's chest and trails them lightly across Dean's still full erection. Dean gasps shakily and digs the pads of his fingers into the top few notches of Sam's spine.
"Need you, Sammy," Dean whispers back.
Sam teases the leaking slit with a fingernail and then wraps his hand around Dean's length, stroking firmly up towards the head and squeezing. Dean's lips rest against Sam's – not exactly kissing, but just brushing softly and sharing air. Sam isn't sure exactly how long they've been in the shower, but they're in a cheap, small-town motel and the warm, soothing water still pelting down on them is probably only a few minutes away from running ice cold, so Sam ups the ante a little and pulls at Dean's hard flesh faster. Besides, judging by the way Dean's breath has gone ragged he isn't going to last much longer than Sam did.
Dean rubs his cheek against Sam's and groans, low and dirty and right in Sam's ear. "'s good, baby boy, so fuckin' good."
His hips buck up into Sam's hand jerkily, so Sam squeezes a little tighter and nips at the thin skin behind Dean's ear. Dean's making these pathetic, needy little noises in the back of his throat and his dick is pulsing in Sam's hand.
"Fuck, need – c'mon Sammy, make me come," Dean mutters in a strangled voice, breathing heavily against Sam's neck.
Sam twists his fist around the head of Dean's cock, loving the feeling of satin and steel in his hand. His other hand slides down to roll Dean's balls around in his palm, and Dean chokes out something that was probably meant to be a word but comes out unintelligible and then Sam feels streams of hot come hitting his hip; scorching as it drips down his leg. Dean grunts quietly and hangs on to Sam's shoulders tightly as his body jerks out his release. Sam milks him through it, and then lifts his hand up to lick it clean – he can never resist tasting that salty mustiness, always wishing he could just cancel his body's need to ever eat or drink anything again so the flavor could linger on his tongue forever.
Dean laughs a little shakily when he stops panting and kisses Sam softly. Sam's still got so much blood rushing in his head that he can't hear anything but the slowly settling thump of his heartbeat. He's barely aware now of the cooling water pelting down onto his back – he's barely aware of anything at all except the feeling of Dean's soft, full lips on his and Dean's fingertips digging into the skin between Sam's shoulder blades. Dean always kisses him after, always, but somehow this time it's different. It's not relaxed and contented like it usually is between them after they've both gotten off. The kisses are soft and slow but they still have a noticeably desperate undercurrent in them that Dean doesn't even try to mask. And his arms keep their tight grip around Sam's shoulders, as if he's afraid that if he lets go Sam might evaporate.
As the dizzying fog in his brain clears Sam starts to notice the skin on his hands shrinking and getting pruney, as well as the fact that the shower is definitely running cold now. Evidently they pushed their luck with the hot water tank. And since the whole point of the shower was for them to get warm, Sam pulls back reluctantly from Dean's embrace and reaches behind himself to spin the nozzle back to off. When he first moves away Dean chases his lips for a second, but then when he turns back around Dean doesn't meet his gaze. Even though Sam really wishes he could just drag Dean to the bed and pick up where they left off, the moment's clearly over, so Sam just squeezes Dean's arm and then steps out of the shower stall.
He hands Dean a thin, white towel from the stack beside the sink and then grabs one for himself, patting down his wet skin and trying desperately to find something to say. Anything, really, anything at all to diffuse the tension that's suddenly stealing all the air from the steamy room. But his brain can't come up with a damn thing, because Dean's never done this before. Usually when Sam has any kind of close call, Dean deals with it like he deals with every other emotion he can't handle – he gets mad. Sam supposes technically that is where Dean went first; when Sam got back from the diner to find Dean seething. But normally Dean would have just kept on yelling until Sam lost it too, and then they'd blow up at each other and probably spent the rest of the day glaring and not speaking. But this time, this time something else happened. This time, something in Dean broke.
Sam feels a warm hand in the middle of his back, and realizes he'd been standing facing away from Dean; deep in thought. He turns around expecting to see Dean smirking at him like he always does when Sam gets lost in his head, but the look he finds on Dean's face is one he's never, ever seen before. His eyebrows are scrunched up a little but his green eyes are wide and imploring. When Sam has a second to think about it, he's pretty sure Dean's wearing an expression that Sam himself wore a hundred times when they were little and he needed his big brother. But it's one that Dean's never turned back around on him before, and the force of it almost knocks Sam off his feet.
It's Dean with his walls torn completely down; bruised and scared and begging Sam to make it better. And Sam can't refuse any more than he can choose to stop his lungs from needing oxygen.
He swallows over a lump in his throat and ignores the clenching in his chest, and then he leans in to press a long kiss to Dean's forehead. Dean shudders a little beneath him so Sam takes his hand, sure and steady, and leads him wordlessly out of the bathroom and back to the bed. Dean just follows, not even a breath of resistance, and Sam is heartbroken that his brother is so helpless right now but also feels a strange sense of satisfaction that he's the only one Dean would ever be so vulnerable with. He pushes Dean smoothly down onto the mattress and then crawls up beside him, draping a leg and an arm over Dean's shower-warmed body.
Then Sam spends a minute racking his brain for something to do to make this better. That's never been his job before. Dean takes the responsibility away from Sam after a minute, though; sighing quietly and bringing one of his hands up to slide his fingers through Sam's and then guiding their interlaced hands to rest above his heart. Sam presses down just a bit so Dean's heartbeat pulses up into his palm, and then pushes his forehead and nose right up against the side of Dean's face so he can feel the crinkle of skin when Dean manages a smile. The sheets are starting to stick a little to Sam's damp skin, and his wet hair is gonna soak right through the pillow, but Dean is smiling again so screw the pillow.
"You okay now?" Sam asks gently. It's a risk to bring it up again, he knows. Things said in the midst of sex don't count, but now that they're out of the shower the rules apply again – the sun's up, and they don't talk like this when the sun's up. But Sam's still can't help being little worried about how much the last few days affected his brother. He can't remember the last time he saw Dean that scared. So maybe, hopefully, Dean's just sated enough at this point that he'll give in.
"Yeah," Dean says, so quietly that Sam barely hears him. "Just, don't ever do that to me again, okay?"
"Won't. I promise."
"I was so terrified I'd lost you," Dean whispers, and Sam scooches in a little closer. "God, it was – I just – can't lose you, Sammy."
"You didn't," he whispers back. "Never going to. Can't get rid of me that easy."
Dean squeezes Sam's hand and then sighs again. "Sorry I got so freaked out this morning. Stupid," he mutters.
"No it wasn't. I'm the one that was stupid, okay? I should've thought about how you'd feel if you woke up and I wasn't here."
"'m still sorry."
"It's okay," Sam murmurs into Dean's hair. "If it'd been the other way around, if they'd taken you, I would've been freaked out too."
Dean mumbles an ashamed sounding 'yeah', but Sam can tell he doesn't believe him, which is just ridiculous. Just because he went off to school, just because he'd wanted to try his hand at something other than hunting, it never meant for a minute that Sam doesn't need Dean just as much as Dean needs him.
"Hey, I mean it," he insists softly. "I don't know what the hell I would've done. I couldn't lose you either, Dean."
Dean nods slowly, rough stubble rubbing against Sam's cheek and Sam shivers; this time it having absolutely nothing to do with being cold or covered in snow. His chest still feels a bit constricted; seeing Dean so upset has thrown him even more than being kidnapped and waking up in a cage did. Sam snuggles in a bit closer and takes a deep breath filled with the comforting scent of Dean's skin.
"Hey, how about I heat up the coffee?" Sam asks after a minute, wanting to give Dean a way out if he's ready to be done with all this emotional crap. "The pancakes'll probably still be fine too, we've got a microwave."
"In a bit," Dean answers, turning his head so he can nudge Sam's nose.
Then he rolls onto his side so their chests are pressed together, sliding one arm under Sam's neck and tangling his fingers into Sam's hair. His other arm wraps around Sam's ribcage, and after a moment Sam can feel Dean's fingertips tracing vague shapes into his skin. Sam can't tell for sure, but if he had to venture a guess he'd say they were almost definitely protective sigils. Dean used to do that all the time when they were kids; drawing pentagrams and other complex, multicultural symbols on Sam's stomach or back that represented love and shields and safety, and it's always been more comforting than Sam could ever say.
Although to be honest, Sam's kinda hungry now, but he doesn't move a muscle because it feels just as incredible as always to have Dean so close; holding him like when the were teenagers and nuzzling into his neck. If Dean's willing to ride this out for a bit longer, then Sam's not going to argue. Besides, not only did Dean kiss him outside where anyone could've seen, but now Dean's actually cuddling even though the sun's up, so Sam figures maybe that complete disaster of a hunt doesn't have to be such a bad thing after all.