Contains dialogue from the episode 'Long-Distance Call', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Jeremy Carver.
Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)
When Sam gets back to the motel, Dean's just as banged up as he is. He's still gorgeous, because he's annoying like that, but he's bruised and cut and somehow that makes Sam feel just a little bit better about getting his own ass handed to him tonight. Although usually they're in the fight together, and then later when they're stitching themselves up or icing sprained wrists they laugh about it and tease each other over a monster getting the jump on them. It felt weird, this time, to have taken down the monster on his own.
Dean's bent over the sink with a compress pressed above his left eye, and when Sam walks in Dean mutters, "I see they improved your face."
Sam laughs a little. "Right back at ya."
Dean glances at himself in the mirror, shrugs, and follows Sam into the main room. "So a Crocotta, huh?"
"Yep."
"That would explain the flies." Dean sits down on the edge of one of the beds, and Sam sits on the other.
"Yeah it would. Hey, um," Sam starts tentatively. "Look, I'm sorry it wasn't Dad."
"I gave you a hell of a time on this one," Dean mumbles ashamedly.
"Nah."
"No, you were right."
"Forget about it," Sam says, giving Dean an out, but Dean doesn't take it.
"I can't." He shakes his head minutely. "I wanted to believe so badly that there was a way outta this. I mean, I'm … I'm starin' down the barrel at this thing. You know? Hell."
Sam looks up at him and his chest clenches tight around his windpipe. It's been rare all year long for Dean to be honest about all this, and Sam's been begging him for it but it still hurts.
"For real, forever. And I'm just …"
"Yeah," Sam whispers. Now that it's really happening, he doesn't want Dean to have to say it. Dean works so hard to maintain his hard outer shell, to never let anyone see the squishy parts underneath, and Sam is always trying to break that down but now that he's getting his wish, he doesn't want it anymore. Dean has his faults like everyone does, but he's good and loyal and brave; he's the best person Sam knows. He deserves to keep the mask on, if that's what he wants.
But Dean just looks directly at him and says, "I'm scared, Sam. I'm really scared."
Sam's lower lip trembles, his heart aches, and he murmurs, "I know."
Dean nods and looks disgusted with himself. "I guess I was willing to believe anything. Y'know, last act of a desperate man."
"There's nothin' wrong with having hope."
"Hope doesn't get you jack-squat," Dean mutters. "I can't expect Dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can't expect anybody to, you know? The only person who can get me outta this thing is me."
Sam swallows. "And me."
Dean looks at him again, and for just a second it looks like he's about to burst into tears, and then he says, "And me?"
Sam frowns. "What?"
"Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that's what you come back with? And me?"
"Do you want a poem?"
"Moment's gone."
He turns away and turns the TV on and Sam just shakes his head. Sometimes his brother is an idiot. He hands Sam a beer and Sam takes it and sort of wants to kiss Dean and throttle him at the same time.
Sometimes Sam thinks there are lots of different Deans. Hunter Dean, swift and calculating and fearless. Big Brother Dean, annoyingly over-bearing and bossy and always positive he knows best even when he doesn't. Hero Dean, who, underneath all his swagger, really does love saving people. The one that Sam calls Party Dean, when he's had too much to drink and he gets giggly and silly and it takes nothing at all to have him laughing so hard he falls out of his chair. Sex-god Dean, when he gets rough and predatory and possessive, and does things to and with and above Sam that make him forget how to make sounds that aren't pleasure-soaked moans. The Dean with the abandonment issues, the Dean who never quite learned how to stand up to Dad, the Dean who snarks at anyone – other than Dad – who tries to tell him what to do. The Dean who likes fast-food way too much, the Dean that protects Sam with a fierceness that Sam's still not entirely sure he's worthy of. Sam loves every one of them, although some a little more than others and he could maybe do without the Dean that is obsessed with horribly-acted porn.
But this Dean is his favorite. If he had a say in the matter, Sam would definitely take the pain and the fear and the angst out of this moment. But he'd leave the Dean who's finally, after months of bravado and casual jokes and cocky juts of his chin, letting himself be real.
It isn't all that uncommon. They have moments, when it's just the two of them, when Dean's walls come down a little and he turns sweet and gentle and loving in a way the rest of the world would probably never believe him capable of. Sam could tell them, anyone else who thinks they know Dean, about how tender and emotional he can be sometimes, and Sam's pretty sure they'd think he was lying. It's been that way for as long as Sam can remember. They spend long enough locked in a dimly lit motel room with the doors latched and the salt-lines laid, and maybe Dean starts to feel safe, so he relaxes, and that's when the person underneath everything else comes out. The guy who has fears and hopes and broken dreams just like everyone else, who loves Sam probably more than any person has ever loved another. The man who is wounded and insecure and deeply sensitive. Way more sensitive than Sam, even though he calls Sam the girl in their relationship. Sam used to think Dad was harder on him than on Dean but he was wrong. Sam knows Dad did his best, but he hurt Dean much deeper than he hurt Sam, in ways that are far worse than physical and won't ever truly heal. And Sam loves that Dean so much that it's worth it to put up with him the rest of the time.
Sam goes over to him; he doesn't care if Dean said the moment is over. This time, the moment isn't over until Sam says it is, and he's not saying a word about it at least until the sun rises. He sets his bottle down on the carpet and gets up, joining his brother on the end of the bed.
"Sam," Dean says softly, knowing what Sam's doing and trying to stop it before it happens.
"Shut up," Sam tells him, and for once Dean actually listens. He reaches over and slides his hand over Dean's hair, brushing his thumb along Dean's temple, and Dean sighs a little but he doesn't fight it. He closes his eyes and leans into Sam's hand, and Sam inches closer on the bed and slides his hand down Dean's back, leaning in and kissing the spot on Dean's forehead where Sam's thumb just was.
"Sammy," Dean repeats, even quieter this time, followed a broken, "I can't …"
"So don't. Words don't mean as much anyway. Just let me."
Dean closes his eyes and Sam swears he sees tears playing along his long eyelashes, but he doesn't say anything about it as he nudges Dean back onto the mattress. Dean goes willingly, and it hurts Sam's chest to see his brother so willing to just do what Sam wants. Dean's always so insistent on being the one in the driver's seat. Sam almost doesn't know what to do with a Dean that doesn't have any fight left. It just makes him even more determined, though. He's going to save Dean. He has to.
Sam stands up, shrugging out of his hoodie and shirt, and then he reaches down and unties the laces on Dean's boots so he can slip them off. Dean pushes up onto his elbows and looks at Sam with an expression on his face that's halfway between sad and just lost, and Sam swallows over a lump of emotion in his throat. He unzips and steps out of his jeans before he joins Dean on the bed, and motions for Dean to do the same. Dean nods and obediently wiggles out of his clothes, so they're both just in cotton boxer-briefs by the time Sam lowers himself down on top of his brother. He balances on his forearms, and for a moment he just hovers over Dean and looks at him. Takes in his round, bright green eyes, his perfect nose, the sweet curve of his lips, the dusting of freckles on his nose that Sam's loved since he was three years old and he'd try to count them when they'd lie in the backseat of the Impala together, even though he probably couldn't count passed ten.
He doesn't move until one of Dean's hands comes up, slides through the space between them, and brushes the hair out of Sam's eyes before cupping his cheek. Sam tilts his head to kiss the heel of Dean's palm, and then he dips down and captures Dean's lips in a kiss that's quiet and slow and full of so much emotion Sam feels like his heart might explode right out of his chest. There's no way, no way in Hell, Sam's letting his brother go. Not ever. He doesn't care what that bitch at the crossroads said. Dean belongs to Sam, and Hell can't have him. His soul was never hers to claim. It's always been Sam's.
Dean whispers, "Sammy," again when Sam momentarily lets their lips part, and it's horrible, but it's taken the two of them being so close to losing each other forever for Sam to fully realize how much he loves the way Dean says his nickname. Sam gave up a long time ago on trying to get Dean to stop calling him that, and now he hopes Dean never calls him anything else. There's love in the way Dean says it, and need and want and promises of forever that Sam is going to help him keep.
He grinds his hips down, pushing his half-hard cock into Dean's, and kisses him fervently so he doesn't have to think about anything but the way Dean feels underneath him. Dean kisses back, his lips soft and slick and needy against Sam's, and wraps his arms so tight around Sam's back it hurts but Sam doesn't care. He slides his tongue into Dean's mouth, sweeping around it, dizzy with the sensation of Dean's tongue alongside his. Arousal heats him up from the inside, and when he rolls his hips down again Dean's erection is hot and firm against his own through the thin material of boxers they've both owned for way too long.
Eventually Sam starts moving down, kissing and nipping along Dean's chest as he goes just to hear Dean sigh contentedly. Dean buries a hand in Sam's hair, petting through it and squeezing handfuls of it when Sam sucks on sensitive spots, and Sam takes his time to worship Dean like he should every time but can't always hold back for long enough to manage it. Dean deserves it. He deserves to be ravished, to be taken care of and loved, and Sam intends to spend the rest of the evening making sure Dean knows exactly how Sam feels about him. How he's always felt.
Sam mouths at Dean's cock through his boxers when he gets low enough, getting the material wet and spit-soaked before he wrestles them off and tosses them over his shoulder. Dean's foot almost gets Sam right in the nose, but it misses and Sam pushes Dean's legs further apart and goes immediately back in, picking Dean's cock up and letting it slide into his mouth without preamble. He laves his tongue over the underside as he moves up and down on it, pressing into all the spots that drive Dean crazy, and blinks to keep his eyes from watering as he goes too fast and lets Dean's cock slide in too deep. Sam doesn't care. A minute ago he was ready to drag this out for hours and now he just needs Dean to feel good because Sam can't be happy if Dean isn't. He knows they've got all night – this for sure isn't going to be the main event so Sam just gives it all he's got – sucking Dean down like he's forgotten how to do anything else.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean groans, squeezing strands of Sam's hair so hard it hurts and Sam just lets it spur him on even more. Dean doesn't last long, the erratic jerk of his hips what tips Sam off and the first spurt of salty-sweet come on Sam's tongue is like the first drink of life-saving water after weeks wandering hopelessly through the desert. He loses himself in the flavor and the task of drawing out everything Dean has to give that he forgets to pull off when Dean's cock has finished twitching and Dean has to shove at his shoulder to remind him. Sam lets Dean's cock fall out of his mouth, dragging the back of his palm over his lips and breathing raggedly because he'd forgotten to up until now for long enough that his lungs feel like a vacuum.
A moment later Sam becomes vaguely aware that Dean's saying his name, his voice soft and concerned, and he looks up to find Dean propped up on one elbow and watching him with a worried frown twisting his forehead. It's exactly the opposite of what Sam was trying to do, and he's annoyed with himself as he crawls back up the bed and collapses next to Dean.
"Sorry," he mumbles, staring up at the ceiling.
Dean shuffles in closer and shakes his head. He stays resting on one elbow but turns onto his side against Sam and reaches for Sam's jaw to make Sam look at him. He searches Sam's eyes for a moment, and then he grins says, "Don't be sorry. Was fuckin' awesome."
Sam manages to return his smile, and Dean leans down and kisses him, dipping his tongue between Sam's lips and moaning softly at what's probably the taste of himself in Sam's mouth. Dean rolls half on top of him, and Sam hisses when his thigh brushes against the erection Sam had almost forgotten was still stealing all the blood from the rest of his body.
"You're good to go again, right?" Sam asks, and Dean laughs warmly.
"Definitely."
"Kay, good." Sam kisses the corner of Dean's mouth and trails his fingers slowly up Dean's spine. "'Cause I had it in my head that I was gonna spend tonight showin' you how much I love you. Then I kinda …"
Dean smiles and bumps Sam's nose with his own. "Saw my dick and couldn't help yourself?"
Sam chuckles. "Somethin' like that."
"Can't blame ya," Dean returns with a pretend cocky smirk.
"We are gonna get you outta this, Dean," Sam says softly. He doesn't know where it comes from, except that it's a thought that's never been too far from the forefront of his consciousness since the minute he found out what Dean did to save him.
Dean nods. "Good."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"Yeah, I do. I just … we've been through so many things, Sammy. So many different people who keep saying there's no way. It's startin' to feel like …"
"I know. But that's just 'cause there aren't hundreds of different solutions. There's just one, and we just haven't found it yet. But we will. I'm not gonna stop until we do."
Dean presses his lips together, and then he nods again. "Okay."
He moves in just a little closer so they're touching from shoulders to ankles, letting one leg rest in between Sam and kissing him again.
"Thank you for telling me you're scared," Sam murmurs. "I know it's hard for you to say that, even to me. Or maybe especially to me. But I'm happy you did. It means a lot to me when you ... let me in."
"Why?" Dean asks, dragging his lips down Sam's jaw, probably so he doesn't have to look at him.
"'Cause you're everything to me. I wanna know every bit of you, even the parts you don't like about yourself."
For a moment, Dean doesn't move, and Sam worries he's ruined the mood again by not being able to keep his mouth shut. But then Dean brushes his mouth back over Sam's and whispers the three words Sam's always longing to hear him say, smears them into Sam's lips, and it breaks Sam's heart. Usually Dean calls him a girl or an idiot and it sounds like I love you. This time, he says I love you and it sounds like goodbye.