TITLE: Blood is thicker
AUTHOR: JackValentine
BETA: deluge
PAIRING: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
RATING: R
GENRE: Angst
SIZE: Mini
WARNINGS: Incest, obviously
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is based entirely on the AU episode s4 e17, so it's advised that you watch it first to understand what's going on. However, there are no supernatural plotline spoilers in it. I really hope you like it and would really appreciate if you left a review!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything and seek nothing.
In the elevator
Dean Smith was struggling to avoid the sight of the weird tall support guy, which was getting increasingly harder, as he was glancing at Dean every half a second. He was obviously trying not to stare, barely successful though. "Jesus, - thought Dean, - why won't he just piss off". Just then the guy came closer.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Dean sighed, unwilling to engage in a conversation.
"Look, man, I told you, I'm not into the, uh..."
"Oh dude, come on, I'm not either. I just wanna ask you one question".
Dean took a look around, searching for a way out instinctively. But as he looked at the other man, he found himself unable to refuse. Not that he didn't want to be rude, a moment ago he was ready to flip him off at all costs, but just as Dean was caught into the grip of his sight he felt like the guy was entitled to his attention. Before he knew, he answered:
"Sure."
"What do you think about ghosts?"
"That was a mistake, - thought Smith, - who the hell even hired him?"
"Ghosts?"
"Do you believe in them?"
Dean laughed nervously.
"Uh, tell you the truth, I've never given it much thought."
"Vampires?"
"What? Why?"
"Because I've been having some weird dreams lately. You know what I mean?"
"No. Not really."
Sam was still staring at the respectable man in a suit. He was absolutely positive it was him that he saw in his dreams every damn night. Those green eyes of his would stare into Wesson's eyes and his hoarse voice would tell him everything was going to be alright when the monsters would go after him. Not only that, Sam felt like there was something wrong in not having a connection with him. To say that he was uncomfortable would be an understatement, he felt like there was that space that he had to, that he needed to close in. So he was clinging desperately to the dialogue.
"So you've never had any... weird dreams?"
"All right, look, man, I don't know you, okay? - said Dean, with a hint of somewhat of a disbelief in his mind, - But I'm gonna do a public service and, uh, let you know that—that you overshare", - he concluded, trying to sound hostile.
Dean found himself creeped out. He rushed out of the elevator. Why is that all so surreal? Why can't he just handle this problem like he always does - profesionally? Smith felt uneasy. He shuddered slightly and headed back to his office, determined to submerge into his work and push the intrusive thoughts away.
In Dean Smith's apartment
"...No. Well, look, it's more than that. Like, I don't like my job. I don't like this town. I don't like my clothes. I don't like my own last name. I don't know how else to explain it, except that...it feels like I should be doing something else. There's just something in my blood. Like I was destined for something different. What about you? You ever feel that way?"
Dean felt goosebumps run down his spine. He didn't show it, but he knew he was scared shitless. The way that Wesson worded Smith's very own discreet feelings was more frightening that any ghost. This guy did sound like a creepy psychic after all.
"I don't believe in destiny. I do believe in dealing with what's right in front of us, though."
"All right, so, what do we do now?"
"We do what I do best, Sammy. Research."
"Okay. Did you just call me Sammy?"
Dean stuttered. What the hell, did I really?..
"Did I?"
"I think you did. Yeah. Don't."
"Sorry."
Heavens know why, but this "don't" fell so unpleasant upon Smith's ear. He did recognize that of course that was a strange way to address a person that you barely know. However, in the same time, it felt right. He refused to accept Wesson's denial, to Dean it seemed like he had every right to call him that... Where did that come from? No matter how hard he tried, so hard, that it distracted him from the weird-ass Ghostfacers video, he couldn't remember calling anyone else "Sammy", ever.
Sam glanced at the other man. His green eyes were squinted in concentration. A frown on his good-looking face. Wesson found himself extremely out of place in this fancy apartment, near the fancy suite and fancy detox mixtures of Smith's.
Nevertheless, there was that one thing that he didn't feel out of place next to. He couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly that was. He was confused and disturbed of his own bizarre sensation, the sensation of craving something about Dean, something raw, intrinsic, something unaffected by this cliché surroundings of his. Wesson felt like there was a missing piece to his puzzle hidden somewhere deep within the other man. Sam wanted to reach it, to get to it, not knowing how or why.
Dean interrupted Sam's inner monologue with a heavy sigh. He took a couple of steps back and dropped onto the expensive brown suede sofa.
"What the ever living hell is going on", - he muttered, rubbing his face with his palms.
To Smith's surprise, when he removed his hands off of his eyes he saw Sam, sitting on the coffee table right in front of him, his face a little lower than Dean's. For the first time since that tense and weird and horrible conversation that they had in his office, Dean really looked into Sam's eyes. Wesson was looking right back into his, frozen. The stubborn though just wouldn't abandon him. "Those are the exact eyes, it's him, it can't be anyone or anything else". Sam felt like he had looked into those green eyes like that before. Like he had touched this person before. Like they'd been a lot closer. It was a slow torture.
Dean inhaled spastically. It was calling. It was clutching at his breast and tingling. It was horrible. As if being pulled up by an invisible string, his hand rose as he reached for the other man and touched his face.
"Whatever I do, it feels wrong", - he said, more to himself, than to Sam, before leaning in and pushing his mouth onto Wesson's, pressing their lips tight together.
Sam felt his whole body tense and then relax again, melting and leaning in into the caress. Out of all the things, that was new. That was the one thing that certainly didn't seem like it was the same old song over again, but it felt good.
Dean, on the other hand, was suffocating, being smothered by the sensation of pure joy that outshined everything around him. He knew he found what he was looking for. He thought he'd found what was wrong. If only he could make this insight last...
Sam pulled away and gasped for air. His eyes locked with Dean's, Smith's hand still steady fixed on his nape, he slid down off of the table and onto his knees and undid Dean's pants hastily. Wesson took Smith's hard cock into his mouth, then sucking on it gently and caressing the sensitive rim of the head with his tongue, and taking it all in, desperate to please Dean in every way possible.
Smith leaned back into the sofa, his palm lost in the messy mane of Sam's hair, gripping on it and pushing in with every thrust. Dean though that he must've had a fiancé, but he found himself thinking that he couldn't remember her name. Or her face. Or the last time that they spent a day together. She wasn't real. She never existed. The frightening realization chained his body, but Sam's tongue on his juiced up cock sent his thoughts all over the place, Wesson's artless but eager mouth sliding up and down his shaft drove Dean crazy.
"Oh, fuck, yes, Sammy, that's so good", - he moaned, as he came in three taunt spasms inside and out Sam's mouth.
And these words were oh so delicious on Dean's tongue that he wished to let them fall off of his lips over and over again.
In the motel room
The Winchester brothers were laying each in their own bed, facing the opposite walls of the lousy room. It's been weeks. Weeks of confusion, of avoiding each other all of the time that their communication wasn't related to a job to be done. Weeks of no physical contact whatsoever, not even a pat on the shoulder. The one hard-set thought was pulsing in Dean's head, giving him horrendous headaches every single night: "I know you remember everything, Sam". "I know you remember everything", over and over and over and over again. "I know you remember everything". "What you don't remember, - thought Dean, - is that I've always craved it, ever since I was too young to identify it and up to this moment, - he winced and pushed on his temples even harder with his fingers, - they don't even know that they didn't just give me a taste of a normal life to make me want to go back. They gave me a day of you not being my brother. Of it not being wrong and perverse. A day of green light. And here we are. Now what?"
"Sam, are you sleeping?" - called Dean and heard a soft "no".
Dean crawled out of his bed and sat on the edge of Sam's. As his eyes got used to the darkness, he saw his little brother sit up, too.
"Sammy..." - whispered Dean and his voice faltered.
He couldn't push out a word. The bitter lump was stuck in his throat, pricking and tingling. Dean let out a short, pithy sigh and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck, pressing him close and stroking the back of his head, snuggled to Dean's shoulder, like before, like he always did, like when his little Sammy didn't know the aching, dark, perverse kind of brotherly love that Dean had for him.
"Sammy, I... I..."
"Dean."
Dean felt Sam's arms wrapped around him, squeezing him tight. Sam buried his face in Dean's shoulder and huddled into the warmth and comfort of his big brother's embrace that never failed to bring him repose and security.
Dean still failed to decide what to do next with this new found complication that after all those years finally surfaced between them, but at least they have each other. And if they were destined to be tempted, befouled and tainted, they knew they were in it together.