"I love you" Sam said.
Dean blinked for a second, before tilting his head down, trying to avoid his gaze. Dean didn't even pretend to misunderstand his words...and the meaning behind them.
He just let out a sigh and said in a hoarse voice, "Sammy...please..."
Dean's shoulders tensed when Sam took a step forward, but that was the only sign he was paying attention to his movements.
"Don't..." He continued and finally tilted his head up, when Sam crowded his space.
That...that was Sam's place, where he belonged, where he was real and didn't feel like his blood was turning sour into his own veins.
That...was what he was meant to do.
"I. Love. You" Sam repeated, and he moved closer, cradling Dean's face in his hands. Any other time, maybe, Dean would have shrugged him away, they might have fought...or end up on the floor or both, not necessarily in that order, hands trailing, buttons flying; tasting, sucking, marking, always with a sense of urgency, like every minute…every second could be their last, like what they had…what they were to each other, could only be consumed in the dark; not an itch they needed to scratch, but a fire, scorching them to the core, that they could only tame with each other, losing themselves into each other…until it felt like they could breathe again.
Time felt strange in the batcave, though. It was theirs; their legacy and home, they belonged there. Time felt different, there was no sense of urgency and they both felt it.
Dean shook his head and said, "don't..."
They had been there before; denying, pretending, ignoring the obvious. They had been dancing around an invisible line, full of self made rules that in that moment didn't make any sense, didn't matter...because the truth, the one truth that did matter, was that: he loved Dean.
He was in love with him.
Had been as long as he had had a clue about what that word meant, he had been for most of his adult life...and he seriously doubted it was something that was going to fade away, to fizzle down.
Even if they never touched again, even if they reverted to some fucked up version of their status quo ante, he would always feel what he felt for Dean. Always.
They had kissed each other, fucked each other stupid, he knew the taste of Dean's skin, he knew the sounds he made, deep in his throat, when he was about to come, he knew that he didn't like to cuddle, or so he said, but they always ended up a tangled mess of limbs and pillows as the nights went on.
"No, listen to me..." Sam said, and he wasn't surprised when Dean stopped fidgeting. "What I said earlier? It's true...all true...but it's more than that, Dean!"
He saw Dean clenching his jaw for a second, and then his voice was low and cutting when he said, "And then what, Sammy? Huh? We get a happy ending? Until one of us kicks it, comes back and we're back to square one?" Dean shook his head, "Just...can't we ..."
"No!" Sam said, interrupting Dean's words, before tilting his brother's head up with his hands, to kiss him.
There were no sounds in the batcave, none of those he had always associated to Dean and he...it was like being suspended in time, being safe...protected.
Dean's lips were soft and it only took him a second to start kissing him back: muscle memory, instinct, lust and love all rolled into one. Dean's skin was warm, under his shirt, his heart was beating strongly,, a sound as familiar to Sam as his own heartbeat,
His taste was home, was safety...it was the words he wasn't allowed to say, those that had been his mantra for the 365 days, 8,765 hours that Dean had spent in Purgatory.
His lips were tingling and his heart racing when he broke the kiss, breathing hard, warm puffs of air coming from Dean, ghosting his jaw, as he whispered, "We already tried...we tried everything, Dean. "
He hadn't even realized, at first, how close they were, how their bodies were pressed against each other's, how he could feel Dean's heart beating against his ribcage, and one of his brother's hands was trailing in his hair, his nails scraping the scalp, as the other was on the small of his back, mirroring him: possessive, familiar, warm.
He closed his eyes, breathing in Dean, feeling selfish…because there was no way he could let him go. Ever.
He had tried: when he was 18, when he was 22, when he was 30; with Jess, Ruby, Amelia. He had swapped fire with sun and white lies, passion and shame with demon blood, numbness and fear and visions with soft linens and picnics in the park…and it had not worked. Because they had not been Dean…because the truth could be ugly and messy but it was the only thing that kept him alive, that kept them both alive.
"I won't go away…and neither will you" Sam said and couldn't help holding Dean closer when the older man chuckled against his skin.
"Have you met us?" Dean asked, and his voice was low, it was the tone he used in the dark, when both their lips were swollen with kisses and their bodies joined, skin on skin, secret and hot and forbidden and theirs.
"I wasn't kidding earlier" Sam replied. They would survive that; they would close the gates of hell and have a life, together.
"Neither was I" Dean said and he rolled his eyes when Sam looked at him frowning. "Not about that, moron…" he let out a sigh and said, "I believe you…I believe in you, but our luck sucks, man…"
Dean's eyes were impossibly bright…and Sam could hear what Dean wasn't saying…he knew that Dean issues ran deep, he knew that hearing or saying words didn't come easy for him.
But he needed Dean to hear them, he needed him to know.
"I did look for you" He said and it didn't even occur to him that neither had moved, they were still in Dean's room, next to the bed. Dean shifted, breaking their embrace and took a step back, to look at him, silently urging him to go on, to keep talking.
"You were everywhere…" Sam was surprised at how matter of factly his voice sounded even to his own ears and how his words didn't even begin to cover what those days had really been like for him.
How could explain the fact that Dean had been behind every corner, that he had been every man, every voice until the only thing Sam had left was running away… with voices screaming in his head and a car that smelled so much like Dean, that had been their world for so long that it had almost killed him.
He had had to stop…he had had to try and survive…for Dean, because ending up in a padded room would not bring Dean back.
"It doesn't matter…" Dean said, and the passion in his voice sent shivers running down his back, his thighs, in contrast with the warmth of Dean's body, pressed against him.
Dean was saying the truth, it really didn't matter to him. It was all forgotten, it had the moment he had come back to Rufus's cabin, shrugging his shoulders, closing the door to the fantasy, the illusion that had saved him and kept him sane, until Dean had come back.
Dean cradled his face in his hands, and Sam was tempted to close his eyes…that was Dean, protecting him, taking care of him, loving him: with a touch of his hands, with the look in his eyes, with everything he was…and Sam was speechless, and in love.
"I know…" Dean said.
Dean's hands were still on his face…and Sam was suddenly scared; scared of the perfection of that little moment, of the fact that Dean's walls were down while being in their home, that they would pay for looking at each other in the eye, for not hiding in the dark, for tempting fate again and again.
They would pay for a moment of reprieve, for trusting each other above and beyond reason. He would pay for loving someone so much that nothing else mattered, no one else.
It was the other part of that never ending dance Dean and he did.
"It's getting late now, some of us were almost puppy chow while others played superman…" Dean said, taking a step back, his hand lingering for a second above his heart, as if to make sure he was real, "let's go to bed…"
Dean was smiling at him, there were a million of words left unsaid, and Sam knew there probably always would, there would be still issues and problems, because they could be the perfect mix of brain and brawn, but they were John Winchester's sons: bullheaded and obsessive.
And it didn't matter if Dean had not replied to his "I love you", it didn't matter if nothing had been solved…because his hand was on his heart, tracing the lines of his tattoo with his fingertips, his breath tickling his neck, his presence real and vibrating with everything, every answer he needed.
It didn't matter if Dean was still afraid, he had faith…for both of them.
~fin