A/N: A nice little plot idea came to me, and when I started writing, it was suddenly not so little. More chapters are coming. Enjoy!
Spoilers: Everything up to Mystery Spot from season 3, and eventually the end of season 3.
Strong arms squeezing Dean's shoulders in a crushing embrace as a flushed face presses tightly against his ear. He patiently allows it.
"Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?" he asks.
His brother utters one weary word in reply.
"Enough."
A week had gone by since their misadventure at the Mystery Spot, and Dean knew that something wasn't right. It could be the fact that Sam was quieter than usual. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. They spent every waking minute together so it was understandable that from time to time, they simply ran out of things to say. It could be the fact that the few times Dean joked about the Mystery Spot, usually using the term as a crude sexual reference to the female anatomy, rather than laughing or even rolling his eyes, Sam would tighten his lips and look away. But Sam was a prude, so that didn't mean much either.
The real reason that Dean felt that things were wrong was not something that he could readily explain because he had no physical evidence of it, and that scared him. That meant that it was instinct or intuition trying to tell him something, and he couldn't remember the last time his instincts were wrong. Every night since they left the crazy little town of Broward, Florida, he had had trouble sleeping. He kept feeling like he was being watched.
It was on the seventh consecutive night of feeling this feeling, that he opened his eyes and peered through the darkness of the motel room to see the silhouette of his little brother sitting up in the next bed and staring at him.
"Sammy?" Dean asked groggily.
"Hmm," Sam breathed.
Dean put his head back on his pillow with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "You're dreaming, kiddo. Lay down, okay?"
The room was totally silent for a few moments. Then Dean let out another breath as Sam finally lay down with a soft rustling of the sheets.
"'Night, Sam," he said.
Sam didn't answer.
Another few days went by with no leads. Dean couldn't tell if they were going through the biggest dry spell of their supernatural careers or if Sam wasn't really trying that hard to find the next job. They had temporarily settled themselves in a small town in Maine, and the snowy February weather was a shocking transition from the humidity of Florida. The cold leant itself to hibernation, and Dean was beginning to feel a bit antsy about the slower pace their lives had taken, but he still had that sense that Sam was on the verge of breaking, so he didn't push it. They spent their days wandering around the town, eating, or channel surfing in their motel room, mostly in silence, and Dean continued to have that strange feeling of being watched each night as he slept.
He was beginning to wonder what happened during the time loop that he couldn't remember. To him, it was as if only one day had gone by, and he certainly didn't remember any of the times he had supposedly been killed. But whatever it was, Sam clearly needed some quiet time to deal with things. And to Dean's surprise, he started relaxing into the break. He had less than a year to live unless they found a way to get him out of his crossroads deal, so why not spend a little extra time relaxing and taking it easy?
Towards the end of their second week in town, Dean dosed off in the middle of an episode of Cheers, and when he woke up again, the TV and the lights had been turned off. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand to see how much time had passed, and he jumped slightly as he saw Sam's silhouette sitting up in bed again, staring at him quietly.
"Sammy?"
"You died," Sam said almost inaudibly.
"Yeah, sorry. Cheers never really did much for me. I guess I fell asleep."
"No," Sam said. "At the Mystery Spot."
Dean realized that Sam was finally ready to start talking, so he sat up in bed and stretched his arms as he yawned softly. "I know I died, Sam. I'm sorry you had to go through that. But I'm okay now."
Sam didn't answer.
"It was only one day," Dean attempted, then immediately felt like an idiot. It was one day for him, not for Sam.
"Six months," Sam whispered.
"Huh?"
"The last time that you died," he went on, "you stayed dead. For six months."
Dean's heart dropped and he turned sideways on his bed so he could rest his feet on the floor. He was now face to face with Sam, but in the darkness he could barely make out any features. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The slant of Sam's shoulders was rigid in the dim light, and his voice sounded just as strained. "The Trickster," he said, pronouncing the name carefully, "said he wanted to teach me a lesson. To show me what it would be like once you're gone."
More silence rolled through as Dean sat with his mouth hanging open. He had no words.
"He made me think you died, and then he let me go on in that reality for six months. Alone." Deep breath. "Or maybe that was reality and he has the power to reverse it or something. I don't know."
"That one day for me lasted six months for you?" Dean asked in horror.
"More like a year," Sam corrected. "I lived Tuesday over a hundred times, and then time went on for another half year after that before he let me come back."
Dean's shock transformed to sadness, then to compassion, and then to blinding rage. "Did you kill him?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"I tried," Sam answered weakly.
Dean turned on the bedside lamp as he stood up and stormed over to the table to grab his bag. "That motherfucker is so fucking dead," he hissed.
"Please don't leave me again!" Sam blurted, bolting into a standing position.
As Dean turned around to argue, he was stricken by the look of Sam's face in the lamplight. He realized that in the last couple of weeks he hadn't really taken a good look at his brother since they really weren't communicating much anyway, but now that he was paying attention, the fear and the exhaustion imprinted on Sam's features were glaring. Six months. Jesus. Had Sammy aged six months in one day? Had he aged a year? It looked like it.
"Sammy, we can't let him live."
"We can't kill him, Dean," Sam argued. "He's too smart."
"Sam—"
"I can't go through that again, Dean," he whispered through a choke of a sob. "Please."
Dean's heart broke at the look in Sam's eyes. He put his bag down on the table and walked back between the beds where he stood face to face with his brother. With gentle hands, he urged Sam to sit back down, and Dean sat down across from him again. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
"It was bad enough to live through," Sam said. "I wanted to forget. And I didn't want you to worry."
"Well, you failed on both counts," Dean replied, shaking his head. "Sam. You should have told me. How am I supposed to protect you if I don't know what's going on?"
"I know," Sam answered, bowing his head in shame.
"Hey," Dean said, reaching across to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm not mad."
"I know," Sam repeated. But he kept his head bowed and his slumped shoulders made him look tired beyond belief.
"Tell you what," Dean said. "Why don't we take a little sleeping potion and talk about this when we're more awake?"
He reached down to the floor where he had tossed his jeans and pulled a small flask out of the pocket. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of whiskey, then passed it to his brother. Sam took a long drink of his own, and his eyes immediately began to droop with the effects of the alcohol.
"Thanks, Dean," he said, and damned if he didn't sound just like he did when they were little. Big brother always knew how to fix things.
Or at least he used to.
"Lay down, kid," Dean said, turning off the lamp and lying down in his own bed. "I'll be here when you wake up, and we can talk then, okay?"
"'Kay," Sam whispered.
But they didn't talk about it the next day. Sam needed more time to process his thoughts, and Dean suddenly needed the same thing. A million thoughts were now running through his mind now that he knew the truth. Was the Trickster capable of performing a six-month illusion? Or had he actually been able to reverse reality? And if that was the case, did that mean that in some way, Dean had actually already died and gone to hell? He shivered at the thought.
But he and Sam kept their thoughts to themselves the whole next day, and as they turned in for the night, Dean wordlessly shared another shot of whiskey with his brother. The lights went out and he fell asleep almost immediately.
He woke up in the middle of the night again to find that Sam was actually kneeling on the floor next to his bed, looking down at him.
"Sam, come on," he moaned. "Why do you keep doing this?"
"At night I can't remember where I am. Which place is real and which is a dream. I… I have to make sure that you're really here."
"Well, here I am," Dean offered lamely.
In what little moonlight was able to stream through the curtains, Dean could see a loneliness in Sam's expression that was beyond anything he could comprehend. It was as if he was pleading with Dean, but he couldn't find the words.
"All right," Dean conceded. "Get in."
"What?"
Dean pulled his blankets up and patted the mattress next to him. "Get in."
"Dean…"
"No, Sam, I'm serious. If you're having trouble sleeping because you're afraid I'll go away, maybe rolling into me all night long will help." Dean patted the mattress again. "Get in."
Sam breathed a grateful sigh and climbed into bed next to his big brother. Dean threw the blanket over him and offered him the extra pillow. Sam lay down on his side facing Dean, and Dean lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He reached to his left where he had begun habitually keeping his flask for when Sam couldn't sleep, which was every night, and he lifted Sam's head slightly.
"Open," he said, and Sam obeyed. He poured a small amount of whiskey into Sam's mouth, took a sip for himself, and then screwed the flask shut and put it back in its place.
"'Night, Sammy," he whispered.
"'Night, Dean," Sam whispered back.
Just as Dean began to drift off again, he felt Sam's bare foot scoot over and rest gently over his ankle.
The next day was better. They still didn't talk about anything serious, but they at least talked. They ate lunch at a nearby diner, and Dean was pleased to see that Sam at least had enough energy to make a joke or two about the small town clientele.
Things weren't normal between them by a long shot, but it was definitely better than the last couple of weeks. Still no talk of going back to hunting, but Dean didn't mind. There was something new between them that wasn't there before, a softer focus, a gentler rapport. He felt he was seeing a new side of Sam, and revealing a new side of himself. A friendlier, lighter side. A side that maybe they would have been able to explore earlier if hunting wasn't always keeping them so tense. It was nice.
That night, Dean woke up again, this time more out of habit than a sense that anything was wrong. He turned to his right expectantly, and he wasn't surprised to see Sam kneeling next to his bed again. He gave a small smile that he wasn't sure Sam could see in the darkness, and he lifted up his blankets, wordlessly patting the mattress. Sam eagerly climbed in and immediately planted his toe on Dean's ankle. As he did so, all of the tension drained out of his body with a long sigh.
And Dean had to admit, he felt his own tension draining too. He repeated their nightly ritual of feeding Sam a small drink and taking one of his own. Then he fell into another sound sleep.
Several days and nights went by in the same fashion, almost as if they were in another time loop, but one where they both got to keep their memories. And one in which they were both surprisingly content. The subject of hunting never once crossed their lips, and they spent their time eating, exploring more of the quaint little town, and deeply enjoying each other's conversation, though without any monsters to fight, their subject matter was exceptionally dull.
Dean never realized that complete and utter boredom could be so enjoyable.
And Sam's smile. He never realized Sam's bright, infectious smile could be so enjoyable either.
One night, as always, Sam waited until Dean had fallen asleep to make his way to Dean's bedside. Soon after, Dean woke up and invited Sam to bed. But this time, instead of falling right to sleep, they both lay awake for a while, Sam's foot enjoying its usual resting place on Dean's ankle.
Dean couldn't believe how good it felt to just lie there. His whole life had been about running and chasing and plotting and fighting. What a revelation it was to just be. The timelessness of just being in the moment with his brother felt more like perfection than anything he had experienced. He could feel that Sam felt the same.
He could also feel Sam grinning next to him.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked.
"How did you know?" Sam whined.
"I had a vision about it."
Sam shoved Dean in the shoulder. "Jerk."
Sam continued to smile and asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Any other day, Dean would have been totally thrown by that question. But in the context of their new way of communicating, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had an urge to say, "You mean if I wasn't a hunter?" but he stopped himself. Somehow hunting felt like a dirty word that he didn't want to bring into the purity of this moment.
"A monster truck driver," Dean answered.
"Shut up."
"I'm serious. Or maybe a NASCAR racer."
"I thought you said NASCAR is for pussies," Sam argued.
"Well, that's because I'm not there," Dean said.
"You're a dick," Sam said.
"At least I'm not a pussy," Dean replied.
Sam giggled. Dean grinned widely. He loved making Sam laugh.
"What about you? What are you gonna be?" Dean asked.
Sam was quiet for a moment as he thought about it. "A teacher," he said.
"What age?" Dean asked skeptically.
"High school. Or, no. College. Well," Sam hummed indecisively. "Never mind. Maybe I'll be a dog-sitter."
Dean laughed out loud. "You go from college professor to dog-sitter in a single bound?"
"I'm a nurturer," Sam defended.
"You're a pansy," Dean shot.
"Am not!" Sam shoved Dean hard enough to nearly knock him to the floor.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Dean reprimanded. "No roughhousing in the master bed."
But he recovered easily and slid back into position, sticking his foot slightly to the right and feeling that click of satisfaction as Sam's toe found its place once more on his ankle.
"I guess I can't really make up my mind," Sam admitted. "There's so many things I want to do. So many things that I never got…" He stopped short.
Dean felt a tension rise in his chest as he could feel Sam broaching the subject of hunting.
"Sammy…"
"Do you ever feel like we missed out on things?"
"I don't really want to talk about it."
"I mean, we have so much potential, Dean, both of us. We could have done so much with our lives."
"We have done so much with our lives."
"Yeah, but…"
"But nothing, Sam," Dean said sternly. "We can't change the past, so just drop it, okay?"
Sam went silent, and his toe curled and then pulled away from Dean's ankle. Dean instantly felt guilty.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, you're right."
"Yeah, but I'm still sorry."
Sam cleared his throat. "I guess I've just been questioning everything ever since… since…"
He didn't want to mention the Trickster again, and Dean didn't want to hear about it, so he was grateful when Sam decided not to go on. Their conversation ended then, and they both lay silently listening to each other breathe for almost an hour before finally falling asleep.
The next night, Dean woke up to the sensation of his ankle getting ravaged by an angry set of toes as Sam squirmed next to him in the throes of a nightmare.
"Sam! Wake up, Sammy!"
Sam shuddered and squealed, and then gasped as he woke with a start. "Dean!" he shrieked.
"I'm here, I'm here," Dean said. He reached out for Sam's arm, but pulled back quickly as Sam made a move as if to hit him. "Sam, it's me," he said slowly.
Sam took a few more moments to catch his breath, and as his breathing slowed down, so, finally, did Dean's heart. "Sorry," Sam whispered, plopping his head back onto the pillow.
"'S'okay," Dean responded. "You might want to cut your toenails, though. I think I'm bleeding."
It took several moments before Sam realized what Dean was talking about, and then he moaned with regret. "Oh! Dean, I'm sorry."
He reached out to Dean's chest so that he could grab his shirt to pull himself closer and touch his foot to Dean's ankle. He felt around with the bottom of his foot for any damage.
"I don't feel any open skin," Sam said worriedly. "Does it hurt?"
"No, Sam," Dean whispered, a little overwhelmed by Sam's sudden closeness. "I think I'm gonna live."
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said so earnestly that Dean couldn't hold back a chuckle.
"I'm really okay, Sam. Take a deep breath okay?"
Sam did as he was told and when he released the oxygen, his tension easily went out of him again. He and Dean had found such a natural rhythm with each other over the last weeks, that even when something upset him, it wasn't hard to get back to what had become his normal self. Balanced. Happy.
"That's my boy," Dean praised, patting Sam's hand that was still resting on his chest and clutching his shirt.
Upon Dean's touch, Sam's hand released the thin fabric, but remained where it was. And Dean's hand remained on top of Sam's.
Sam's hand felt heavy on his chest. In a good way. It felt secure. Like he was grounded to this plane of existence as long as Sam had a hold on him. Sam's physical proximity made him feel safe. And the warmth of Sam's hand on his chest… There weren't words. Comfort was the first word that came to mind, but whatever he was feeling was much more profound than that. Security? Belonging?
Ownership.
The word startled him as it presented itself, and the rightness of it startled him even more.
That was when Sam grabbed Dean's shirt again and pulled himself even closer until he was resting his head on Dean's chest, very lightly, though, as if he was checking to see if it was okay. Sam's uneven breathing gave away his nervousness.
In the hurricane of Dean's emotions, he could hardly believe it as he gently squeezed his brother's hand, indicating that he was okay with this. The weight of Sam's head on his chest grew as Sam fully relaxed into position. They both took a deep breath that took them both by surprise and let it out slowly. Dean felt dizziness sweep through him at the joy he was feeling. At least what he thought was joy. He wasn't sure he had ever really felt anything like this before. All he knew was that this felt so deeply good it was almost terrifying.
Eternal moments later, the weight of Sam's leg pressed down on Dean's leg, their inner thighs pushing together tightly, and Dean breathed in as every inch of his body came to life, including his cock. His hardness was a sensation that seemed suddenly unfamiliar to him, not only because it had been so long since it had happened, but because he had never associated this feeling with Sam before.
But maybe that was why the feeling was unfamiliar. Because until now, it had never felt so incredible.
He felt Sam's breathing become heavier against his neck, and his heart pounded in his chest. Sam's hand lowered slowly to Dean's hardening nipple, and Dean felt his torso instinctively rise into the touch.
"Ah," he breathed.
"I don't want you to leave," Sam whimpered.
"I'm not leaving," Dean responded breathlessly. "It was all an illusion, remember?"
"But your deal isn't an illusion," Sam argued. "You have less than a year, Dean."
Sam's knee bent further until the top of his thigh was touching Dean's balls, and Dean felt his whole body curve sideways with pleasure. "Fffuuu…" he stammered helplessly. "Sammy, we'll find a way, okay? We'll…"
"Dean…" Sam breathed desperately into his ear, and it was more than he could take. He reached over and grabbed Sam around the waist, forcefully pulling Sam on top of him. Sam moaned softly and let himself be taken. Then Dean pushed Sam's shoulder roughly and rolled over so that he was on top of his little brother. Yeah. This was better.
They were both breathless now, and the familiar scent of his brother drove him insane as he sniffed at Sam's mouth, is ear, his neck. He dove into Sam's lips and crushed him with a sloppy kiss. This time it was Sam whose body rose reflexively into the air and then slammed back down onto the bed as he wrapped his arms tightly around Dean and pulled him in tighter.
Sam's tongue tasted like toothpaste and whisky and sleep, all mixed in with the natural scent of Sam's body, and Dean was sure a more crave-worthy combination had never existed. As he kissed his brother deeply, attempting to taste every inch of his mouth, his hands worked frantically to touch every inch of Sam's body. He had this irrational idea that if he could just get close enough, he would be satisfied. But they were already skin to skin, so how much closer could they get without becoming one?
The images that that thought brought to mind pulled a growl out of Dean's chest, and he shot up onto his knees, slapping Sam's reaching hands away from him so that he could reach for the bottom of Sam's shirt and pull at it wildly until he had removed it from the tight flesh beneath him.
So many times he had seen Sam shirtless, and he wondered how on earth he had failed to notice the beauty of his brother's body. The crack of moonlight shining into the room bled seductively over the ridges of Sam's abdomen, the contrast of light and dark painting Sam's skin dramatically, making the dark parts seem even darker than his regular olive tone. Dean quickly pulled his own shirt off and threw it wildly behind him so that he could lie back down and touch his bare chest to Sam's.
"Oooh!" they both cried, as the warmth of each other's skin sent sparks flying through their vision. Dean honestly couldn't remember anything ever feeling so good.
Sam whimpered into Dean's neck as he felt Dean reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants and lifting them up over his erection so he could pull them down his legs. Sam lifted his legs to allow the pants to clear his feet, and he laughed deliriously as Dean tossed them to the floor. His laughing increased as Dean jiggled on his knees, attempting to get his own pants off, face planting into Sam's chest as he lost his balance.
Both of them laughing harder, Sam reached down to help Dean, and when they found themselves face to face, Dean had the experience of looking his brother in the eyes. Looking his brother intimately in the eyes. He felt as if the room was slowly turning on its axis as he saw this familiar face that suddenly seemed so new. Every feature was just as he remembered it, but in so many ways he felt like he was staring at a total stranger. The whole world was upside down and here he was falling in love with a stranger that he happened to have known his whole life.
In love?
Fuck.
Sam succeeded in pulling Dean's pants off, and Dean came falling back down on top of him, their naked bodies crashing together. The feeling of Sam's body against his own was so fucking rapturous that Dean started thrusting against his brother's hip uncontrollably. The gasps and moans coming from beneath him only made him thrust harder and faster, and his eyes squeezed his shut as he felt Sam reach around and squeeze his ass roughly.
He fell into Sam's neck and pressed his forehead against the pillow, breathing into Sam's ear, and no longer certain whether he was thrusting or just being aggressively pulled back and forth by Sam's strong hands on his ass.
Sam muttered something in a throaty voice Dean had never heard before, and Dean leaned in closer. "Huh?" he begged.
"SSssssoooo goooood," Sam drawled as their hard cocks rubbed side to side.
"Ah, fuuuuck," Dean moaned as tension rose from his toes up to his waist, into his shoulders and neck and up to the top of his head. He felt a spark building deep within his pelvis and he knew that he was going to come soon.
But despite his frantic state of mind, his body took its sweet time building to the big moment, and he felt like five painful minutes went by as the slow burn rose to a lapping flame, and finally to a roaring fire.
He stared into Sam's eyes, and Sam stared back, newness and familiarity violently at war, and then Dean saw something deep in Sam's eyes that felt so familiar it frightened him. It was almost like he was looking at himself. Like the lifetime that they had spent together wasn't even the beginning of their knowing each other, like they had spent eternity before eternity together, and this life was nothing but a temporary dream that their spirits had chosen to play in. The love in Dean's chest was like a caged animal trying to escape, and his eyes burned as he lost his breath and felt the wetness begin to fall down his cheeks and onto Sam's face.
Sam's eyes overflowed with tears, and everything that he was too overwhelmed to express in words was evident in his face. The urgency, the grief, the need. Combinations of emotions that didn't even have names played across his face, but most of all, a love streaming straight into Dean's pupils unlike anything Dean knew was possible. He felt his own tears flow more steadily at the insatiable love that was flowing toward him from every pore of Sam's body, and a great and terrible gratitude swelled in his chest, sending his limbs into uncontrollable quaking. In his irrationality he pondered the idea that the Trickster's interference in their lives could really have been a blessing if it could lead to such intense oneness with the totality of everything that was good.
And as the sensation in his prick grew into a painful, tickling, itching, oversensitive scream, he cried his brother's name as spasms gripped his body and warm streams of come sprayed everywhere, even hitting the bottom of his own neck. He felt Sam shaking and shuddering beneath him, the unmistakable tremors of orgasm evident in his voice.
"De…" Sam whimpered.
"I know," Dean tried to say, but his voice came out in a shattered cough, and he could only bury his face back into Sam's neck and thrust his way through the explosion.
Sam thrust back, and they bounced against each other boisterously, Dean groaning as he felt Sam's fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. After another blissful span of endless seconds of feeling like his cock was the most powerful part of his body, Dean finally felt himself winding down. Their thrusts and bumps slowed to a mild rhythm as they both emptied out, and then they sighed noisily as they settled into each other's arms, their bodies fitting together uncannily well, even if their skin was slippery with sweat.
Dean lifted his head and took a peek into Sam's eyes, and the undiluted devotion that he found there sent him into fits of crying. Sam's eyes immediately went bloodshot and he sobbed as well, pulling Dean as close as he could get him. Neither could tell whose pounding heart was whose as they wept into each other's ears, and their chests rattled against one another in their conjoined meltdown. Dean bent his nose against Sam's jaw, and he marveled at how the sensation of crying as hard as he could felt like the best thing he had done in years, especially because Sam was right there with him.
They tangled closer together, limbs interlocking tightly, and they gripped each other's bodies as they cried until their heads seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
Eventually, they both lost their breath, and their sobbing slowed. They let their breathing deepen, and in Dean's mind, he felt his reality beginning to shift. One second, he was lying next to Sam in a cheap motel room, the next second he was cuddling with his teddy bear in his childhood bed, listening to the soft and easy chatter of his mom and dad in the next room.
He couldn't decide which reality was better, so he allowed them both to be, and he let out one more grateful sob before losing consciousness with his nose against Sam's red and beautiful cheek.
Sam gripped Dean's ear and blindly stroked at his face. "Dean…" he murmured. "I've never… I've never been so…"
And then they were both asleep.