Notes: So, it occurred to me that I've been neglecting to post on this profile. X_X I'm sorry. If you're a member of AO3 (or just like reading over there sometimes) you can always check out my profile there. It's usually the most up-to-date.
This is a coda to 9x18, which I posted not too long after that episode aired... again, I'm sorry. I hope you still enjoy it, because it's still pretty hot. ~_^
By the time they make it back to the bunker, Sam has Dean's profile burned into his retinas, blinking away high cheekbones and disapproving lips by the too-bright lights of the garage. It feels like he's been staring for days, not hours. The car doors slam, he watches Dean stalk toward the stairs and knows it's been years, years of Dean driving and Sam looking over, wondering what to say.
He tries, once, in the hallway of their bedrooms. "Dean, I -"
"Not now, Sammy." Dean's voice is gruff, as always, and unreadable. The door to his room closes firmly behind him and Sam's left in the hallway, hands clenching empty on something he's never gotten to hold. He's not even sure what it is, half-chased senses lost in the swirling morass of his mind.
Today was just so much revelatory overload. Sam lets himself into his own room and perches, lost, on the edge of his bed. Stares into nothing amid the scattered piles of a life only recently accepted as his, a place he knows he'll return to until it burns to the ground.
Dean's profile lingers there, limned in negative light, just visible on the stark expanse of a wall.
There's so much going on, so much that Sam thought he understood. When he said those things to Dean weeks ago, he thought he had the answers. Thought he had to be hurtful to make it stick.
His fingers scritch up the faded denim over his thighs. Not so, the wicked, his lore-ridden brain supplies, erroneously but aptly. Then: You really had no fucking clue.
His chest constricts when he remembers the dying-eyed shock on Dean's face, the time Sam was "just being honest".
A fist smacks flesh, the tense muscle beneath. He understands, then, the depths of self-loathing he's seen in Dean, eclipsed behind a rocks glass draining. He feels it, acutely. It's like the old church all over again, Fergus McLeod sobbing behind him, the weight of heaven and earth settled in his own shaking hands: "So?" Dean had to convince him that his life was worth the price, the pain, the penance.
Could he convince Dean of the same thing?
This lead weight in Sam's gut, it's like the convent in Ilchester all over again. All his confidence shattered, convictions scattering dust in the crisp night breeze. "Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak..."
This time, he's the one wielding the knife made of words, carving his brother to ribbons.
Why did he think it would work out for the best, tearing at Dean this way? How on this sin-blasted earth did Sam think that his bitter, honest opinion would make any of this better? Sure, he was hurt - really fucking hurt - that his brother would trick him like that. That he'd lie, so many times, let Sam keep losing time, and all in the interest of something Sam himself didn't want?
Didn't think he wanted. Truth is, Sam hasn't known what he's wanted since Jess died.
He's seen it now, the fruits of his honesty. Dean's form slumped against the warehouse wall, bloodied and small. The look on his face like Sam hadn't seen on Dean, ever - a lost child, something Dean had never allowed himself to be in front of his little brother.
It had all hit home then, and continues to do so in sickening waves, the realization that Sam has abandoned his brother, in heart if not in body, and Dean truly feels alone - stuck in a windowless room with the one person he hates most. Himself.
Sam stands up, shadow shifting in the antique light. Boots get kicked to the side, close enough to the door. Overshirt drops. A chill chases from nowhere over Sam's tense shoulders, the ripple of a shiver just an afterthought. His mind is whirling on so many things.
Dean, always Dean. Who else could it come back to? There's a reason Sam was ready to die after those failed Trials, but in no form or facet was it because he wanted to leave his brother -
He can't add the word alone to that thought. He just plain didn't want to leave Dean.
A sense of panic grips him. Now, Dean might be the one who leaves. He's got that scar, that timeless brand on his arm, and Sam saw the look on Castiel's face. An angel, so scared he was furious. They could both lose Dean, and what's worse, because of what Sam stupidly said Dean probably won't care if he's lost. Won't take any precautions. He'll just -
He's always loathed every fiber of his own being. Sam's eyes sting.
Dean will just throw himself away.
Sam's hand is on his doorknob and turning it before he's realized he was moving. He's out in the hall and facing his brother's door, staring into the paint and wood grain like he can melt the whole thing down. Like when he knocks, Dean will open it. Like he can figure out in the next five seconds the exact right thing to say, because his knuckles are up and knocking without him having consciously thought to do so.
Of course, there's no answer. Dean's probably got his headphones on again, volume up to seismic. Sam smiles a sad, little smile at that thought; his brother has always loved his loud music. He sinks into its embrace, buoyed above the waves. Lets it carry him.
Because no one else can, or will. Because he's always had to carry Sam, and Sam never once thought it needed to be the other way around.
He tries the handle. Locked.
There's a chance that if he pounds on the wood loudly enough, Dean will come to the door. He'll scowl, and demand to know why Sam is standing there looking like somebody kicked his dog. Then Sam will fumble the answer, and Dean will close off, and even if he doesn't slam the door in Sam's face, he may as well have done all of those things already. Dean is nothing if not predictable in his aversion to communication.
And what have you done to change that, hmm? Sam's treacherous inner voice purrs. What have you said recently that showed Dean talking to you was a good idea?
Knuckles poised a micrometer from the door, Sam lets out a shuddering breath as his heart lurches.
He turns on his sock-clad heel, and stalks away.
Down, down into the kitchen, into the pantry-bar, where he settles heavily into the same seat Dean occupied when Sam said such cruel things. He grasps the bottle left there for such a purpose; it's full. Dean must have a system, Sam thinks numbly. He follows his brother's example, takes a swig straight from the slender neck.
He's going where his thoughts can't follow, into stinging brown, then blessed black.
. . .
The next morning comes with a steaming plate of hangover cure, slammed into the table beside his head with enough force to crack. Sam lurches up, and groans when the ghost of Johnnie Walker swings a loopy dance around behind his eyes.
Dean is standing there, hands on slim hips, looking as disapproving as their father ever could. His arched eyebrow says many things, from "Hope it was worth it" to "That shit was mine" to "Maybe you should leave binge drinking to the pros, Sammy". Sam purses his lips and glances away, dragging a hand over his face. His skin feels like taut leather, a corpse that's dried in the sun.
When he looks back up, Dean is gone. Sam can hear rustling, clanking in the kitchen proper. A little surge of warmth flows through the pain, fondness for the way his brother has nested. He glances at the plate. There's a full breakfast there - cheesy, pepper-infused eggs with bacon and sausage, two slices of toast with pats of butter running down their middles. A squat glass with Dean's customary hair-of-the-dog, warming with proximity to the food.
Sam downs that first. It tastes like ass, but by the time he's polished off his bacon, his head is beginning to clear.
Clomping down the stairs draws his eyes, and Sam is startled to gaping silence when Dean appears with his own plate. His brother plunks down across from him and begins to eat with his customary shoveling enthusiasm.
He stops mid-chew and glares above chipmunk cheeks when it becomes evident that Sam can't stop staring.
Dean swallows, takes a swig of whatever mixed drink he brought with him - Sam's betting on a screwdriver, no way is that plain OJ.
"What?" Dean growls. "Your eyes get stuck that way?"
Sam drops his gaze to his empty plate, shamed and feeling all of six years old. Sorry, Dean is on the tip of his tongue, but for so much more than bad manners. And he'd only been staring because in all the time they've been here, all the hangovers that Sam has ever had, his brother has never once coddled him with a fresh, home-cooked breakfast.
Grunting, seemingly satisfied, Dean resumes eating. Sam sits frozen, no idea what to say. The food and the nasty swallow helped, but his head still feels swollen, the numb fingers of all that drove him to drink in the first place clutching all over his skin. There's nothing he can say, so he grabs at his plate and stands.
He's at the stairs when Dean clears his throat and says, a little hoarsely, "So, I thought that today, we might look into the lore of this, uh, Mark I got."
Sam keeps his eyes firmly fixed up the stairs. He hears his brother shift in his seat, rustle of cloth, and feels the weight of Dean's gaze like a brand on his back.
"Sam? You game?"
A little shake of the head and Sam switches gears, turns with his plate in hand and nods. "I've got some early Phonecian translations of the Old Testament, we can start there."
Though his expression is only of mild interest, Dean looks relieved, in the minute little tells no one else would be able to read. As Sam turns and makes his way up the stairs, he realizes that his brother had been steeling himself for another unpleasant talk.
Good thing Sam still has no idea what to say.
Their research begins on the tables upstairs, but soon ranges all over the bunker. Dean has this oddly cross-referenced catalog in his memory of so many things he discovered just poking around this place, and Sam can't help but be impressed every time his brother's eyes light up and he jogs off, returning with some dusty something Sam had no idea existed.
Like the volume he's holding now, which Sam suspects was bound in human skin, and reads like the translator only spoke enough Greek to translate ancient Sumerian into a shoddy, shambling mess. Both brothers think it could help, as Cain's name appears several times, but deciphering the shambles of it is driving Sam to tear his hair out. Dean, who only reads enough Greek to order a gyro, is on his third drink.
There are no windows, but both of them can feel the sun slipping beneath the horizon.
"Why don't you give it a rest, Sammy?" Dean asks, ice clinking in his glass. His voice is a little rusty. Sam glances up, blinking as his eyes struggle to adjust. He knows Dean is right, knows he's just going to run himself ragged, but reading through these passages has given him a feeling like the answers they seek are only just out of reach.
"I've almost got it," he says, distracted. Biazo, what was that, to... breach?
"You can almost get it tomorrow, too, 's not going anywhere." The continued sounds of ice in Dean's glass, swirling aimlessly, are irksome in some way Sam can't qualify. He looks up, feels his face set into something pissy. Dean looks back at him, too calm.
"This could be of use to us, Dean," Sam snaps before he really thinks about it. "Do you even care what this curse will do to you?"
Dean's mouth sets in a disapproving line. "I'll worry about it after we gank a bitch and finish this."
"And what if it kills you, will you care then?" Sam's voice is too loud, but he doesn't care. Fear, helplessness, they turn into fury and course on through into senseless words. "There's too much we don't know! You saw Cas's face, he's scared for you. You should be worried about this thing. You should -"
The glass hits the table and cuts him off, a hair-raising shriek aborting when Dean shoves back from the table and stands so fiercely the chair topples backward. "So glad you know what's best for me," he thunders, venom and hurt. "Always do, huh, Sammy?"
And Sam should just let it go, should let his brother stomp away and sulk in his misconceptions, but all of the negative bullshit he's only just come to realize floods up behind his tongue and he snaps back, "Somebody has to give a shit, since you obviously don't."
"Oh?" Dean's eyes glitter. "So now you give a shit? What happened to you wouldn't save me, huh? Or did you have a change of heart?" His mocking tone is cyanide.
"I never said I wouldn't save you." Sam bites off the edges of his words. "You asked that if the tables were turned, would I do the same for you. And no, Dean -" He aches to see the shuttered hurt resurface on Dean's face, but he plows ahead - "I wouldn't. I wouldn't trick you into letting some unknown angel wear you like a suit!"
"It's the same goddamn thing -"
"It is not!" Sam cries. "There's always another way. You just went for the easiest -"
"What the fuck was I supposed to do, huh?" Dean yells, tossing his glass aside so it shatters. "You were in a coma, Sam! Breathing through tubes! All of the angels were stranded, Cas couldn't hear me - the doctor said I should say goodbye, and I couldn't - I fucking - Sam," he grinds out, and Sam is shocked to see tears coursing down his brother's cheeks. "You would have done the same for me."
Stubbornly, Sam shakes his head. "There had to have been another way."
A wordless, mindless howl of rage tears from Dean's throat. "Fuck you, Sammy, you have no idea!" He stalks two steps toward the hall, then whirls back again, jaw set, finger jabbing the air at his brother. "No fucking idea what that did to me, seein' you beg Death to make it the last fucking time. Like you were glad -" He cuts off, chokes on the words, but Sam hears them through years and the anguish in Dean's eyes: Like you were glad to be leaving me.
And then Dean is gone, stalking away before Sam can even breathe, much less figure out what to say to that.
. . .
Half an hour later, he pauses beside Dean's door. He hasn't been able to come up with a single thing to say. Even though the air in the bunker is a constant, comfortable temperature, to Sam it just feels stifling.
He taps, lightly, twice. "I'm going out," he projects through the wood, "you need anything?"
Dean's at the door in seconds. "Take one of the other cars," he says, carefully detached. "Baby's got a weird vibration I gotta look at."
Sam's brow furrows. "Do the other cars even run?"
"Sure. I tuned up the Roadster; she did fine last weekend," Dean says dismissively, turning away. "Should have plenty of gas," he adds over his shoulder.
There's a stretching silence. Sam opens his mouth, but there are no good words. He walks away.
The trip to the garage feels a bit like treading death row. He has to sternly tell himself to shove it the second time his stomach cramps with an ominous shiver.
Roadster... Roadster... oh. Holy shit. He has to pause and drink the car in, antique and pristine. She's not the Impala, but she's still just plain gorgeous, all sleek '50s curves. Her leather creaks like new when Sam slides in behind the wheel. Starting her up feels a bit like a dream, and Sam almost wishes he had goggles and a scarf. Almost.
When he turns off the smooth, hidden driveway on to regular asphalt, though, the Roadster inspires nothing but finding more creative ways to curse.
Her shocks are blown, gotta be. Sam bounces so hard the leather actually stings his ass through his jeans. He gets to the bit closer to town where the road needs repairs and he's swearing louder than the rattling frame, a challenge because he's sure they can hear this car shaking apart in fucking Topeka.
He makes it to the run-down garage on the edge of town, pulls in haphazardly and kills it, sighing with real relief when the shuddering stops. His ass and thighs tingle with residual sensation. He shifts, throws open the door -
and is instantly met with a noxious odor, and low billowing smoke from under the hood.
Sam scrambles from the compartment, coughing, cursing his brother soundly in his mind because he's fairly certain his throat is shot. Whatever they put in those old cars, it's some otherworldly kind of toxic.
He glares back up the road balefully. It'll take him at least an hour to walk back. Dean had to have known this would happen; did he think Sam would stay in town? Well, Sam is about to stalk back up the hill and give Dean a piece of his mind, is what.
A sharp pop from the vicinity of the Roadster's hood, and the whole car shudders, settling. More smoke billows, and Sam eyes her warily. He should probably open her up, in case there's a -
Flames lick from beneath, and Sam's sigh holds a bit of a frustrated groan, a bit of a whine.
It takes him all of five seconds to realize he has no idea how to pop the hood on this thing. The fire is licking through her grille, now; no longer a danger to the tires, Sam thinks, but don't old cars explode? They do in the movies. He spots something promising on the side of the moldering garage, and jogs over to it.
A fireball blooms behind him, a gust of superheated air. Sam whirls, gaping, disbelieving, squinting against the sudden light. The hood of the Roadster is engulfed in flame. The front tires go together, sick wet squelches as they melt apart, the whole chassis groaning, and Sam has had enough.
Hands in his pockets, back to the flames, he trudges back up toward the bunker. He keeps off the road a ways.
It takes about ten minutes before he hears sirens.
. . .
Sam is shaking with anger by the time he lets himself in, having gone up through the tunnel to avoid being seen at the front door. He's already skirted the lights of two slowly patrolling squad cars on his hour-long trek back through the woods, and his boots are coated in muck, his flannel torn, his hair a mess. He kicks off his boots by the garage door and pads up the stairs like a predator, intent on taking this whole upsetting evening out of his brother's ass.
There's much less light in the main halls than there was when he left. Rather than fumble for switches, Sam decides to retain the element of surprise. He lets his eyes adjust as he stalks the hallways by memory, reaching theirs with a satisfyingly minimal feeling of walls.
He's about to crash through Dean's door when he hears something, a sound from within that freezes him to the spot.
It was a moan, he's sure of it. Barely daring to breathe, Sam stops, ears straining. There it is again; a low, needy sound. His gut clenches. He should leave.
Instead, he finds himself swaying closer, hand outstretched, like he - like he wants -
No. Sam shakes his head, the swish of his hair against his ears far too loud in the stillness (but still not loud enough to mask the sounds of shifting weight upon the bed, within Dean's room). Whatever he's been feeling, the odd pang side-served with his already shameful revelations, it isn't that. He remembers that, hot and wrong, his formative oddness which library books had reassured would fade with distance. That had been part of his drive to get as far away as he could. The move to Palo Alto? Sure, their dad had been a huge part of it, but a few bitten-lip nights of jerking off to thoughts of Dean had been the clincher.
Now, as he stands stricken in the dark, the guilt of then and the guilt of now and his ever-increasing loneliness threaten to overwhelm him. There's a knot in his throat, a bolt through his heart, and Sam draws a shuddering, silent breath -
"Sammy..." sears through the stillness, and takes that breath away.
Dean sounds like he's sobbing, breath coming faster, deep sucking gulps into aching lungs. Sam matches him with a heaving chest, not enough oxygen for all of this. Dean - he - "Oh my holy fuck," Sam mutters, and shoves in, stumbles through Dean's door.
His brother notices, has to, but all Sam can see is a writhing shape, blacker than the shadows. A whimper issues from that shape, and sizzles down Sam's spine.
Dean's next whining "Saaam" is swallowed by Sam's hungry, aching lips. He throws himself over Dean, feeling taut skin he can't see, sweat-slick expanse all bowed up beneath his questing fingers. Dean grunts when he hits, maybe tries to squirm away, but Sam finds his chin and holds it in a vise-like grip. He plunders his brother's mouth, suddenly mindless.
The slide of Dean's tongue on his, the keen he drinks down, they're delicious.
Dean kisses like he fights, once he's over what had to have been a nasty shock. Tacky fingers find Sam's face, his hair, the torn sleeve of his flannel. Dean arches up into his brother like he wants to shove Sam away, teeth clacking staccato as he moans, and moans.
They break apart. Sam's ripping off his shirts. "What the fuck -" Dean's panting, breathless. Sam muscles back in and shuts him up. "You want this," he says, low between nips on his brother's bottom lip.
"I -" Dean sounds lost, and Sam presses him back into the sheets. "Sammy -"
"Shhh," Sam shushes between kisses, shoving a hand down the hard lines of Dean's side, grasping one jutting hip bone. "You said my name," he mutters into Dean's gasping mouth. "You said my name -"
He drives his hips down, and Dean arches into him, keening on empty syllables. His face is becoming clearer as Sam's eyes continue adjusting, swollen lips and that fair, freckled skin flushed with as-yet unanswered need. Hands find their way down Sam's body, worm between them, tear at his belt. His zipper is thrown down and Dean brings up his legs, shoving Sam's jeans down with his feet.
There's no underwear to block the way. Sam keeps forgetting to do laundry. A sharp static friction fuzzes through his every nerve when the two hottest points of their bodies touch for the very first time.
Their kisses are bites, nasty and harsh, cocks lining up for a dirty grind when Sam slams Dean down again. Fire through his veins, and the smell of his brother suffusing his senses, the whole sensational overload swamping him til it doesn't feel real. "Oh fuck," he mutters, can't stop moving, "Oh fuck -"
"I'm - I just -" Dean can't find words; he shoves at Sam until Sam gets the message, fumbling down between Dean's legs. He finds a leaking cock that's swollen to bursting, Dean's balls drawn up until they must be aching, and below them in the dark recesses Dean's slick, loosened hole.
"You've been fucking yourself open," Sam says raggedly, "screaming my name?"
He shoves two fingers in and Dean's "Yeeesss" drags out of him in fifteen syllables instead of one. He shakes, driving down on Sam's questing fingers, shouting and torquing back when Sam finds a buried, taut little nub. Dean's noises take on a frantic, sort of squealing edge, and it drives Sam fucking crazy - he's seen snatches of scenes, his brother with women, but never in his life could he have imagined Dean like this.
It's intoxicating, pure and simple.
Driving ruthlessly against Dean's prostate, Sam wraps his other arm around his brother's back and pulls him close. Their chests heave in a push-pull, back and forth, life from one to another in a series of sparks and gusts of air.
"Do you have any idea -" Sam doesn't recognize his own voice. "- how long I've wanted you?"
"If -" Dean's voice cracks, he coughs and whines and tries again, moving fitfully against Sam's hands. "If it's as long as I have, I'll be pretty fucking surprised."
Sam pulls his fingers out to the tip, adds the other two and when he slams back in he pushes their foreheads together, stares deep in his brother's glittering eyes. His fingers work. A whimper echoes deep in Dean's chest. "I was eight," Sam says. "You told me monsters were real. All I wanted to do was touch you."
Dean moans, tilts his head and slots into a perfect, messy kiss. Nerve endings alight. Sam corkscrews his fingers and has to chuckle, a dark little thing when Dean pulls away just long enough to say, "All right, fuck, you fucking w- ah!"
His hand finds Sam's cock, the length of it twice his nasty-slick grip, and jacks his brother with a slide and twist. It has Sam's hips jerking without his consent, no rhythm at all. "You gonna play around all night," Dean growls to the terrible, teasing tempo of his hand, "or are you gonna -" Sam bites his plump lower lip and draws blood, copper staining the taste. Dean breaks off with a hiss. "Fuck, Sam -"
"That's the idea," Sam snarls, ranging up off of Dean. He pulls out, twist on the exit, and as Dean howls at the loss, Sam flips him.
A bite to the shoulder has his brother shaking even worse than before. "Fuck, Sam, Sam -"
"I got you," Sam mutters, slicking his cock with residual nastiness from his hand. "I got you, Dean."
He sheathes himself to the hilt with a groan, Dean's own cry lost in the sheets as he arches, and wails. So - fucking - hot, enveloping Sam's cock like nothing ever has, tight and glorious. Sam's aware of the heavy animal noises he's making but doesn't even fucking care, he's sheathed in Dean for Christ's sake, his brother. The strong one, the one who never bends his will, now mindless and writhing, impaled on Sam's cock.
Sam stills them, runs a comforting hand down Dean's flank. The flesh around him flutters, constricts, and it's so hard not to move. He won't, though, until he's sure Dean's okay.
"Move!" his brother screams into the mattress, hips searching back, shoving with his hands and knees. Sam breaks, pulls out 'til the head of his cock is caught just within the tight ring of muscle - exhales in a gust, and slams back in, his hipbones jabbing in the soft flesh of Dean's thighs. He rotates just a little, digging in deep, and Dean makes a noise like he's dying, clenching hard. It's just - this must be Heaven.
There really is no bliss like this, not that Sam's experienced. He flies, caught in the pounding pace he's established, the thick slide of him between Dean's cheeks. Dean's back spreads out below him, shimmer painted over that expanse of rippling muscle, toned from the life they lead with scars like constellations. Every one of them tells a story, and Sam bends to kiss and nip at what he can reach, short sharp jerks of his hips to accompany. Dean's cries are harsh, muffled into the mattress.
Sam ranges back up, grabs a handful of Dean's slender hips and pulls, changing the angle so that those hoarse cries are once again screams, sobs when he strikes the prostate again and again. It's roaring through his blood, the heat of this fierce new thing. Sam sweats, droplets falling, running over golden skin already shining, cotton sheets soaked through.
He loses track of time, loses himself, but knows he's near completion. He can feel it building in the heart of him, pulling his balls tight, his lungs constricted. He chokes, "Shit - Dean -"
Dean rears up to meet him, a golden deity erotically wreathed, arms winding back to twine around Sam's head. He's shaking minutely, mostly his shoulders, and Sam figures he might be crying but his noises sound ecstatic. Especially when he pushes back and raises up on his knees, settling astride Sam's, and begins to ride.
Soft, almost delicate grind, and the angle takes away Sam's control. Takes away everything except this need he has denied for so long he forgot it existed. The fight just streams from him, anything frantic now tamed, Dean soothing him somehow for some reason and all without saying a word. Sam tosses his sweaty head, wanting more. He wants it all. Everything that Dean will give him, everything Dean lets him take. Now, he feels like he's the one being worshiped, Dean nosing at him from the side for an awkward, filthy, downright wonderful kiss.
Sam's not thinking much at all, love for his brother like spider lightning suffusing his consciousness. The tight slide consumes him and before he knows it he's coming, bowed over Dean from behind and shaking it out so hard his groan struggles, strangled from his throat.
"Sam," Dean sighs with so many things layered in his voice, clenching around Sam's softening flesh, arching back. Sam hears heavy droplets strike the wall, a fine tremor running through Dean's frame. His orgasm is beautiful, like all the rest of him.
As Sam rearranges them spooning in the sodden mess they made, he can't stop touching every inch of his brother's skin. This... this is what it was all leading to. All the angst, hurt, despair... It showed them just how badly they needed each other.
It feels like hours before Dean speaks, or tries to, voice huskier than Sam has ever heard it. "Sammy, I - I want you to know that -" He breaks off, coughs, and falls silent.
Nodding into Dean's sweaty back, Sam smiles. His own voice, when he answers, is a thready pleasured thing.
"I know, Dean. I know."
The sleep they fall into, together, like that?
Sam hasn't slept that well in years.
. . .
"In my defense," Dean says between slurps of coffee, "I had no idea the car would explode."
Sam just arches an eyebrow over his own cup.
A little rue smile plays at Dean's lips as he gingerly lowers himself into a chair. He stares at the table, their discarded research, with a distance in his eyes that tells Sam he's staring right through it.
He waits, giving his brother the space to speak on his own.
After a moment or two, Dean does. "I don't regret it." Sam figures he's not just talking about the sex. There's that bolt in his jaw that only goes jumping when something truly rankles.
Green eyes strike his like flint when Dean looks up. "I'll always -" he says, and slams his mouth shut, but Sam gets the message. He's glad for it, now.
I'll always choose to save you.
Sam wants to answer. He wants to say, so will I. Truth is, though, he doesn't know if he can make that choice. If it were Dean begging to die, Sam doesn't know if he'd turn that down. Doesn't know if he's that selfish, if he has any right to be.
He supposes that Dean has that right. Dean is never selfish, never takes what he needs. He's always giving, giving until there's nothing left. The only times he tries, it backfires, and maybe that's why. He never really learned how to want anything for himself.
It makes sense, now, that last night went the way it did. And with perfect clarity Sam is relieved, so many things brought to light that make sense. He feels, as he sips his coffee, that they might actually make it. They can win, somehow. There was a tunnel, but now they've emerged into sunlight.
He loves his brother, loves him enough to understand. And Dean loves him. That's - that's pretty awesome.
Sam lets his eyes say all of this. He and Dean, they've always done their best talking without saying a word.
The stone weight of what they will have to face still sinks within Sam's chest, but for the moment he lets what he and Dean have between them buoy him up, and carry them both.
fin