They don't talk for a while after the storage room incident, just watch each other like predators about to pounce. Dean doesn't hit on him, barely even shows up to school to begin with. Sam's mind plants a new theory every day, grows them and spins their buds this way and that until they are cosmic trees of betrayal or sinful desire. His very own forest of confusion. What made Dean step on the brakes? They were speeding down a crazy highway and knew it would end with their necks broken, why did he slow down? Why does he want to make it beyond that bend all of a sudden? Why didn't he settle for the quick, no-strings fling Sam would have been? Doesn't he want it anymore?
The questions claw his heart open at night when he can't sleep through the moans coming through the too-thin walls. They drive him insane. One moment he thinks Dean wasn't interested in anything but the potential muscle for a new gang, then his brain insists he got bored, is all. Found someone whose blush is just as fake as their inexperience. Or perhaps he still wants something, how about that?
That last idea is the one that always loiters around and chews at him from the inside until Sam pushes a hand in his boxers and lets his fantasies fly. He falls asleep with Dean on his lips and wakes with Dean's dream-shadow behind his eyes, walks to school aching to catch a flash of shiny black on the road and daydreams every equation to end with s + d 3. It's a sickness he can't dull with a pill, a disease that ebbs and flows, but never dries up. It's a living hell he never asked for and tried to actively avoid since he first heard the word crush whispered after pretty girls in middle school. Yet here he is.
At first, he thinks it's the most obvious thing. Laughing stock for the gossip pool. He's mortified every time he hears someone laugh and doesn't even get detentions for two weeks because he's that afraid of stirring up more of a fuss around himself. Then the paranoia lifts up and lets him run back into his jaded little world, his well-known void. It's not much darker than it used to be, all things considered.
It's on a Friday, the third one since Sam met Dean Winchester, that his luck decides his business isn't quite done with the guy after all.
Sam is wandering down the stairs on his way to the front gate when he hears muffled noises from the restroom on the first floor. He enters with all the caution his past drilled into him and finds three boys in sports jackets trying to dunk a scrawny kid in filthy toilet water. Fucking bullies, he thinks and punches the lights out of the closest one. The pain of his knuckles kills the hurt in his mind.
He doesn't usually engage in these fights. Who the fuck wants to pull others' problems on himself, right? But he finds he's keyed up enough this time to push all the hurt and the bleeding wounds in his soul onto someone else's flesh. He's familiar with the hectic unfairness of street fights - these guys won't teach him anything new.
Although it doesn't hurt to have an ally.
Dean shows up out of nowhere, appears predator-swift with moves that only years of purposeful training can drill into muscle-memory. One second Sam feels a jock pulling at his hoodie to strangle him, he's slamming forward without resistance in the next as the heavy boy behind him gets knocked to the ground.
"Howdy." Dean cracks his knuckles and steps between him and the remaining two. He looks flat-out scary with his eyes gleaming like that, and Sam pops a boner so fast he thinks he might faint. What does this say about him?
"Get out." He turns to the kid cowering in the stall to cover the tell-tale bulge in the front of his jeans.
No need to say it twice, the boy is outta there faster than the local track and field champ covers a yard sprinting. Muscly and Brainless aren't exactly delighted by that, but between the two of them, he and Dean beat their asses within a minute. They glance at each other after, chests heaving and lips curving up. Nice, Sam wants to say, you know when to show up, asshole. He wouldn't mind wiping the thin trickle of blood on Dean's fingers with his own shirt. He almost goes for it too, but catches himself at the last moment, runs away before he's dragged through the same clusterfuck he endured in the past two weeks.
It's not that easy to shake Dean off, of course. He's a sandbur plant dried up by the roadside, thorny burs sticking to your jeans and the skin underneath until you don't know if the pinpricks of hurt or their itch bothers you the most. He follows Sam down the stairs and through the entrance in silence, then throws his arm around Sam's shoulders and stops.
"Need a lift?" Dean asks, his voice smooth honey and bloodied satisfaction. It took two weeks for Sam to get clean of him, but less than an hour together and he's relapsing into his crush. He feels strangely sympathetic with his addict of a mother - now he knows what need can do to your resolves.
"Fuck off."
"Come on. I have a bomb ass slice of pie waiting in the backseat." Dean coaxes. His thumb and forefinger rub away Sam's fears through the back of his neck. "Cherry."
Sam bursts out into a short laugh thinking of all the virgin jokes they don't say, and that's it, he's gone. Again. Swallowed up by Dean's quicksand allure. All pliant now, he lets Dean stir him to that gorgeous car and gets in, crosses his arms, then drops them back to his sides when Dean doesn't stop staring at him from behind the wheel. He wouldn't mind melding with the upholstery right now.
"What?" He asks defensively.
"Nothing." Dean mumbles, then reaches for the box on the backseat. The delicious scent of fruit wafts through the car. He groans and bites into the fat slice he pulls out from under the lid. "God, I'm starving." He chews.
When Sam reaches for the pie too, he raises an eyebrow. "Who said I'm sharing?"
"Give me a bite, asshole." Sam laughs and swats at his knee, fights the urge to leave his hand there. His fingers shake with nerves just thinking about it.
Dean smiles with powdered sugar on his lips and offers him the slice. It should be gross, eating something another guy already munched on, but the thought of sharing that bit of saliva just makes Sam flush with pleased excitement. He takes a small portion and hands it back, hoping Dean won't think it's ruined now. That would be humiliating.
"How did you learn to fight like that?" He asks, pressing his sticky fingertips together and wishing he could wipe them with something.
"From Dad." Dean replies and, to Sam's relief, polishes off another mouthful.
"He's a hunter." He gives the pie back to Sam and adds a handkerchief from the box.
"A monster hunter. And we travel across the country ganking what goes bump in the night." He makes a finger gun and shoots at imaginary enemies in exaggerated slow-motion, grinning until Sam almost chokes on the last morsels.
"That so?" Sam chuckles. "You know, I think I have some demon blood in me."
What the fuck. He wants to smack himself. Where did that come from? Why would it be good or interesting if he was one of the things Dean's dad "hunted"? Does saying stupid shit counts as flirting?
Apparently, it does. "I can believe that." Dean laughs with a delighted gleam in his eyes.
"Should I be scared?"
Dean lowers his voice. "Maybe." He's close enough that Sam could easily tip forward and lick the freckles on the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry I wasn't around much last week." Dean whispers and raises a hand. It lifts past Sam's shoulder to go for his face, but falters and turns back to rest on his biceps. "Dad needed me home."
His thumb swipes back and forth, and this is the point where Sam realises, this is going to happen. We are going to happen. He almost bursts out giggling at the thought. Is this real?
He read somewhere once that ten seconds of continuous eye contact guarantees that the attraction is mutual. He feels kinda silly for it, but he tries to count anyway, frozen in place. His lashes are so pretty, he thinks, God, am I too weird? And, with his heart trembling, I want to kiss him.
"It's cool." He mumbles on autopilot.
Dean's hand withdraws. He runs it through his own hair and blows out a breath while his gaze flickers down, then back up to Sam's. His tongue slips out to wet his lips.
"So-"
"Do you-" They start at the same time, then laugh. Sam takes a deep breath and soldiers on, wants to say later, when push comes to shove, that he did his best to take his chance.
"Do you want to - maybe - meet up tomorrow? We can…" He racks his mind for something fun to do, a local game or party, anything they could call a date and a friendly outing at the same time, but he comes up with a big, glowing nothing. And wouldn't that be hilarious anyway, him showing up to either of those? "...uh, hang out?"
"Yeah." Dean answers, almost too quickly for Sam's burning ears to catch. "A movie?"
Sam bites his lip to contain his smile. He thought he would never get to hear this question in his life, never would have imagined it will come from the most handsome boy he has ever seen. Like a cat in a sunny spot, he could bask in this feeling for weeks. "Not sure I wanna be caught with your ugly mug at the mall."
Dean's full-belly laugh brightens up the grim concrete-grey of the parking lot. "Oh, I know I'm a dream, Sammy." He boasts and turns the key, happy to end the serious conversation there.
That you are, Sam wants to say as they pull away from the curb, that you are.
They watch a cheap horror flick because Dean claims those double as comedies anyway. Sam can't argue with that. His mind is still busy processing how Dean held him back before they crossed the street. He can sense the phantom pressure of that hand on his chest, the firm push back to the pavement. His entire body buzzes if he thinks about having it there again. He can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other when everything is Dean's face and Dean's voice and oh God, what does Dean think. Watching where he goes has become a monumental task.
Getting hit by a car would have been quite an epic fuck-up though, Sam shudders. They have barely even started, but he has no doubt he will mess this up. Perhaps he will faceplant in the restroom and break his nose. Or, even worse, fumble with his drink and drop it into Dean's lap. Or he might just kill himself with a self-induced adrenaline OD, if anything like that exists in reality. He tries not to give a damn and to get a grip on himself, but his usual thoughts fail to fill his world with ash the way they are supposed to. Life doesn't appear quite as empty when he's a patch of summer prairie ready to catch wildfire.
"Did you watch the trailer? I sent you the link." Dean whispers into his ear with thinly concealed glee after they settle down. The whoosh of air leaving his lungs tickles Sam's ear and makes him shiver. God, he's half-hard and Dean hasn't even touched him yet. He thought the worst of his teen years were over, goddamnit, this is so embarrassing.
"Yeah." Sam clears his throat, glad that he has been jittery all day, because after the stammering he pulled when Dean picked him up it doesn't stand out how much he struggles with that lie.
They aren't even together yet, but he already wants to have heart-to-hearts where he can complain about the lack of wifi back home and about his Mom spending the money they don't have. And he wants to listen to Dean, dig into his soul and examine the darkness inside, see where it is still curable and where it's tattered by the pain they both know like an old friend.
He hopes his Mom isn't going to interrupt his night again.
Sam sweats his way through the entire movie and knows he won't be able to recall a single thing about it. He fusses over his shirt, whether the sweat stains under his armpits will be too obvious or not, and shit, did he spill a drop of coke on it? Then he tries to remember if he read a guideline or a handbook, anything about how to act when your potential boyfriend sits next to you in complete darkness. Does he go for a kiss on the cheek to start a make-out session? Surely not, that sounds super weird and like something Dean wouldn't appreciate. What does Dean expect? Fuck, what if he wants a blowjob? It looks kind of messy in porn.
Handholding. Yeah. That's safer. Sam is going to test the waters with that. If Dean pulls his hand to his crotch, he can go along with that. Right? He would have been on board with a quickie on the first day, he can do it now. And if Dean yanks his fingers away… Well, Sam will know he has been played then. Good joke.
He inches his forearm to the right as much as he dares, then stretches out his pinky until it rests right besides Dean's. He can feel the bumps of Dean's knuckles against his own and the heat where they touch each other. It reminds him of the day they met, how the first brush of their fingers sent warmth through his entire arm. Is it always going to be like that, Dean cutting into Sam's cold world like a beacon?
"Oh my God, look at that CGI." Dean guffaws and pulls his arm away to muffle the sound.
Sam's stomach drops. "Yeah, haha." He winces at his own fake laugh. God, he's so stupid. Why does he even care? Less than a month ago, he wanted to kick this guy in the balls. How did he come to matter at all? Where did Sam's rationality go?
"Low-budget monsters are the best." Dean turns to smile at him and puts his hand on Sam's, precise and sure. Gentle enough not to spook or capture.
It's not an accident.
"Uh-huh." Sam replies dumbly. His heart might as well become a sledgehammer for how it tries to beat its way out of his ribcage. They are holding hands. He's holding Dean's hand! Should he, should he, like, turn his over? What if his palm is sweaty and gross? Or too cold from anxiety? Dean's is so comforting and warm, even now.
Dean stares at him for a moment longer, then turns back to the screen. He worms his fingers under Sam's hand until Sam relaxes and accommodates him better. It's amazing. He is so glad that his hand doesn't feel like an enormous, clumsy paw in Dean's hold. With Dean's rough fingers between his bony knuckles, he feels grounded for the first time in years. Safe. Like his body knows Dean will take care of him no matter what. It calms him so much that Dean doesn't expect him to take the lead because of his size, and doesn't seem to push for anything at all, now that they are on a date, just takes whatever Sam gives him and waits with open arms for more.
They spend the rest of the movie with their fingers intertwined, thumbs tracing the grooves and calluses on each other's skin. In spite of how loud Dean wolfs down his popcorn, Sam decides this is the best first date he could have asked for.
After, they get burgers at the diner across the street. They could have just ordered at the McDonald's inside the mall, but Dean prefers to have a clear view of his car and Sam's crush pools so achingly in his stomach he isn't hungry at all. There's an old vending machine by the entrance, filled with toy capsules to lure in little kids and their unfortunate parents. Sam has some spare change in his pockets, and he feels restless enough to push the coins into the slot while Dean decides on a booth for them.
It isn't until they sit down that he realises how bizarre it is to have a toy capsule in his fist and plans of debauchery on his mind.
Dean doesn't jump on the chance to tease him about it though. "What's in it?" He asks with childish curiosity.
Sam doesn't have to ask to know Dean didn't get to open many of these as a kid. He didn't either. It's such a sour detail in his memories, begging his mother for treats and toys. You'll lose them anyway, darling, while we're on the road, she used to say, back when he was small enough for her to hold a little love. That passed months ago, around the time she exchanged booze for something stronger to take her away from reality. How long will it take until she forgets Sam altogether? Maybe that's what she needs in the first place.
"A necklace, I think." Sam mutters as he opens the capsule and a black cord spills out. Why can't he stop thinking about her for once? He wants to enjoy this evening.
Abruptly, Dean stands up and circles the table to sit on Sam's side. He doesn't offer an explanation, just pretends to be mesmerized by the cheap little pendant resting in Sam's palm. It's a face with a weirdly serene expression, brass in colour, surprisingly detailed. It's kind of scary for a kid's toy, Sam thinks, but what does he know. Barbie dolls, too, creep him out to an extent.
"This is an amulet." Dean mumbles and reaches out to trace the contours of it - essentially, he's drawing patterns on Sam's skin.
"Yeah?"
"It protects you from black magic and ghosts." He nods. The solemn look on his face is betrayed by the amused creases in the corners of his eyes.
Sam gives him a lopsided smile.
"You can have it then. A lucky charm for your hunts." He says and pulls it over Dean's head. This time, he can't resist leaving his hands on Dean, on either side of his neck, where it's warm and soft above the hem of his shirt. He feels drunk, soaking up that contact, the slip-slide of the cheap little cord as Dean looks at him. How will he survive anything more?
"I'll cherish it forever. Never taking it off again." Dean mock-swoons, then darts forward and gives Sam a chaste peck on the lips.
A kiss.
Sam's first.
He almost passes out then and there, his stomach hurts so much from the rampaging butterflies. Dean kissed him! Does this, does this even count as a first kiss? Sam has seen grandmas giving longer ones to kids. Does it only count when there's tongue? God, he touched Dean's lips. That full, pink curve of them... And they are so soft, even more so than he imagined, so overwhelming pressed to his own.
Does Dean expect him to go for something deeper now?
"Aw, you boys are cute." Coos the waitress as she approaches their table. Sam drops his hands as quickly as he can - Texas isn't the right place for flaunting this in public, he reckons, even if this girl has nothing against that sort of thing. He heard enough back home to know some people wouldn't think twice about beating them for it. They aren't in that part of town, but caution never hurts.
"Been together long?" Geez, she is really fucking dumb. Anyone with a pair of working eyes could see how nervous Sam is. With a glass of water in his hand, he would look like that guy on youtube who tried to drink a beer while manning a jackhammer. This isn't how you act with a long-time boyfriend, for Christ's sake.
Calm as ever, Dean slides his arm behind Sam's shoulders and slouches lazily. It's an effort on Sam's part not to check out the V of his gorgeous thighs, how the curve of his knees accentuates the muscles under the faded jeans.
"Hell yeah." Dean drawls. "He's my baby brother."
Sam thanks his lucky stars that he has nothing in his mouth, because he would have spat it all over the table. Jesus Christ. Is Dean crazy? This isn't joking material in a family-centric place. Does he want to get kicked out?
It's just icing on the cake that Dumb Bella proves her level of intelligence isn't high enough to know when not to take someone seriously. She makes a bewildered, disgusted face, then marches away as soon as she gets their orders. She avoids looking at them all night, even after Sam tries to explain Dean didn't mean that at all, and gives them a dirty look when Dean herds Sam out with a hand on his back. So much for a pleasant dinner, huh?
Sam's ears still haven't stopped burning by the time Dean's Chevy rolls to a halt in front of the house Don the Asshole lives in. He refuses to call it home, but that's what it officially is, at least until his Mom decides otherwise. One of its windows is boarded-up and there's rusty junk in the front yard.
Sam feels oddly grateful that Dean doesn't ask whether he is sure he wants to go in. He understands, and none of his attractive features compare to what that means to Sam.
It's silent in the car, but the taut line of tension between them makes it louder than any sound that would break it. Sam sighs, fiddling with his hands. He doesn't know if he should explain the house and tell Dean his Mom is an addict, only to something much worse than Jack Daniels. Could their relationship take that? Sam has his doubts. The poisonous shame he feels when he thinks about it suggests he should not drive Dean away with it just yet. Or maybe that's exactly what he should do. Save them the time until the breakup.
"Man, that waitress..." Dean whistles, put out. "Why would anyone believe we are brothers?"
Sam rolls his eyes. Because we look like we've been pulled off the same Goodwill shelf, he thinks. "Why did you even tell her that shit?"
"Dunno. Thought it would be fun." Dean shrugs and reaches out to rub Sam's neck again. Does he, maybe, have a thing for that? "I like messing with people."
Sam clears his throat, looks away. Messing with people. Huh. Was today a joke too? A bit of fun? And here comes the punchline? Unable to pinpoint why, Sam feels hurt by the thought. All the exhilaration he felt today turns into broken cardboard pieces inside his mouth. He doesn't know what to do about it, how to ask. He isn't a girl, goddamnit. Doesn't need a ring on it before he gives it up. He's just so unsure… Why would Dean feel the same attraction, the vicious pull that sunk its hooks into Sam's flesh? And this is what happens every time Sam gets close to tasting air again - someone always pushes him back under, into the void.
"Right." He says and reaches for the door handle.
"Hey, man, you okay?"
"Just tired." He gives Dean a parting look that probably shows too much emotion, but whatever. Sam isn't used to feeling anything particular other than fiery anger. "Good night, Dean."
There's a crushing sound inside the house and a dog starts barking on the other side of the fence. Sam purses his lips. He doesn't need Don's crap tonight, fuck, he really doesn't.
Dean leans all the way over the bench to pout at Sam through the rolled-down window. "No goodbye kiss?"
Sam smiles despite himself. "Bite me."
"Good night, Sammy." Dean laughs and turns back to the wheel.
Sam is a moody, insufferable asshole on Monday. His weekend was a rollercoaster ride, but on one of those ratty wooden models that bruise your ass on their bumpy tracks.
He has no fucking idea how to carry on. If Dean was truly playing around, where's the funny part? If he wasn't, how do they pick things up now? He should have thought it through. Why does anything, even the dumbest of thoughts, make him flare up and burn out with emotions beyond his control?
He is unsure all over again. Could the tar in his stomach be love? Is this what loving someone is? Staying upright on a constantly unbalanced pillar? If so, Sam is about to tip over and fracture his skull in the fall. Maybe even that would be better than waiting.
He can't concentrate all day, barely looks up at all, but not a single soul notices, which might as well be a metaphor of Sam's life. Why does every minute seem like an interlude until he sees Dean again? And why does he, at the same time, dreads the moment the next act starts?
They only have one class together, but Sam chooses to skip that one, too chickenshit to face Dean even though he has been pining for exactly that since he watched the Chevy roll away. It's ridiculous. Who gets this shit?
He's sitting on the stairs outside, watching tiny black ants as they scour the chalk-dust-covered concrete one step below him when a hand slapping his back makes him jump.
"I think I know what upset you." Dean cuts to the chase even before he sits down, but loses his momentum as soon as he gets a look at Sam's arms.
He frowns, unlike anyone Sam has seen before, and a muscle in his jaw jumps and clenches until it looks ready to snap the bone in half. "Sam…"
"It's not important." It really isn't. Don broke a chair, that's all. It's just a matter of details where he broke it. Honestly, the only reason why Sam feels somewhat self-conscious of the bruises is the overreaction they usually evoke.
"That douchebag with the gun?" Dean grits out darkly, but his touch is gentle when he caresses the skin above the contusions.
Sam shrugs. He doesn't know if he should regret shedding his hoodie when he came here or not. He could melt from Dean's hand on his body anytime, but pity would ruin everything good in the situation.
Dean entwines their fingers again. "I can take care of it. Just tell me."
Like hell. Fuck. The last thing Sam needs is Dean's unrecognisable carcass dumped in an alley by Don's drug dealer friends.
"It's none of your business." He snaps, snarling. It's not anger - well, it is, but not at Dean. It's fear and hurt and bloody rage at the unfairness of it. What did he commit in a previous life to end up in this home, like leftover junk food tossed out for the rats?
Dean glares back until the storm in his gaze cracks and he looks away. He tilts his head back, eyes closed, and soaks up the sunshine so that he can say the redness on his cheeks is nothing but a peck from Mother Nature.
Sam smiles to himself, unabashed in his admiration. He finds it's much easier to pretend not to be aware of something every conscious cell in him screams about inside his head. He draws his thumb down, feather-light, along Dean's and lets his pulled-up knees lean to the side until his left bumps into Dean's right.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" Dean asks, eyes still closed but a smile dancing around his lips.
Sam wants to kiss the shadows of his eyelashes until Dean's skin loses its sun-warmth. "No idea. But it's better than rotting inside."
Dean's eyes open, oddly serious. "I know I make stupid jokes sometimes."
"Understatement."
"Shut up." Dean laughs and pushes his leg harder against Sam's, biting his lip. "I'm not messing around. I mean, I really, just… I don't do this, you know? I just pick them up and…"
Fuck them, Sam fills it in easily. He kinda figured that out the day they met. What would have happened if Sam slept with him that night? Would it have been enough to make Sam's void dissipate for a few days?
"Dating isn't my style. But you are something else, Sammy."
A shy smile takes over Sam's lips. Everything felt sepia-washed-out until now, shades of sand and stone, a dull reality, but this time when he looks up, he can appreciate the orange-pink of the afternoon sky, really see it for what it is. Colours splash across his faded world until he can see how beautiful the broken glass shards are under the bushes, glittering reddish-brown and wet.
He squeezes Dean's fingers. "Sweet-talker."
"You bet."
A block down across the street, the usual group of punks burst into raucous laughter. They are drunk off their asses. One of them is trying to suck three cigarettes dry at once, face ugly red and straining, a chain of soda can tabs on his belt. His greasy-haired friend gets it on film.
"Do you smoke?" Sam shakes his bangs out of his eyes.
Dean shrugs. "Tried it. Didn't stick."
"Why?"
"I would rather spend my money on candy." Sam snorts at the flippant answer and shifts to have a clearer view of those guys. He should be ready to fight them if they approach.
Dean lets go of his hand. "Yeah, okay, and this one chick in Kansas said kissing a smoker felt like licking an ashtray. I quit to get laid."
"And?" Sam clears his throat, feeling hot and cold at the same time, fever-sick. Now would have been a good time to mention that… well. But he's a nervous wreck inside, wants to avoid looking lame, so he turns his head to watch Dean's face instead and stays mum about his inexperience. "Does it feel like that?"
Dean shrugs again. "Doesn't matter. Kissing is kissing."
In the silence that follows, Sam's face heats up, but he keeps his gaze steadily on Dean's, couldn't tear it away for the life of him. His mind is in endless replay mode, flashing back to the amulet and Dean's reply, that softness, those lips… How would it feel to lick between them?
"Hey." Dean hooks two fingers into the sleeve of his shirt, lets his thumb tease Sam's skin underneath before moving his hand up to Sam's cheek.
"It's my favourite." Sam whispers, and for a second, he thinks Dean is going to laugh. Who the hell cares about his purple dog shirt when it's happening, when Dean's eyelids lower, when he's pulling Sam in, closer and closer, too fast, not fast enough, when he's going to do it...
"I like it." Dean replies just as softly, then closes the distance and kisses Sam's lips open.
He tastes like chewing gum and sunshine bottled into a sigh, and he's smiling, Sam can feel how his mouth wobbles when their tongues meet. His stubble, sparse as it is, rubs against Sam's chin and tickles. The pads of his fingers slip down behind Sam's ear to tilt his head just-so until Sam feels laid wide open and cherished.
Is he doing this well? He's trying to mirror whatever Dean does, nipping and licking, wandering past Dean's teeth when Dean all but climbs into his lap in encouragement. The bubble gum taste explodes there, sweet and fruity-fresh, and Sam pulls back to snicker at the strange feeling and the realisation that hits him. "Did you plan this?"
Dean laughs through his blush and runs his hand down Sam's forearm as though he can't stop touching the bare skin there. "It was Plan B." He says. "Knew you wouldn't say no after a test drive."
"Prick." Sam grins and thinks, there may just be a way out of the void after all.
A/N: What did you guys think of this part? :)