Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [9/?]
Author: alakewood
Warnings: Wincest. Spoilers for AHBL.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1700+
Summary: Sam puts two and two together and realizes that Dean's made a deal and they, of course, get into an argument about it. Even though they've got no time to waste, it takes them a week before they finally make up.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
oxoxo
Dean awoke slowly, first aware of the heat of the sun on his back then the warmth of Sam against his chest. He spooned his younger brother in a way that probably should've been awkward considering their slight height difference, but wasn't. Dean was comfortable, content. Then Sam shifted in his arms and spoke.
"You made a deal, didn't you? Like Dad." He didn't turn over, didn't wait for a confirmation, just kept his back to Dean and continued on. "How long'd you get?"
Dean pressed a kiss to Sam's bony shoulder. "Doesn't matter."
"The fuck it doesn't." He slipped from the loose embrace of Dean's arms and moved to sit at the edge of his mattress. "I'm dying, Dean. You might as well be, too, if you made a deal. So, yeah, it does matter, because I'd like to know how much time we've got left together."
Dean was silent for a long stretch of moments before he finally sat up, shin grazing Sam's bare hip under the sheet and his whole body aching for more contact. "She gave me a year." He kept his gaze trained on his brother, watched as Sam went so still and Dean was certain he'd stopped breathing even as Dean could imagine the cogs in Sam's great big brain spinning. "I've got something like eight months left."
Sam shook his head, turned his body just enough to meet Dean's eyes. "I'm not gonna outlive you."
"That was the whole point of the deal, Sammy."
"No, I mean I'll probably be dead before then. I've got...maybe six months. Barring any sudden miracles."
It felt like all the air went out of the room, like Dean couldn't catch his breath. "Sammy." He reached a hand towards his brother.
"Don't."
"If anybody deserves a miracle, it's you. You believe in God and all that stuff – you've done so much good-"
"I wouldn't have done any of it if not for you, Dean. Ever since I can remember, all I've wanted was to be like you...You can't die, Dean. It'll be like everything we've done has been for nothing."
"Sam..." Dean moved closer, laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. "How many people have we saved, Sam? Even just you and me these past couple of years? That's not nothing."
"Then why are you giving up?"
"I'm not-"
"Yes, you are."
"Because I couldn't do it without you."
"And you though I could?"
"Sam-"
"No. I don't want to talk about this anymore." He threw back the sheet and pushed himself off the bed, angry purple bruises blooming like flowers on a vine across his hips where Dean's fingers had gripped too tight.
oxo
The tension between the two brothers evaporated with the humidity that hung heavy in the house in the the week that followed. Dean had just gotten off work at the garage, didn't have to work his night security shift, so he pulled a beer out of the fridge instead of the pitcher of lemonade, used the churchkey to pry the lid off. He took a long swig from the bottle, bracing himself with one hand against the chipped formica counter, trying not to think about how he wouldn't be able to use work as a buffer between himself and Sam with the holiday weekend.
"I used to pray that we'd find Yellow Eyes," Sam said from the doorway behind Dean. "It was all I asked for and we finally got the bastard. For us to find a way to save you, to get you out of this deal somehow...it's the only prayer I've got."
Dean set his bottle on the counter and turned to face Sam. "Sammy...if there is a God, he's not gonna care about me. You should be praying for yourself." His feet carried him the short distance across the kitchen to his brother, grease-stained fingertips gently tracing up Sam's jaw to push his shaggy hair behind his ear as Dean pressed his palm against Sam's sunken cheek. "It's not fair that this is happening to you."
"When has life ever been fair to us, Dean?" Sam leaned into Dean's touch, buried his fingers in the worn fabric of Dean's work-shirt and pulled himself closer.
The argument from the week before seemed to be forgotten or forgiven, or pushed to the back burner temporarily, and Dean was thankful for it, didn't know how, exactly, he was supposed to make it right when there was no way that Sam would ever see reason in his decision. "I'm sorry," Dean whispered against Sam's ear, pressing his lips to Sam's temple and wrapping his arms around his brother in a move that was somewhat chick-flick-moment material, but Dean knew Sam pulled comfort from his embrace just as he did from Sam's, even though it went unspoken.
Sam's breath ghosted over Dean's neck, sent goosebumps rising on his arms and chills down his spine. "I don't want to fight with you about this, but-"
"Then let's not fight." Dean turned his head, angled just so, and his mouth found Sam's. Without the dark to hide in, without the buzz of alcohol dampening the intensity of his feelings, Dean felt his love for Sam full-force. But he couldn't say the words, not yet. Could only show Sam how he felt. He backed Sam up against the cupboards and kissed him slowly, took his time, let his hands learn the curves and planes of Sam's body from this new vantage point.
Sam pressed up into Dean, a breathy half-sigh half-moan falling from his lips as Dean released his mouth. "Okay. No fighting. This. Let's do this."
"And, by 'this' you mean-"
Sam pressed the flat of his palm against where Dean's hard dick strained against the denim of his jeans, scraped his fingernails against the ridged material and watched the way it sent shivers throughout his brother. "Sex, Dean. Unless-"
"Uh, no. Sex is- sex is...yeah." His mouth closed over Sam's again, tongues meeting and sliding slick as Sam's hands worked to free him from his jeans, get his hand inside his boxer-briefs and wrap around his erection. "Fuck, Sammy."
Sam worked around Dean's arms as he undid the buttons of Dean's shirt and Dean tugged at the hem of the hoodie Sam wore and they briefly separated as Sam lost the sweatshirt and the tee underneath it, then Dean's hands were on the fly of his jeans and, soon, they were both naked in the kitchen, their clothes and Dean's boots scattered about their feet on the linoleum floor.
The sunlight that streamed through the windows over the sink made the angles of Sam's bones sharper, made him look even thinner than the lights in his bathroom had just a short time ago. Dean let his hands smooth over those places, could still feel muscle and sinew beneath him, against him, still felt the strength in Sam that his appearance belied. He turned Sam around so that Sam was facing the windows, the sunlight striking his face and erasing all the shadows from the hollows of his cheeks, beneath his eyes and he looked perfectly healthy. Three small words almost spilled from his mouth right there, but Dean stopped himself again, pressed a kiss to the side of Sam's neck, the knob where cervical vertebra became thoracic, slipped lower down Sam's spine until he was on his knees, mouth pressing lightly between the dimples above Sam's ass, smiled at Sam's gasp as Dean spread his cheeks and his tongue swept over his taut hole.
"Dean. Fuckin' A. Christ."
He worked Sam open with his tongue, added a finger, then another when Sam was ready for it and begging. Dean stood again, fingers still twisting in and out of Sam, gently scraped his teeth over the cord of muscle that stretched from Sam's shoulder to his neck. "How's that feel?"
"Good, Dean. Fuck, it's so good," Sam panted, arching his back and twisting his neck to catch Dean's mouth with his own. Dean added another finger and Sam moaned his name.
"You ready for me?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"It's gonna hurt. I'll go slow." He pulled his fingers from Sam's ass and lined his dick up with Sam's stretched hole, pressed in and pushed forward. "You're so- fuck, Sam, so tight."
"I can take it, come on. Just, fuck." He arched his back more, tried to force Dean deeper inside him, but Dean held his hips in a vice-like grip.
It felt like forever had passed before Dean found himself completely buried inside Sam and they were both sweating for the effort. And they stayed like that for a long moment, Dean feeling truly connected to Sam and Sam, for the first time in a long time, not feeling hollow.
The kitchen was silent save for the hum-tick of the old fridge, then Dean started moving and sounds and noises flowed from Sam's mouth, some words but mostly whimpers and grunts and half-moans.
Dean made noises of his own as he fucked Sam against the counter in their sunlight-filled kitchen on a Friday afternoon, but the only ones that hung in the air, the only ones they remembered when they'd both come, were both sated, and Sam had turned in Dean's arms to say them back: "I love you," Dean had whispered against Sam's neck, not because he was in the throes of passion, but because he really, truly meant it and couldn't talk himself out of actually saying it.
"Chick-flick moment, I know," Sam said, smile reaching his eyes and making his dimples come out, "but I love you, too."
And, suddenly, as Sam threaded his fingers through Dean's sweat-damp hair to pull their mouths together again, pressed slick bodies together, already recovered, half-hard dicks trapped between their hips, Dean felt the urgency, the fast passing of time as they hurtled towards two different endings, two different deaths. Whatever little time they had left, it would never be enough. He silently vowed to himself – to Sam – that he'd fix the mess they were in. Even with their dire situation weighing heavy on his heart, Dean forced a smile to his own lips and kissed Sam back.