Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [10/?]
Author: alakewood
Warnings: Wincest.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1800
Summary: A winter storm knocks out the power lines to the house and the boys set up camp before the fireplace. Sam has a rare burst of energy and he and Dean create their own heat.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

oxoxo

Winter started much earlier than its scheduled date on the calendar. Temperatures dropped well below the norm for November and stayed frigid – like living in the Arctic. The ground was frozen and every bit of snow that fell from heavy, leaden skies stuck.

Days grew shorter and nights longer, and Sam started to sleep nearly all of his time away. The precise biological clock that he had once prided himself on seemed to have run out of power. He woke and slept at will unless Dean roused him.

The look on Dean's face as time passed – the permanent lines of worry and dark shadows of hopelessness – was worse than the constant, bone-deep lethargy and occasional incapacitating headaches Sam suffered. So he slept. It lessened the pain and his guilt. He felt like a burden, like this thing weighing Dean down and slowly smothering the life out of him. And, really, that wasn't too far from the truth. Dean had taken care of and protected Sam nearly all of his life and, now, because of Sam, he was going to die. But there was nothing Sam could to about it.

oxo

The week before Christmas, another front moved through bringing with it a nasty winter storm that not only knocked out the power lines to the house, but dropped three feet of snow in just under twenty-four hours in the process.

Dean put together what could best be described as a nestin front of the brick fireplace, the fire blazing hot and bright. Still, even with Sam bundled deep in every blanket Dean could find, he only stopped shivering when Dean crawled into his cocoon with him atop the mattress Dean had dragged off his bed and downstairs.

For three whole days, as the snow continued to fall and accumulate outside, they stayed curled up against and around each other, only leaving the warmth of their bed and the hearth for quick bathroom breaks and food.

Sam laid on his side, countless blankets wrapped around him until only his face was visible, and watched Dean heat a pan of soup over the fire. "Just like camping," Dean said, ladling chicken noodle soup into a large mug and handing it to Sam.

Sam sat up, wormed a hand out from the warmth of his blankets and took the mug, curling his freezing fingers around the low heat seeping into the ceramic. He blew on the steaming broth to cool it before taking his first sip, burning his tongue anyway.

Dean watched Sam from the other end of the mattress, blankets draped over his own shoulders as he took small drinks from the mug he held between his hands. It was obvious how much worse Sam had gotten in the past couple of months, how much more frail he'd become, with the thinness of his arms and the dark hollows beneath this eyes, his sunken cheeks and the sharp juts of his hips bones, the way his clothes and even Dean'shung from his frame far too loosely. Dean finished his mug and set on the brick surround, just outside the blackened wrought iron screen, and refilled Sam's mug with the last of the soup. He scooted nearer to his brother when Sam had emptied his mug for the second time and set his mug to the side as well.

Sam licked his lips and stretched out on the mattress, opened his blankets to allow Dean underneath, opened his mouth to allow Dean access when his brother leaned forward to kiss him. He licked the salty taste of chicken broth from Dean's mouth until all he could taste was Dean.

Sam hadn't had the energy for this in a while and Dean had seemed content enough just to hold him while he slept and never pushed for anything more, but now, with Sam willing beneath him, Dean didn't hold back his desire or need. He hovered over Sam carefully, raised up on one elbow, his other hand trailing up and down Sam's body, thumb skimming over a nipple here, backs of his knuckles dragging over Sam's hard cock there.

"Please?" Sam begged, arching up against Dean's body, fingers tangled in Dean's shaggy hair, palm gliding over the scratchy stubble along Dean's jaw as Sam pulled him down for another heated kiss.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, Sammy." He slid his steady hand over Sam's trembling body, over the ridges of his ribs, fingers slipping beneath the loose waistband of Sam's sweatpants and boxer-briefs. He pushed the fabric down, let Sam kick out of it the rest of the way while he rid himself of his own. Dean rolled onto his side, pulled Sam's knee up over his hip when they were chest to chest and sucked on two of his own fingers, slipping his hand behind Sam, pressing his slick fingers between the firm cheeks of Sam's ass to find his hole.

Sam's leg tensed over Dean's hip, pulled their lower bodies closer together, cocks rubbing slick, and he gasped into Dean's open mouth. "Oh fuck."

Dean worked one finger into his brother, slow, gentle pushes until he met no resistance and Sam was writhing back against his hand for more. He added a second, eventually a third, his mouth never leaving Sam's.

"I'm ready," Sam breathed against Dean's lips. "Please, I need you." He hitched his leg higher on Dean's side, opened himself wider to Dean's twisting fingers, and angled closer to Dean's leaking cock.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean groaned, withdrawing his fingers and rolling Sam onto his back, settling himself between Sam's spread thighs. He buried his face in Sam's neck as he reached down between their bodies to grip his dick and press himself against Sam's worked-open hole.

Sam tilted his hips up, slid his hands down Dean's sweat-damp, cotton-covered back beneath the layers of blankets to grip his ass and guide him where Sam needed him. "Oh, God."

Dean sunk into Sam with little difficulty, just the drag of skin on skin, mouth seeking out Sam's once their bodies were flush. "So good, Sammy," he whispered against his brother's mouth, tongue snaking out to trace Sam's chapped lower lip as he slowly pulled out, pushed back in, and started an unhurried rhythm.

Sam slipped his hands up under Dean's t-shirt, fingers splayed wide over his shoulder blades, holding him close as Dean's open mouth pressed hot and wet against his throat. "Dean," he pleaded, desperation suddenly flooding through his veins on the heels of the love he felt for his brother. They were running so short on time, less than a year left, just a handful of months. He couldn't imagine not having this, not experiencing this ever again. He clutched Dean to his chest, sought his mouth frantically, fear and uncertainty filling his lungs and forcing his breath out in shallow gasps. "I love you."

Above him, Dean paused, hips stilling as he gazed down at his brother, flickering firelight causing shadows to dance across both their faces, illuminating the faint tear track that trailed from the corner of Sam's eye into his hairline. Dean pressed a kiss there and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, releasing fresh tears. Dean didn't have to ask to know the reason for Sam's silent distress, he felt the same fear, the same hopelessness. "Love you, too, Sammy," he said, pressing a kiss to Sam's ear before moving back to his mouth. He resumed his slow rhythm, clung to his brother.

Sam let Dean draw their lovemaking out until the fire was burning low, the room growing much too cool. "Dean, I need-" He angled his pelvis up so Dean glanced his prostrate when he slid deeper.

"I know, I know." Dean thrust faster, a little bit harder, just enough to push Sam over the edge, and he followed a minute later. He pressed a kiss to Sam's chilled, sweat-damp brow and helped Sam out of his shirt, used it to wipe both of them clean. He pulled on his abandoned sweats and underwear, handed Sam's to him, and tossed a couple more logs onto the fire before disappearing upstairs to find them clean t-shirts and a couple of hoodies to keep warm while the fire grew.

Sam lifted the edge of his blankets to let Dean crawl in beside him, kissed him slowly once he'd pulled the shirt on over his head, and again when he tugged on the hoodie Dean offered him. As soon as they were settled again, Dean's arms wrapped around him and their legs tangled together, Sam was asleep.

oxo

Sam startled awake hours later, fire in the hearth little more than embers, so he climbed from the warmth of the blankets to add more wood to the fire, prodded with an iron poker until the flames licked back to life, curling around the logs. The curtains were dimly lit like it could have been early morning, but Sam's internal clock no longer functioned properly so he wasn't sure. He watched Dean sleep for long moments as the logs caught in the fireplace and started to blaze and throw off heat again, wondered how Dean could've sacrificed himself so carelessly but, in the end, knew he would've done nothing less. That he coulddo no less.

He rose from the foot of the mattress, carefully tugged one of the blankets from their makeshift bed on the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders as he headed for the kitchen. There was a large drawer near the back door filled with various things Dean had taken from the Impala, including Sam's collection of fake ID's and badges. He selected one at random and a small tin box. After some digging, he found everything he needed, situated it all in the tin box, and headed for the front door. He pulled on Dean's leather jacket and stuffed his feet into his boots and ventured outside.

Sam thought about the doctor's appointment he had scheduled for Tuesday but he already knew what they would tell him, he could feel it in his bones. They would tell him the cancer had spread, that he didn't have as long as they'd initially thought. Cancer is a guessing game and every body reacts differently as the disease spreads, destroys. But Sam felt it, saw it when he looked in the mirror or into Dean's eyes.

He just wanted it to be done and over with. More than that, he wanted Dean to be okay. He braced himself against the biting, frigid wind as he slowly made his way down the porch steps. He had nothing left to lose – he was already dying – but maybe his soul could be work something.

The crossroads seemed like the only break he had.