Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.
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Okay people, this is the end :) Thank you all so much for reading this, I hope everyone enjoyed it, if there's anything you think I could improve on feel free to let me know… As I said in the last chapter, there will be another story set a few months after this which I'll start writing within the next few weeks, so if you liked this then please stop by! Thank you again for all my lovely reviews, they encouraged me to get this written faster than I'd normally have written it!
Dean slipped back into the Motel room as night began to fall. Sam lifted his head, watching him from the bed as the older man unloaded a bag, opening containers of Chinese food from the restaurant down the street.
Dean hadn't let him get up from the bed for two days, discounting the need to piss or shower. He'd insisted on taking care of Sam until he was healed, despite Sam's protests that he was fine, he'd been hurt worse. Truthfully, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck and then run over multiple times, but he wasn't going to admit it to Dean. The bed rest was nice though. Sam had never been allowed to take days off, to stay in bed all day and watch trashy TV while someone waited on him hand and foot. And the fact that it was Dean who was looking after him made the experience so much more enjoyable.
Sam had struggled with thoughts of his father, all alone for the first time. Part of him wanted to go back, just to make sure Jim was alright, that he hadn't drunk himself to death yet. But the much bigger part was focused on Dean. Dean, who had kissed him and asked him to stay.
"Hey Sammy. I brought you noodles and chow mein, is that okay?" Dean said, a half-smile on his face as he looked at Sam.
Sam nodded. "Thanks." He tried to push himself up and Dean was there, pulling a pillow against the headboard for him to lean back on and guiding him to a sitting position. Sam smiled at him.
Dean brought the food over, placing the containers on the little table between the two beds. He perched on the edge of the other bed, facing Sam. Picking up a carton and scooping out a forkful of noodles, Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him, making sure he wasn't hurting in any way. The attention felt bizarre, strange after sixteen years of his life.
The two nights they'd spent in the motel room had seen Sam waking in gasps and floods of sweat. Dean thought he was dreaming of his father, and it was true, but it wasn't the beatings he relived. He dreamt that his father was dying, was asking for Sam and Sam wasn't there anymore. He didn't explain this to Dean, who wouldn't have understood. But the guilt was washed away when he woke up to Dean's soft hands, stroking his face and hair. Whispering that it was okay, he was there, he wasn't going to let anything happen to Sam.
Even the dirty and sordid room didn't matter. The water stains on the ceiling, the smell of the sheets. None of it mattered, because Dean would kiss him good morning, and good night, and anytime in between. The older man had started off sleeping in the other bed on the first night they were there. After the first nightmare, Sam pulled Dean down beside him and curled himself into Dean's arms. Dean had hesitated for a second and Sam panicked that he'd gone too far, that maybe this wasn't what Dean wanted. But then Dean's arms had tightened around his waist and he'd dropped a soft kiss to the top of Sam's head and Sam had slipped back into a dreamless sleep. Dean hadn't bothered with the other bed after that.
The bruises covering his torso had begun to fade, lightening to mustard yellow and green and purple. His hands were still sore and cut, the left still aching from the heel of his father's boot. Dean had insisted on inspecting them every morning and night, changing the dressing and rubbing in antiseptic with feather-light fingers that tickled.
They hadn't talked much, most of their time spent tangled up together on the single bed, watching the static-crackled TV, languidly kissing and petting and touching as they'd never been allowed to do before. It all felt oddly innocent, like kids on their first date. Neither had attempted to take it any further, content to explore the opportunities as they opened up in front of them.
The one time they'd had a serious conversation it had been Sam to bring it up. To ask what they would do now. Dean had smiled, slow and easy, and told him that they'd do what they'd been born to do. What's that, Sam had asked. We hunt, Dean replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Together. Sam hadn't said anything, letting his kiss speak for him.
He finished his noodles and half the chow mein before a yawn caught him by surprise. Dean moved to sit on the bed beside him.
"You tired?" He asked in a soft voice.
"Yeah. Don't know why, it's not like I've done anything except lay here." Dean smiled and stroked a hand along the side of his face.
"C'mon, bed." Sam groaned a little but let Dean manhandle him until he was lying down again. He watched Dean strip out of his jeans and shirt, a smile playing at his lips. It felt odd knowing he was allowed to watch, that he didn't have to hide or turn away so Dean wouldn't catch him. Dean was his…friend? Boyfriend? He didn't know how to define what they had, pushed the question away for another day.
Dean walked to the bed, lifting the covers and sliding in beside him. His body was hot and solid and Sam turned toward it, pushing under Dean's arm so he could lie spread along his side. His head found its spot under Dean's chin and his hand slid up to rest under the thin tee shirt, fingers splaying across the other man's toned stomach. Sam sighed heavily, his eyelids sliding shut. The warmth of their combined body heat lulled him downwards.
"Night, Sammy." A kiss was pressed firmly to his forehead, sending him to sleep like a lullaby.