Title: Until You Come Back to Me
Pairing: Dean/Sam (Swesson and Wincest)
Prompt: kissing in the rain
A/N: This thing with me and rain is starting to become a problem. I think I have a fetish. In any case, here is the third fic I write inspired by rain and probably not the last. Written for marciaelena for the SpnSpringFling 2012 challenge on LJ.
The first hunt is a mess. They stumble all over the place, elbows, knees and foreheads somehow managing to knock against each other at least a few times. Dirt finds its way in uncomfortable places and gets very intimate with their sweat and it's nearly disgusting and completely amazing at the same time.
After the fire has been lit and the bones are ablaze, the threat long gone, Dean is the one to break the silence.
Sam rolls his eyes at him because it's probably the tenth time this week he has heard him murmur the same words.
"I can't believe I actually said that. I mean, dude, these things happen in movies…you should've seen his face."
"Dean. We just burned a woman's bones after we dug up her grave in the middle of the night. Sort your priorities, man." Sam sounds weary and tired and only a tiny bit amused.
Dean ignores him completely because Sam doesn't understand. Up until the day he quit, he had felt that he knew what his life should be like; his job with a promotion in the foreseeable future, a nice car, a nice apartment, perhaps a girl with the m-word in mind…But as soon as he was out of the office, staring at the big, fancy building and turning his back to it, a thought had struck him and left him sort of lightheaded; this was how things should be; searching for a hunt, buying his first gun, shooting cans with Sam in some abandoned parking lot in the dead of the night; it had all felt natural. So looking back now, yes, saying 'I quit,' and then storming off seems like the stuff from movies.
Sam rolls his eyes at the gleeful expression on Dean's face as he watches the fire and turns to head for the car.
"Come on, pyromaniac, I'm dead on my feet, I wanna sleep."
"And wash off," Dean adds thoughtfully, shaking his shoulders and hoping that the dirt he knows had found its place inside his ear hasn't reached the eardrum at least.
The first couple of weeks they stay in hotels with nice wall deco, huge beds with soft mattresses and fluffy pillows and quite unfortunately, very nosy neighbors and clerks. They have the money for the comfort and why not use it? Digging up graves and chasing or running from ghosts is exhausting despite the routine Dean has established of fifty pushups before his coffee in the morning and running a few miles every other day (wouldn't do to loose his shape now).
The day they decide to stay in a motel is remarkably not a remarkable one. But when Dean gets thrown into an open grave later that night and gets covered in mud and his sleeve is torn from a sharp rock with blood covering what remains of it, they're very grateful for the anonymity and lack of people at the motel.
They decide to keep it that way despite Sam's glare at the beds that are more often than not too small for him and Dean's revolt at the horrible themes in each room.
Not long after, Dean exchanges shirts for t-shirts and his flashy car with something more subtle, and Sam stops compulsively trying to draw every little thing he sees in his dreams.
They find a werewolf wrecking havoc in a tiny town in northern Wyoming and they decide to go for it despite Sam saying that the glee in Dean's eyes was disturbing him. It's sort of unknown and uncharted territory, but Dean figures you can't go wrong with silver bullets and besides- a werewolf, for real. He wouldn't miss the chance to see one for anything in the world, Larry Talbot, dude.
That day they cover a lot of firsts (and no, Dean hasn't been counting them in his head, shut up). First werewolf, first kill of a living thing, first wound on Sam, first trip to the hospital and first night they get drunk together.
The get-drunk-together part is not exactly planned. Sam has been bitching about the stitches and how uncomfortable he is from the moment they left the hospital; with the stitches being on the inside of his left thigh, walking or even sitting is an unavoidable pain. Dean walks out of the motel and into the liquor store and back to their room in less than fifteen minutes.
They pass out in the same bed and when Dean whispers 'night, Sammy,' before sleep takes them, if Sam remembers it the following morning he doesn't mention it. Dean takes it to mean that he is now allowed to call him that. Occasionally. And mostly when Sam is in some way occupied and unable to respond to him immediately.
The first time they fight, they end up against the dirty wall of an even dirtier alleyway outside some god-forsaken bar in rural Idaho. Dean pushes his hand in Sam's boxers just as Sam is clamping his teeth on Dean's collarbone. Sam comes with a muffled sound and not two seconds later he's on his knees, fingers fighting with Dean's zipper and then pealing away the clothes as if he has a point to prove.
It's heady and dizzying and all Dean had done was wink at a waitress who had slipped him a small piece of paper with her phone number scribbled on it. Sam had grumbled that they didn't have time for this kind of shit and next thing they knew, they were in each other's face growling like half-civilized apes. Dean has no idea how he ended up shooting his brain out of his dick against that wall.
Because, holy shit, does Sam know how to give a guy proper head. Dean resolutely doesn't think about how Sam came to have such an exceptionally talented mouth. And for that matter, he doesn't think about anything when the next morning he wakes up, looks at Sam and then some telepathic shit must go down because from just that one look he knows that Sam won't talk about it and he can tell that Sam knows he doesn't wantto talk about it, either.
It's messed up, but they kill a poltergeist that night and completely trash a house in the process, so Dean figures they have ways of dealing that most people don't.
They fuck one week later with Sam's teeth tearing a pillow to pieces and Dean trying to remember if he has ever seen anything as erotic as Sam's glistening back arching when he comes. They are drunk, not enough to claim the alcohol was at fault here, but enough to not give a fuck and stop pretending they don't notice each other.
It doesn't become a habit exactly, but they don't mess with other people and when they need some release from the adrenaline pumping furiously in their veins, they go to each other. They don't talk about it, they don't comment on it when people assume they're a couple, but neither denies the reality of it in the nights their bodies move together between crumpled sheets as sweat and sex permeate the air.
It's a cold night with heavy clouds threatening to make digging a pain in the ass when everything changes.
Sam has been looking at him and while that is hardly a novelty, there is something in Sam's eyes that stops him short of breath and he can't quite figure it out. Sam doesn't look at him like he does when he's horny, lust rolling off of him in waves as he stalks to Dean or like when he's still trying to figure Dean out, brows furrowed in concentration and determination even when he hesitates sometimes, as if Dean isn't willing for Sam to know every single part of him, every small, dark, hidden corner, no matter how much he tries to deny it.
Dean doesn't say anything as they walk through the graveyard, Sam's eyes like a physical touch on him. He grits his teeth against the stupid 'what!' that wants to escape his mouth and keeps on walking.
The first raindrops land on his face while he keeps watch and Sam is finishing digging the grave. It doesn't take long before each drop feels like a tiny bullet against his skin and as he tries to light up the bones he thinks even his boxers must be wet.
The ghost doesn't make an appearance, thankfully, but Dean doesn't think it's because they are just lucky like that. The dead man must have probably thought that there was no chance of his bones catching fire with rain like this and Dean doesn't blame him. It takes a small eternity for the job to be done and by then even Sam, always more level-headed and patient than Dean, is frustrated and cursing like a five-dollar whore. Dean dismisses the thought quickly because there's no way Sam would let him fuck him before they get back to the motel.
Back to the car, Sam slumps against the driver's door as Dean dumps the shovels and guns in the trunk. He doesn't know he plans on talking to Sam until he's standing three feet from him and unceremoniously says, "so?"
"So what?" Sam isn't defensive like that unless there's good reason for it, that much Dean knows, and so Dean takes one step closer.
"Sammy." It doesn't occur to him that probably now isn't the right moment, but Sam doesn't react in any way and Dean is even more intrigued. He takes another step.
He isn't sure what he's expecting from this, but Sam's hand cupping his jaw would be very low if cared to make a list. There's a thunder and more droplets clinging to his eyelashes and suddenly, just like that, Dean knows they're not alone any more.
"I'd say sorry to interrupt, but I would be lying," Dean's ex-boss says and Dean wants to curse for taking his gun from where it was tucked at the waistband of his jeans and leaving it in the trunk. His brain has gone from 'what the fuck' to 'kill it, kill it' in half a second.
Sam pushes him away and is pointing a gun to the obviously only non-human member of this party and Dean manages to be amazed by how proud he feels of him in this weird moment.
"What are you?" Dean asks in what he hopes is an authoritative tone.
"I'd like to stay and chat with you, but not really. Instead of trying to explain it to you, why don't I just show you? Like…this-" and before either he or Sam can move or even think about moving, there are two fingers pressed against their temples and for a moment the world tilts on its axis.
There's a voice from somewhere far away, a voice that's smug and patronizing and someone should punch the guy talking about fate and destiny and teaching lessons and pathetic, dirty, little humans and their place, and embarrassment and Heaven…and who knows what else.
Dean isn't aware of how much time passes and he would very much like to stay unaware for the rest of his life, thank you very much, but that would be too easy for a Winchester, he thinks.
The first thing that comes back to him is the rain still pelting against his skin with a vengeance. Well no, that's not the first thing, not really. The first thing is Sam. Always Sam.
A tiny hand clenched in his, eyes front, Sammy, not on your shoes. A bright smile and dimples, look, look what I did, Dean. A wound, blood and moans, no, I said I'm fine, Dean. A flash of black and a scowl, keep your hipster music away from my car, Sam.
Dean had fucked his brother.
Dean has feelings for his brother.
Dean is going to punch every single angel he can find right in their smug faces.
The rain keeps pouring down on them, cold and bitter, and Dean doesn't think he could've been more soaked had he fallen in the ocean.
"Dean," Sam's voice comes to him from somewhere on his right and he sounds hesitant and scared and it's not right, it's always been Dean's job to make it better.
When their eyes meet, it doesn't feel strange or weird that they don't speak and still manage to communicate. It only feels natural, like coming home.
It's not easy, making a decision, and it won't be easy to deal with it later, especially given their track record of poorly handled situations, but in this very moment, Dean cares very little about anything that isn't Sam's sad, desperate eyes.
He crosses the distance and his lips touch Sam's softly, reverently, but with no less passion or determination. It's a spur of the moment kiss and Sam tastes like rain and hope and brother.
When he pulls back, enough so that his eyes don't cross when he looks at his brother, Dean finds Sam's eyes wet with more than just rain and in the dead of the night, they have never seemed brighter.
"We'll figure this out, Dean," Sam promises and Dean knows they will. He closes his eyes and says nothing. Instead, he kisses Sam again until their lips are warm and numb and then, out of nowhere a though comes to him and a chuckle bubbles up.
"What?" Sam sounds amused and Dean takes it as a good sign.
"You were thinking about this."
"Kissing me. That's why you've been staring at me like a freaking weirdo the past couple of days." Dean doesn't want to sound smug, but he revels in how easy it is to read Sam, how easy it is to see through him, to know him. It hasn't been more than a couple of months, and he wouldn't admit it under threat of pain, but he has missed this.
"Shut up," Sam says before he claims Dean's mouth, and Dean would bet good money that he's blushing.
Dean is unwilling to do so, but he interrupts their kiss after an indeterminate amount of time had passed with a pressing matter on his mind. "On to more important things, though," he scowls looking around. "Where the fuck is my car?"