Rating: Hard R
Spoilers: Through 6x09, "Clap Your Hands if You Believe."
Word count: ~11,500
Summary: With Dean robbed of his memories and Sam of his soul, Sam's idea of looking out for his brother drives them in unforeseen directions, forcing both to weigh the age-old question of what makes us who we are.
A/N: Written for electricalgwen as part of the spn_j2_xmas exchange. My sincere apologies for being so late, this thing kept on growing. I tried to incorporate several of your likes as well as pull off a different twist on one of the familiar tropes. I hope it works for you!
Twenty-four dollars, a mud-caked pair of boots, and a name—Dean. That’s what he wakes up with alongside the road, pebbles chipped off the asphalt digging into his arms, dust kicked up from the cars coating his jeans.
Lone stretch of highway, identical in both directions, barren of signs. Just the wind whistling in his ear, a tune he doesn’t understand, things he can’t remember. He climbs to his feet, sets off a dull ache that feels like it penetrates down to the bone. Muscles not crying out, but definitely groaning their protest, like whomever left him out here to wither in the heat from the road wanted to leave a longer lasting goodbye than the one that’s already fled his mind.
He squints into the distance, futile hope that the landscape will transform into something less indistinguishable. It doesn’t, so he walks. Deliberate strides that help him ignore the kinks and pops of stiff limbs and the constant reminder that he has less than nothing. Not even himself.
His hand closes around the air when he tries to bring it back, almost anything. That force that drives you on, puts you on a path—his gut, spinning wildly like a compass. No direction to lock onto, no destination to speak of. He sees the sun up ahead, on its descent, like him. He follows it, knowing he’ll have to beat it somewhere or take worse odds with the frigid night.
He wonders if he ever knew much, but for now, he knows his name is Dean. It’s a start.
The car that pulls up before the sun has a chance to get halfway under the horizon is a beast. Gleaming black even in the fading light, long, powerful body like they hardly make anymore. Car like that isn’t a car, it’s a point. He bites down on his awe as the driver pulls her to a stop, face obscured by the last gasp of the sunlight, bouncing off the broad windshield.
“You need some help?” A lean face peers at him through the passenger side window, build of the rest of him more than filling the driver’s seat. A car for its owner. It’s a young guy, twenties, dark hair framing his face. The kind of ordinary, suburban spawned guy you play football with in the park on the weekends or something.
But then, looks are deceiving. Look at Dean, one would assume he’d have a clue as to why he was strewn by the highway with the roadkill.
“Yeah,” he finally responds to the heavy eyes scanning his face. “To be honest, I can’t say what. Don’t know who to call, don’t know where to go, don’t really have any way to get there if I did,” he rambles before catching himself. First chance he’s had to get it off his chest.
The guy doesn’t seem put off, more amused than anything, corner of his mouth tugging up, sly. “I’m Sam,” he offers. “And, I’m here, so I might as well do something, right? Got a hotel for the night and a second bed you’re welcome to if you want. Or there’s the car, if you’re hung up on the Shawshank possibility.”
A huff escapes Dean’s throat, despite himself. “To recap, you’re going to either give me the opportunity to kill you in your sleep or rip off your car?’
Sam shrugs, leaning on the wheel. ‘I’ll take my chances. You saying you trust me?”
“Oh, wow, of course not.”
“Great. You’ll be fine, then,” he says, like it’s final. “Get in.” Reaching over and wrenching the door open, he looks up at Dean expectantly. Dean gazes down the road one more time, thinking that he may have gotten more than he’d bargained for when he asked the horizon for that favor.
Since nothing about any of this makes sense, he pulls open the creaky door and slides in, not bothering to paste himself to the side furthest from Sam. Like he’s taken this ride with him a thousand times before. Maybe losing everything shook loose some of his common sense in the process.
“One of the unsolved mysteries your name?” Sam asks, glancing at him, expression as placid as it had been the whole exchange.
“I knew a Dean. Good name.”
Down the street from the hotel, with Sam offering dinner, Dean realizes he’s starving for a burger. Topped high with crispy bacon, slathered in mayo, surrounded by a greasy army of French fries. It’s not much, but it’s something of him coming back, and he chalks it up as a victory.
Sam, in a mirror reflection, orders some lemon grilled chicken platter and forgoes the more appetizing sides for a salad. Not nearly enough to fill that frame up, Dean thinks, but Sam seems content, opting to divide his time between ogling their waitress’ ass whenever she refills their drinks (which is blatantly more often than necessary) and studying Dean like a specimen under a microscope. It wouldn’t be unnerving even if there weren’t a hole being eaten in Dean’s stomach from who knows how long passed out by the road. Dean just looks back.
Spacious as that Impala may be, the lingering stiffness throughout his body is demanding a real place to lay his head. Once they’ve paid the check, Sam’s not-so-discreetly obtained the waitress’ digits, and they drive the few minutes to the hotel, Dean’s eyes are beginning to weigh him down.
“Let me guess, you like the one by the door?” Sam tosses out, slinging a duffel bag onto the other bed.
“How’d you know?” Dean questions, genuinely curious.
“It’s the one closest to the exit if I do go the Shawshank possibility. Obviously,” he finishes dryly.
Sam, Dean has learned quickly enough, is one hell of an acquired taste. Brazen and from what Dean has seen thus far, largely untroubled by the questionable things that occasionally come out of his mouth. Possibly unaware he’s even doing it half the time. The rest, Dean wouldn’t call it impulse, some lack of crucial mouth-to-brain filter—there’s almost a deliberateness to it. A social battering ram that’s served Sam well in keeping those he doesn’t see fit at arm’s length. Can’t see it winning him many popularity contests and he thinks that’s probably the point. Doesn’t stop Dean from laughing, though, sometimes out of amusement, sometimes out of mild disbelief, sometimes when he shouldn’t.
It seems to throw Sam a little every time Dean does.
Dean doesn’t waste time making good on his promise to aching muscles. He unlaces his boots, empties his pockets, and climbs into the bed nearest the door, head blessedly resting against the pillows. Sam doesn’t stop rooting around the room like he has more than enough excess energy to stay up the whole night, fucking turns on pay per view porn to glance at as he’s typing at his laptop, but it’s his world and before long, Dean is out like a light, weariness catching up to him at long last.
When Dean has to drag himself up to take a leak during the night, Sam’s gone. The red letters of the clock say it’s the dead of night. Dean pads to the window, moving the curtains back and surveying the parking lot through bleary eyes. The Impala is nearly out of his range of vision, but there she sits, illuminated by the street lamps, trunk popped. Sam digs around inside, but for what, Dean isn’t able to see. After a moment, he slams it shut and quickly jumps in, engine rumbling to life. She’s back on the road soon enough, vanishing from Dean’s sight like a ghost into the night.
Sam is back by dawn. Dean doesn’t ask. Wouldn’t get more than a smile and an enigmatic shrug anyway.
The next day, Dean doesn’t rejoin the world until mid-afternoon, a near sleep of the dead that somehow leaves him feeling more weak and battered than he had the night before. He wakes to the sight of Sam still seated at his laptop, already dressed and at work on—whatever it was he busied himself with. He couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours sleep after he got back, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him.
“Morning,” Dean croaks.
“Morning,” Sam returns distractedly, gazing at him. “I’m out of practice, but sleeping fourteen hours, surgeon general recommended for those with possible head wounds or—“
“You worried I was going to stop breathing in my sleep?”
“No. I was up, I would have noticed,” he muses, and Dean can’t parse the straightforward seriousness from the joke. Thin line with Sam sometimes, so he just shakes his head.
“I put a few more days on the room, figured I’d give some time for your,” he gestures around his head like Dean’s a mental patient, “To clear up. Beats the side of road.”
“Thanks, but you, uh, you don’t have to put yourself out anymore than you have. I’m sure you got somewhere to be.” As much as Dean is seeking answers, co-opting the time of someone’s that been nothing but decent to him, with every reason to be otherwise, isn’t what he’s looking to do.
“No one’s waiting for me,” Sam dismisses, and Dean can share the sentiment. “I’ve got business to take care of in the area anyway. And,” he picks up a stack of printed papers and drops them in front of Dean on the bed, “Since I had the time, I went ahead and checked Missing Persons in the area. No hits on a Dean or a male matching your description but that could take a couple of days. Current editions are all there,” he nods.
Sifting through the first few pages, Dean looks up, floored. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Sam’s face scrunches momentarily. “Why?”
“Hanging with you is kind of one big leap of faith, right? Don’t have my memories, so, guess I have to rely on my gut putting me where I’m supposed to be.” Maybe it’s nauseatingly naïve, but what else is there? It led him to Sam, at least. Sam, who he expects to promptly side-eye and mock him, but he doesn’t, just fixes Dean with a curious stare until his expression changes, idea forming.
“Drink with me,” he states.
“What, here?” Dean looks around.
“Drinking alone in a hotel room if no one’s getting laid is depressing, Dean,” Sam informs him plainly, critical fact of life, apparently.
“There’s a bar about ten minutes away, so get dressed, get something on your stomach so you don’t pass out after your first cosmo and let’s go. You forgot plenty already, might as well add tonight to it.”
And it’s just that simple for Sam, shut everything off and do what you want. Part of Dean, the part that’s looking for the rest, could definitely use a chance to check out from reality. Choose to let go for a while instead of having the option forced upon him. Who better than someone like Sam to forget with. No ties either, no worries. Hell, who else.
“When was the last time you had any actual fun?”
“Fuck you,” Dean laughs at the impossible question, throwing off the covers and rising from the bed. Thoughts of how he’s going to beat some of the dirt out of his clothes and whether he could borrow something from Sam that wouldn’t make him look like his little brother already beginning to make him forget what he’s forgotten.
How it is that Dean fell in with an oddity of medical science, he isn’t sure. Barely any sleep, eats half as much as him, but somehow Sam’s as upright as if he’d put back Dean’s two longnecks instead of the half a bottle of tequila Dean can peer through on the table and see the nearby bathroom in liquid distorted, piss-colored fashion.
“Casual alcoholism. Requirement of the life,” he raises his eyebrows before toasting Dean and knocking back another shot. Dean watches the liquid work its way down Sam’s long, muscled throat.
“What life is that?”
“Right now,” he sniffs, “I’m a collector. I work with my brother off and on,” he adds the last part after a moment, like it had to force its way out.
“Actual signs of life. I’ll be damned,” Dean jokes. “How’s that work out? The family business?”
There’s a shrug, and Dean gets the feeling it’s not something Sam is ever interested in putting a microscope on, even to himself. Easier to keep on the move, so none of it ever catches up. No doubt, there will be things Dean will wish he could leave behind when he gets it all back.
“We used to be tight. Practically in each other’s pockets, but—“ he does another shot, considering the words carefully because they don’t come naturally. “I guess I turned into someone else the last year or so. Not the guy he’s looking for now, and he doesn’t say it but you can tell. Even I can tell—just a matter of time until he bolts. Looking at my face and seeing somebody else makes him miserable.”
“It’s not my place,” hands out in peace, Dean goes on, “But maybe you ought to give him more credit than that. People change, but some things don’t. Family doesn’t.”
“How would you know?” One of those things Sam does that most would read the wrong way. It’s not an attack, not with that much earnest anticipation on his face.
“Honest? I have no idea. But one guy’s opinion? There are things that don’t come off in the first rinse cycle. The guy you used to be, your brother’s brother. It’s—instinct. In your gut instead of in your head. Like when I came with you,” he finishes, going quiet with the last bit.
Sam is openly staring at him again. Two days and Dean hasn’t faltered under that stare. Not once. “Hanging around even though you got no practical reason to, even though it doesn’t make sense, that’s—instinct?”
“It’s—a lot of things. A lot of things that don’t make sense.”
“Sounds familiar.” He wraps the expanse of those hands around the bottle, pouring out a shot and pushing it across the table to Dean. Watches him take it down the way Dean had watched him before. When he goes to pull the glass back to top Dean off, their fingers brush and neither is in a hurry to jerk theirs away, erase it with a bullshit joke that makes it safe.
“You guys doing okay? Can I get you anything else?”
Their fair-haired waitress decides to make a reappearance then, and Dean has to suppress a glare. It’s all perfectly polite and it’s not like she snuck up on their table in this semi-crowded hole, but it yanks Dean out of the moment so quickly it gives him whiplash.
“No. In fact, I gotta take a leak,” Sam slides out of the booth with that, and it rings clear as a bell, what little way that window opened is irrelevant because it’s just been firmly shut. Dean blinks, unsure of where to go from here, what this means. He watches Sam go. “Um, no, we don’t need anything.”
She tucks a lock of blonde hair so stark it’s nearly silver, behind her ear, lingering there. When Sam finally disappears into the bathroom, she takes his place in the booth, prompting Dean’s brow to furrow in frustration. If she’s trying to pick him up, now couldn’t be a worse time for a laundry list of reasons.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all night,” she starts, and Dean is already gearing up to let her down easy, eyes on the bathroom door. “But Sam, he’s just glued to your side, isn’t he? Even missing his mojo.”
His gaze snaps back to her. “You know Sam?”
“I know a lot more than that,” she assures, coy smile playing about her painted lips. Bright, harsh red that bleeds into her pale skin. She reaches over and takes Dean’s hand into hers, displaying a tattoo along her wrist of a white rabbit. “What do you think is going to become of you, staying with him? He’s not to be trusted, Dean. And neither are you.”
The weakness in his body comes roaring back, as if a hole had been carved into his chest and everything within started to flow out in a rushing stream. It has to be the drinks, something she did. His eyes flit to hers, wide and in pain as the sensation grows, pulling him down, making it impossible to speak.
He starts to fall forward against the table, knocking over one of his empty beer bottles when it stops abruptly. Sam is standing next to the table, the waitress’ tiny wrist locked in his grip, scorn etched into his expression.
“Get your fucking hands off him.”
She struggles, glancing around. “I’ll make a scene.”
“You say that like I care.” The grimace on her face says he’s tightening his grasp. “What’s wrong? The triple-bagger, old hag look not pulling in the patsies like it used to?’
“Sam,” Dean prompts him, table nearest theirs starting to take notice of the events unfolding.
With a last squeeze, Sam relinquishes her arm, allowing her to stand up and adjust her sleeve like the whole thing had been a minor inconvenience. “I’ll be seeing you again, boys. Count on it.”
Sam’s eyes follow her until she disappears into the kitchen, jaw clenched tight. At Dean’s questioning look, he only answers, “Something I’ll take care of later. Fuck this place, let’s get out of here.”
He offers Dean his hand, and the warm weight of it keeps Dean steady as he gets to his feet.
On the walk back to the hotel (Dean isn’t about to risk that Impala with alcohol in his system. 98% sure it’d be fine not being good enough), Sam finally starts to show his liquor, disproving the working theory Dean had that he was something more than human. They end up sidetracked in a field awaiting development down the road from the bar, Sam arbitrarily deciding to take a seat on a discarded block of wood. Dean joins him and catches a glint in the side of his eye as he sits.
There’s a pistol tucked into Sam’s waistband. Managed to miss that one. The waitress’ words come filtering back, warring with the unwise ease he’s carried in his stomach when it comes to Sam. The feeling that let him overlook the rest of it.
“Your collecting, it involves pistol whipping people?”
“Oh, now you’re listening to psycho, bar bitch? She tried to kill you.”
“Yeah, and I don’t even know how or why it stopped when you grabbed her or what her vendetta against you is supposed to be. Not to mention why you’ve been packing heat this whole time and conveniently neglected to mention it,” he stands up and runs a cathartic hand over his face. “Fact is, I don’t know you and maybe I need a lot less going with my gut, because it’s obviously fucked, and lot more getting back to figuring out who the hell I am.”
He turns back to Sam to find him casually twirling his pistol with two fingers, out here in the open where anyone could see. It doesn’t appear he paid half a mind to Dean’s rant, or gives two shits that a cop could drive by and haul him in for brandishing a weapon. And that’s it, isn’t it. Sam’s a crazy bastard that would be just as likely to play with his inexplicably owned weapon out in the open sober, as he is drunk.
And Dean, well, Dean’s the amnesiac that got into his car, made himself vulnerable a million times over and wanted more that instant their fingers brushed in the bar. They’re both out of their minds. Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up from his throat at the revelation, and he settles heavily back onto the log next to Sam, utterly oblivious to Dean’s train of thought. At least, they’re out of their minds together.
“Think you’d remember what to do with this?” Sam is pondering the gun, turning it over in the moonlight.
“What?” Dean raises his head tiredly, somewhat shocked he still has energy enough to do it.
“If you knew how to use it before, do you think you’d remember how to do it now?”There’s a sign for the real estate company selling the lot a few dozen yards away. Sam nods to it. “Here,” he says, holding out the gun, handle first, “See if you can hit it.”
Regarding it with a skeptical glance, he declines, “No thanks, I think I’ll be able to live without knowing if I was a crack shot in my past life.”
Dean scoffs. “Of just firing a gun?”
“Of missing,” Sam clarifies, eyes gleaming with the taunt. Gun dangling teasingly from his forefingers.
“Jeez, gimme that,” he snatches it away, willfully ignoring the accompanying smirk of victory. “Fuck it,” he mutters to himself, righting the pistol in his hand. It’s warm from Sam’s grip, solid weight that seems to fit effortlessly into the mold of Dean’s palm. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t want to over think it, force some sense memory he in all likelihood never actually possessed.
Stepping next to Sam, he raises the pistol in his right hand, cocks the hammer and stares straight down the barrel. The world shrinks down to his line of sight, lit path to the sign. He fires.
Ejecting the magazine, he pops it open, confused. There aren’t any bullets left. “It’s empty.”
“Of course. Any idiot can make one lucky shot. I just wanted to see how well you knew the weapon. Most people can’t detach the magazine and check ammo off the top of their head. In case you were wondering,” he finishes, droll, sliding the gun out of Dean’s grasp. “Huh. Guess you were right. Not everything falls through the cracks.”
“You’re insane,” Dean shoves the clip into Sam’s chest. Even that small bit of contact makes his dick throb. Just being near Sam now, this heady mix of unpredictability and something deeper, but no less terrifying, setting him off. He steps into Sam’s space, bold and undeniable the way Sam is, intent clear. Sam doesn’t back away, lets out a liquor tinged exhale that Dean’s close enough to feel ghost over his cheek.
They’re close, too close for this to be anything else, for anyone to claim ignorance or the booze made me do it, fuck you, don’t get weird, man. Sam is standing his ground, searching is his face, but the sudden shuttering of his expression gives Dean pause. Or maybe it’s those huge hands coming down on his shoulders, stopping him in place. “You need sleep,” Sam insists, awkwardly patting Dean on the back, and stepping around him. Heading off in the direction of the hotel.
For the second time tonight, Dean feels like he’s been sucker-punched, too slow and lumbering to keep up with the rapid fire changes around him. He’s so fucking hard in his jeans and pissed off, standing under a streetlight and wondering why, with the one thing in his life where the pieces all fit, it can’t ever be easy.
“Bobby, you there?” There’s a rustling on the other line. Sam pulls the phone away from his ear to check that it’s working. “Bobby?”
“Boy,” sounding gruffer than usual, he grits, “If this ain’t an emergency, you better invest in a watch. Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I don’t know, like, three, four?” he answers innocently. “It’s hard to keep track since I don’t sleep.”
Bobby sighs, giving up explaining how that one works to someone whose daily decision not to mow down slow pedestrians in the crosswalk is currently a work in progress. “What’s the problem?”
“You know that banshee we were looking to bring to Crowley?”
“Yeah,” Bobby responds slowly, knowing this isn’t going anywhere that’s going to let him get back to sleep in the next sixty seconds. “The ones that went from warning people about death to causing them?”
“Not so benevolent these days.”
“Well, trying to capture ‘em to be dissected and tortured by a demon probably isn’t putting any sunshine on their lemon drops either.”
“Oh yeah,” Sam considers for all of two seconds before moving on. “Well, turns out it was more like banshees. They got the drop on us in the woods outside of the Boulder suburbs.”
“Everything shake out alright? I assume they’re not giving you your one phone call.”
“The big stuff turned out fine.”
“What do you define as big stuff?”
“Nobody’s dead or injured.”
“But, when the second one came out of the woodwork, Dean got blindsided. I was busy with the first and the other started to do her spirit suck deal on him. Tried it on me too, but I guess soulless spirits are like the burnt chip at the bottom of the bag, so I cut a chunk out of her and got free. By the time they both split, Dean was out. When he woke up, his memories were gone.”
In thought, Bobby scratches at his beard. “Makes sense, banshees don’t take souls, it’s more about lifeforce, the essence. You tell Dean who he is?”
“You got him safe though.”
“He trusts me.”
“Figures even that wouldn’t bust you two up. He must know, on some level, that you’re important. Enough not to run in the opposite direction anyway.” Bobby suppresses a yawn. “Let it run its course. His spirit got uprooted, it just needs time to resettle. If he ain’t back to normal in a few days, drop by and we’ll see about speeding up the process. Just be on the lookout for the banshees.”
“Got a lead,” Sam reports. “Several of the local frat houses are right along a set of woods and one of the biggest is having a party tonight. Convenient location, gullible frat guys, it’ll be a ‘too stupid to live’ smorgasbord.”
Not much argument there. “Do your best to keep the wolves out of the cattle pen and keep me posted. And Sam—“ his life would be so much easier if he’d never got invested in those two. “Watch your back out there on your own.”
Bobby has the receiver halfway down when Sam’s voice comes out of it once again. “What’s that?”
“So, like this, Dean’s pretty much—Dean sans the memories, right? He wouldn’t just up and do something freakish he’d normally get all preachy about?” he finishes in that one manner he has—blunt. This time, it comes off more like he’s convincing himself. Wouldn’t take much the state he’s in now.
“Something happen?” suspicion creeps into Bobby’s tone.
“Just hedging my bets.”
He ain’t believing it for a second. “Boy, between the two of you and the armpit time of the night, I’m not up for a philosophical debate about what makes you you. Just keep him out of trouble until he gets his wits back, yeah?’
The click resounds in Sam’s ear and Bobby didn’t help him at all. Well, crap.
The next time Dean hears the familiar rumble of the returning Impala on the edge of morning, he’s wide awake. Unable to keep himself under for consecutive hours this night or the last, spending empty time flicking through indistinct, late-night programming and tossing the remote on the bed in frustration when one too many glances at Sam’s empty bed sends him into the bathroom to whip his cock out and take the edge off. Make him want to deck and fuck Sam a little less.
The son of a bitch is everywhere. In his head, when he breathes in, touching him in every filthy image that flashes through Dean’s brain as he jacks himself to brief reprieve. And what does Sam do—keeps him at bay now more than ever and have Dean contemplate if he’s harboring delusions on top of the lapsed memories.
The door stands open a moment before Sam appears. It would be the icing on the cake if he stumbled in, attached at the face to some bar skank. Couldn’t expect him to refrain for Dean’s sake forever, right? Not like he’s used to living alone, taking anyone else into consideration. The irrationally bitter taste blooms on his tongue even though the words don’t reach it.
When Sam appears, it’s tight-faced and alone. In the midst of stripping off his jacket to reveal a spreading blood stain on his side, seeping through the fabric of his shirt. Dean is up in an instant.
“Jesus, what happened?”
“Ah, I barely feel anything,” Sam plays off, but the exhale he lets out as he navigates his way to his bed is strained and short. “Just hand me some towels and my duffel so I can clean it up before I stitch it.”
“Why don’t you take it easy, Rambo. Let me do it, before you make it worse,” he grabs fresh towels from the counter and tosses one to Sam to hold against the wound while Dean slings his duffel onto the bed next to him. “Front pocket,” Sam points out, “The suture kit.”
Dean sets out the needle, thread, and the disinfectant supplies in a line on the other bed. Going back inside, he finds a pair of scissors. “You mind losing half that shirt?”
“Pretty much ruined anyway,” Sam gives his blessing. Dean holds the cloth away from his body and cuts as straight a line as possible around the torso, exposing both the slope of Sam’s lower back where it tapers and the hard ridges of his stomach when it’s done. Shifting gears back to his more respectable brain, he aids Sam in carefully easing his arm above his head, giving Dean room to work.
With a copious amount of rubbing alcohol, Dean cleans out the wound stretching down Sam’s flank, dabbing at each inch until he’d pinkened an entire bag of cotton balls with the excess blood. He works swift and efficient, moving on to the threading without a hitch, pulling the separated skin together in neat and undeniably practiced, zigzagged patterns. Another hidden talent, specialized and offering nothing but maddeningly glimpses into the sort of person that needs to know it. Someone like Sam and apparently, someone like Dean.
All in all, it doesn’t take more than half an hour before he’s applying the final touches. Having Sam raise his arm and test the integrity of the stitches. “That’s nice work,” Sam compliments. “Does Nurse Dean ring any bells?”
Dean presses harder than necessary at the wound for that, but Sam doesn’t flinch. “If I were a nurse, I’d be used to not getting straight answers from shady ass people. Coming back to an empty hotel room with a gaping hole in your side is what, an occupational hazard?”
Looking down, Dean realizes he still has his hands planted on Sam’s thighs for leverage, putting him face level with the planes of his abs, inches above the bunched denim at his crotch. He stands up, feeling like an idiot, an increasingly common occurrence.
“Been meaning to tell you that there’s somebody I could take you to,” artless subject change, “Family friend. He might have something to help with your screw loose, this homeopathic shit that’s supposed to work,” he finishes vaguely.
Dean puts space between them, going to sit on the corner of his own bed. “I appreciate the offer but I figured I’d give it a few days, see if it’s just temporary before I do anything drastic.”
“Thought I’d put it out there. Who knows what you’ll think about what’s been happening when you get your memories back, right?” Strong possibility of that being the most forced statement Dean’s heard him utter.
There’s that flare of growing anger, breaking the surface. “Alright, if I’m reading it wrong and you’re not into this, fine. But this for my own protection bullshit? I lost some memories, I’m not a fifteen year old girl, you don’t need to protect some blushing virginity of mine that doesn’t exist.”
Sam opens his mouth to make the requisite denial, and Dean wishes, just once, he’d get pissed, he’d roar and break out of the muted existence he’s buried himself in. And wishes do come true, because instead of a lie, he gets, “You don’t even know what you’re asking for, and if you did, you’d know I can’t give it to you, Dean. Not any of it. I am literally incapable of caring about you, alright? And the rest—“ he shakes his head. “I know what he would say.”
“Who?” Dean throws his hands up. Sam shuts down, but Dean moves over to him, looming over him for once. “Not everything falls through the cracks. You said it.”
“Doesn’t apply here.”
“Then who are you talking about?” Silence. “Like I said,” Dean spits. “In the end, it may not be me, and I can make my peace with that.” He stumbles slightly over the lie. “But some part of you, some part you wish you could kill, beat outta you—it gives a damn about someone. And nothing you think or say or do is going to change that.”
He thinks Sam might finally snap and take that swing at him, but it’s so much farther than that now.
Faster than he can register at first, Sam jerks him forward, almost tripping him on the bed and forcing him to bracket each knee around Sam’s legs. Practically sitting in his lap, pressed hard enough against Sam to feel his cock straining against his jeans, against Dean’s. “I’m not afraid of anything,” Sam’s eyes bore into him. “Not anymore.”
He effortlessly hefts Dean’s hips up and forward, pressing their cocks together harder. Probably trying his stitches in the process, if Dean were in the realm to care. “Take it out,” he breathes into Dean’s ear before biting down on his neck. Lapping over the indentation before raking his teeth over it and making it sting again.
Dean hisses and writhes in his lap, operating on base instinct, the need to fuck. He’s stymied by the layers of denim, command almost melting in his mind before he saves it from dissolving, promptly gets his hands to ripping at Sam’s top button. His cock is fat and flushed when he frees it, growing harder still as Dean starts to move, ride his hand up and down what he can reach. It wouldn’t be like this with anyone else, safety in the danger; reckless, and the only thing that make sense.
Sam huffs out a breath against his neck when Dean experimentally runs his fingertips over the sticky head, wanting every part of this. Wanting to know what it takes to make Sam come apart, how to be the one that gets to see it again and again. Groaning, he reluctantly lets go of Sam’s cock to jerk the buttons of his own jeans open. There’s so much heat when he jacks their cocks at the same time, slick and loud even above their harsh breathing. Even better when Sam bats his hand away, taking over with those fucking paws, cupping them together easier, wringing at the heads and covering them both in each other’s shiny pre-come.
“Thought about this for so long. Gonna be in you one day, Dean. The backseat of the Impala,” he thinks out loud, grinning against Dean’s throat. “Ass up in the air, and you’re gonna take it all for me, aren’t you?”
And there’ll be time for it, all of it, one day. But now— “Just want to come with you, Sammy,” he moans, mindless and close. It does Sam in, makes him dig his blunt nails into Dean’s sides as he splatters come all over his stomach and jeans where they’re pressed so tightly together. The warm pulse of it against his skin and Sam’s slowing but long, fluid strokes on his cock pull him along with him, painting Sam in turn.
Everything he doesn’t remember, the invisible weight on his back, it crumbles around the moment and Sam, finally, looks at him in surprise.