Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3471194.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Bobby_Singer
  Additional Tags:
      Soul_Bond, First_Time, Loss_of_Virginity
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-13 Words: 6961
****** Show Me Your Hand, I'll Give You My Heart ******
by gaialux
Summary
     Left in a motel room in the middle of a snowstorm and unable to
     contact John, Sam and Dean take matters of a hunt into their own
     hands. The spell they find and use backfires -- or, at least, that's
     what they think at first. Rather, it just shows them some things Dean
     might rather have kept hidden.
Notes
     Sam is 16 during sexual content in this fic. There are also off-
     screen child deaths. Inspired by the prompt found here: http://
     tinypic.com/view.php?pic=2rcmz6a&s=8
Dad's on a hunt.

Not at all unusual, Dean knows, and even him being gone for three weeks isn't
enough to start fretting. But they're in Idaho where the snow hasn't let up
once that entire time, and Dad's in Utah which Dean knows is worse right now.
He sits on his bed and stares at the phone day after day.

It doesn't ring.

"Will you stop?" Sam asks him after about day five. He's always sprawled out on
the grimy motel floor, some sort of text book open in front of him and a pen
twisting in his hand. Even during Christmas break he's got to get ahead of
everyone. He'd be going back to school soon if it weren't for the snow. Or the
moving. Or their entire lifestyle.

"And do what?" Dean snaps back. "If you could tear yourself away from the
exciting world of geometry for a second, you'd see it's snowing outside."

Sam gives him a withering look and turns back to his book. Dean keeps watching
the phone.


When Dean's not watching the phone, he's watching Sam. Which, yeah, when he
puts it like that makes him sound creepy. Only he doesn't have a hard time
finding the justifaction for it: Sam's his responsibility and watching him is
part of the job. After the Shtriga all those years back, Dean's not fucking it
up again.

Sam always sleeps wrapped up tight in blankets and himself. Tiny despite the
gangle of arms and legs he's got going on. A growth sput has snapped him up and
looks like won't spit him out for many years to come. He rolls over and faces
the wall, the blankets stretching out tighter.

"Sam," Dean says, and doesn't know why.

It doesn't matter; there's no response. Just the soft sleep mumbles that Dean
can't decipher. Dean looks away, up at the ceiling, and wills himself to sleep.
There's nothing else worth doing, but sleep still won't come.


On this third week, something's not right.
The TV went out a few days prior and Dean checks the phone to see the same
outcome (which is why he stops watching, waiting, and starts focusing on the
external). The windows are constantly iced up and impossible to see from. Dean
doesn't even bother trying the door.
It's the sounds outside that worry him most. They're hard to hear over
the wooshing of wind and battering of tree branches, but Dean's a hunter. Right
down to his blood and bones, and he knows when he hears something out of the
ordinary. A rough growl that comes from too far away to ever be considered a
dog's call.
"What is that?" Sam asks, because he's got the hunter instinct ingrained too,
even if he's more reluctant to admit it.
Dean shrugs. "Probably nothing. Pet dog missing?"
Sam's eyes widen. "We should help it."
Dean goes for the fake nonchalance with an eye-roll tossed in. "Knock yourself
out. But don't call out for me when you get stuck in the snow."
"Whatever," Sam mutters and slouches back down. But Dean sees his eyes flicker
to the window as another growl sounds.
"What're you reading?" Dean asks, trying to change the subject.

It's still there at night. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, vaguely facing the
window. Sam's asleep closeby, or at least Dean thinks 
he's asleep until he hears...
"Dean?"
Dean turns back to see the silhouette of Sam throwing back his covers and
moving toward Dean. The bed dips and Sams right there, wide eyes blinking into
the dark.
"Stop lying to me," Sam says. His voice is sleep-hoarse. "What is it?"
"I don't know."
"Dean..."
"Seriously, Sam," Dean says. "I got no idea."
"We should call Dad," is Sam's immediate response and Dean's heart breaks, just
a little bit.
"Phones are out."
"No," Sam says with a shake of his head. "They're not -- there's a dial tone."
"If he's hunting, do you really think he's gonna pick up?"
Even in that shadowed darkness Dean can see the blow that delivers to Sam. He
physically shrinks back and Dean wants to provide some form of comfort, but
he's all twisted inside. Dad should be here. Sam shouldn't have to call further
than the next room.
"Is he coming back?" Sam's quiet now.
"Of course he is. Hey." He slings an arm around Sam's shoulder and draws him
closer. Sam goes. "He'll be back. Don't worry about it."
"Yeah," Sam murmurs, but he doesn't sound at all convinced.
That growl again. Louder now, the snow having let up. Sam winces against Dean
and Dean's hand squeezes Sam's shoulder. It's not a dog. It's not a wolf. It's
anything that's supposed to be out there -- Dean knows this. Knows this like he
knows how to shoot a gun or replace the oil in an engine or hustle pool to earn
enough money to feed the family for a month. Some things he just knows.
"Do you think I should go out there?" Dean asks and regrets it. The words were
meant for his head and not the room.
"No," Sam says, instant. He tugs at Dean's shoulder until their face-to-face.
"You just said you don't know what it is."
Dean looks away again and bites against his tongue to keep from saying
something stupid. He can taste the faint, metallic tang of blood and swallows
down hard until it's washed away.
"Hey Dean?"
Dean keeps his eyes on the frosted window. "Yeah?"
Sam's hand comes up to rest against Dean neck and Dean finds himself leaning
into it, though not even enough for him to notice until Sam's thumb slides over
his lip, and Dean shies away from the touch. He turns to face Sam and Sam moves
closer.
"Don't," Sam says. His voice is soft and warm where it settles by Dean's ear.
"Please don't."
Don't what? Dean wants to ask even though something, somewhere, inside him says
he already knows the answer. Sam blinks slow and soft then he's leaning forward
and Dean feels the brush of Sam's lips against his. Everything inside Dean
tells him to pull back. To get the fuck away from his brother. But then Sam
gasps against his mouth and Dean's dragging his hands through his brother's
hair, drawing him closer.
Sam's clumsy but not at all cautious as his tongue presses against Dean's lips
and their teeth clack together. Dean's managed to shut down the rest of his
brain, to focus on pure pleasure receptors and ignore who he's kissing and why
he shouldn't. At least until that deep growl from outside sounds again and Dean
is jolting backward, almost falling off the bed. Sam's hands follow him until
Dean stands and they're forced to fall away.
"I have to see what that is," Dean says, his voice tight. He drags the back of
his hand over his mouth and watches Sam's face drop. The reaction should be
because of the sounds outside, not for the real reason. Dean goes straight for
the door.
It takes a few pulls to get the door open, and in different circumstances, he'd
call Sam over to help. But the door finally swings forward and Dean manages to
fit outside, immedietly sinking into the knee-deep snow. This isn't going to
work. He'd be a fucking idiot to even try. Still, he stays there and looks out
into the distance. The snow has stopped, at least, but the air remains hazy.
Dean has to squint to make out more than ten feet ahead.
That's when he sees it.
At first Dean thinks it's just a man. Draped in black and hunched over, braced
against the rushing wind. But then, as Dean just stands there, he watches
it morph. He might've thought it was a skinwalker -- he remembers that page
from Dad's journal, complete with a description of how its skin falls from its
body -- but that doesn't happen here. There's nothing that falls
from...whatever this thing is. Instead it just changes, collapsing in and out
of itself and then, as suddenly as it began changing, it's turned into a small
child.
A small child. Dean has to repeat that over and over in his head a few times
just for it to sink in. A girl at that -- with long blonde ringlets that bounce
as she walks.
Dean rushes right back inside.
"What?" Sam asks, coming up beside him.
Dean says nothing. He flings himself toward the phone and picks it up. Sam was
right -- a dial tone. He thinks better than to call Dad, and pushes in Bobby's
number instead. There are three trilled rings before a gruff voice of, "Hello?"
comes over the line.
"Bobby," Dean says and the only way he can describe his voice is relief. At
least they have someone who's always just a phone call away.
"Dean?" Bobby's voice sounds clearer. "What's wrong, son?"
He tells Bobby. About the shape, the changes, the freaking kid walking out
there in the snow. Bobby is quiet throughout, which Dean only realises when he
takes in a breath after blurting out all that information.
"It could be a number of things," Bobby says after a long pause. Dean has the
phone held so hard his fingers ache. "Skinwalker?"
"No," Dean says. "It didn't shed. It just...changed, Bobby. Like something
outta a fantasy movie."
Dean hears the scratch of Bobby's hand running over his beard. A clear of his
throat. "A shifter? A Leshy? An Ijiraq? Has anyone been taken?"
"I haven't checked the papers since we got here and the TV's out," Dean says,
and internally berates himself for it; Dad always made them get the local
newspaper, check the obituaries, figure out if there were more cases they had
to solve. And Dean was 20 now -- not a kid anymore. Excuses didn't fly.
"Dean." Sam comes up behind him and in his hand is a newspaper.
"Is that...?" Dean says it into the phone while he stares at Sam and snatches
that paper from him. "Why didn't you tell me you had that?"
"I only got it yesterday."
How?
"What's going on, Dean?" Bobby asks from over the phone.
"Sam does have a paper," Dean says with a very pointed look at his brother. He
cradles the phone against his shoulder and flicks through to the obituaries.
There it is, inked right into the page, the death of three children. It's a
good a link as any. "Three children dead in the past week," Dean tells Bobby.
"My money's on the Ijiraq. It can change forms and takes children."
"How do I kill it?" Dean asks. He's still glued to those obituaries, to those
names: Brittany, Michaela, and Ryan -- none of them had even turned ten.
"I'm going to have to dig into my research for that answer," Bobby says. "Until
then...I can give you boys a spell. It will buy you and whatever kids are
around some time."
It takes Dean a lot of effort not to snort in idignation. "You really think
parents will let me and Sam take their kids away?"
Sam makes a 'what's he talking about' face and Dean shakes his head.
"Do you have any other options?"
Dean stays silent.
"Okay. Here's what to do."

They're sitting cross-legged on the floor on either side of a kitchen pot. It
was the only thing in the vacinity that might work. Beside it is a cup of snow
-- and Dean saw the thing again when he went out to get it, still with the
blonde curls and little-girl build -- and a packet of matches. How it's enough
Dean has no idea, but he trusts Bobby to know about this sort of thing.
"I can't read your writing," Sam says, turning the page on different angles and
squinting.
"Shut up," Dean says. "I know you can."
"Well not this writing." Sam drops the paper.
He looks at Dean and Dean looks away, swallowing hard. Sam hasn't brought
up...before...yet, but Dean knows it's just a matter of him. It's not like Sam
to just let things go.
The ringing of the phone saves Dean from having to face anything then at least.
He all but leaps up to grab the reciever and shove it against his ear. "Bobby?"
It'll be that or house cleaning, and Dad had told them to stay away.
"I might have something." Bobby's voice. No introduction or pleasantries
necessary. "But it's a long shot, and I'm not even sure if I should let you
have it."
"Three kids, Bobby," Dean says, and he knows it will be enough.
Bobby sighs. Got him. "You seem to just be able to use stone. Stab it...through
the heart, I'd say, but even that's up in the air."
"Any particular type of stone?"
"Not that I can tell." There's a pause. "Dean, I'm about 20/80 on this actually
working. Why don't I come down to help you out?"
"It'll take you at least a day to get here," Dean says. He looks out the
window. "And that's if you make it through the snow."
"I'll fly."
"Bobby..."
"Just wait it out. No use you getting taken as well. I'll see you soon."
Click. Gone.
"What'd he say?" Sam asks. He's moving to stand up but Dean shakes his head and
sits back down again himself.
"He said we go ahead with the spell."
"And then...?"
Dean leans back on his hands, head thrown toward the ceiling so he doesn't have
to look Sam in the eyes. He hates lying to him and has managed to avoid it ever
since the whole Dad-is-a-hunter-and-a-monster-killed-Mom Christmas fiasco close
to a decade back. Not that this is a big lie -- not even close. It's not going
to hurt Sam, and Dean's going to save people. A total win-win.
"And then I go and kill it," Dean says.
"How?"
Dean allows his head to fall back down his eyes to square with Sam's. "With a
spear carved of stone."
"That sounds like something out of a book," Sam says. His voice is
condescending, but Dean can see the fear in Sam's eyes.
"And what about this whole thing doesn't?"
They lapse into silence. Dean picks up the packet of matches and shakes them
softly in his hand. He's watching Sam, sees Sam lick over his lips, and Dean
clears his throat.
"Come on," Dean says. "You have to do it."
Sam watches him for a moment longer and Dean knows he wants to say something.
But Dean won't allow it.
"Read," Dean repeats.
Sam's face falls. Dean tries to ignore it. Sam picks up the paper. "Bobby
thinks you get twenty minutes. Make it count."
Dean grins. It's easy when they're back here. "I always do."
"Don't be stupid."
"I won't." The grin is still there, but he attempts seriousness despite it.
"I've hunted enough before to know what I'm doing."
Sam's mouth draws into a stern line. His eyes drop to the paper and begins to
read.
It's filled with Latin words Dean hardly understands but seem to trip off Sam's
tongue with ease. He does catch the words meaning bound andprotect which, given
how Bobby described the spell, make sense. Sam would take and protect him for
the time it took to grab some stone and shove it into the body of the monster.
Plus it wouldn't take very long at all; Dean knew there was a crumbling stone
wall on the perimeter of the motel and he had some idea of what he was looking
for in the monster. It would be one of the easier hunts they'd done.
Sam drops the cup of snow into the pot and says some more words, tripping up
and squinting at one point before glaring at Dean.
"What?" Dean mouths.
Sam shakes his head and says something more in Latin. He picks up the matches,
lights one, and tosses it in with the snow.
Nothing happens.
"Do you have to say anything else?" Dean asks.
"Shh," Sam hisses. "If there's anything wrong it's because I couldn't
read your--"
Then Sam is cut off by a spurt of light erupting from the pot. He jumps back
and Dean stays still, watching, when that light zaps out and seems
to consume Sam's body. Holy shit. Dean scrambles to his feet and moves toward
Sam when it just...stops.
"What was that?" Dean says, voice hoarse and almost silent.
"I..." Sam swalllows. Dean sees his throat work over. "I don't know."
"Are you okay?" Dean's cleared the distance between them and his hands grip
onto Sam's shoulders. He feels normal and, when his eyes focus on Dean, they
also look the same as always.
"Yeah," Sam says. He nods like he's trying to convince himself more than Dean.
"Yeah."
Dean slowly allows his grip to drop, but his eyes stay firmly on Sam's. He
doesn't know exactly why; maybe he's waiting for the moment something changes.
Because something did happen -- the spell did seem to work.
"You have to go," Sam says. He waves the paper in Dean's face. "The spell runs
out."
"Right," Dean says. "Are you sure--"
"Go," Sam says.
He gives his brother one last look before he's up and out the door. At least
the quicker he gets this done, the quicker he can be back and make sure Sam's
okay.

When the door closes behind Dean, Sam can let out the gasp he's been
surpressing. His whole body feels like it's on ice, stabbing through his skin
from the inside and encassing the rest of him. He has to blink to properly take
in the paper with the spell on it, knowing there's more he's supposed to do
while Dean's gone.
Stand. In one hour's time, end the spell with 'perago'.
Sam looks back at the clock that tells him only two minutes have past. He
stares until another two pass before getting to his feet. Then
probably another two before he can stand up straight and breathe out deep. More
stabbing sensations shoot through Sam as he keeps himself upright. He counts in
his mind, eyes closed, and waits for it to leave.
Outside, the wind picks up again. He can hear it slamming on the door. The snow
is likely building up and again, and--
And oh shit -- what if Dean can't get back inside?
Sam's eyes fly open and the pain is back to spreading. Only now, it's
different. Warming up. There's a pleasant peak before it's going over. Too hot,
too hot. Sam's eyes slam closed again. He didn't want to look and see the
flames that he was sure were engulfing his body. Come on, Dean. Or, even, come
on clock. Sam peaks out through slitted eyes to see half an hour has passed.
Quicker than he thought at least.
The flames are still there. Still growing, licking, burning. He can't hold back
a whimper of pain when he bites down too slow. Yet he still manages to taste
blood as his teeth slice in.
His entire mind feels hazy and somewhere else, centred only on the pain
coursing through him. He tries to swallow but can't find his tongue. Lights
dance in front of his eyes and Sam knows he's falling but can't make himself
stop.
Dean.

It takes all of Dean's strength to force the door open. His arms already ache
from stabbing the jagged piece of stone through the Ijiraq, and now his
shoulder feels bruised from the door.

"Sam," he calls as he steps inside. "The thing's been wasted--"

Dean stops dead and his blood runs cold. He sees Sam lying on the motel room
carpet, but his brain doesn't tick over to that thought until Dean's already on
his knees, hands pressing to the sides of Sam's face and willing him to open
his eyes.

"Sam!" Dean orders. "Look at me."

There's no response from Sam. He's dead-weight and his head rolls back on his
neck. Dean holds the sides of his brother's face firmer and can feel the panic
rising in his throat. Come on, come on.

"Sammy!" Dean says. "Open your freaking eyes."

Sam lets out a low moan and his eyelids flutter up. Dean just about collapses
himself from the relief. A wary grins breaks over his face and he runs his
thumbs under Sam's eyes.

"Yeah, Sammy, just keep looking at me."

Sam's eyes open a little further and he seems to focus hazily on Dean's face.
Even a little smile is tugging at the corner of his lips. "Hey," he says. His
voice is croaky. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean answers honestly. "But you're freezing. Come on, needa get
you into the bed."

Sam is unsteady on his feet, and it's mostly Dean carrying him, but soon he's
pressed into the matress and wrapped up in the covers. Still shivering.

"Did you follow the spell properly?" Dean asks. He stands at the side of the
double bed and leans over Sam. Sam's face looks flushed and his lips are taking
on the oddest shade of blue.

"Yeah," Sam says. His eyes are small slits that look like they will close at
any second. "I think so. Can't really remember."

"What do you mean...?" Dean trails off as Sam's eyes shut again and a
particularly violent shiver rocks through him. He really needs a doctor -- or
even their dad. He'd know what to do. Instead Sam's stuck with his useless
brother. Dean does the only thing that comes to mind and says, "Move over."

Sam shuffles over without question and without opening his eyes. Dean kicks off
his shoes and pulls the blankets back again, getting under the bed and pressing
right against his brother. The shiver cuts off in seconds and Sam snuggles
closer to Dean. Just like when they were kids, Sam's head is tucked up under
Dean's chin and his legs wrap their way between Dean's knees.
"Better?" Dean asks in a voice that isn't quite his. Only now is he acutely
aware of just how Sam's hearbeat feels against his chest and the way his dry
lips are settled at the hollow of Dean's throat.

Sam murmurs something noncommittal and Dean doesn't ask for the follow-up. He's
too busy trying to focus on not focusing; on staring at the mottled white wall
and evening out his breathing. It has only picked up because of the hunt.
Nothing else. His heartbeat slows and he feels his eyes grow heavy.

He must drift off, if only for a few minutes, and when his eyes pull open again
it's to Sam staring down at him.

Dean starts with, "What are you--"

Sam cuts him off a shake of his head, shaggy bangs brushing Dean's forehead.
"Please," he says. His breath feels colder than it should against Dean's face.
"Just let me."

Dean wants to say no, but his tongue is still stuck from sleep and his limbs
feel too heavy to push Sam away. Instead he stays still as Sam brushes his lips
across Dean's own. Sam sighs and presses harder into the kiss, lips moving
against Dean's with no rhythm beyond more, more, more. Dean only opens up to
let Sam in out of reflex when a tongue runs across the seam of his lips. He
tries to ignore that it's Sam and blames his still-sleepy state on what's
happening.

He can't even fool himself.

Sam's hands slide down Dean's sides and slip up under his shirt before Dean can
find a way to protest. Sam's fingertips are cold but they somehow make Dean
feel warm, as though they're exchanging one for the other. It's not nearly as
strange an explanation as Dean thinks it could be.

"Dean."

The way his name falls from Sam's lips makes Dean arch up against him without
any concious desire. He should be putting a stop to this but Sam's hand presses
against his hardening cock and Dean gasps out instead. He hardly even notices
Sam pushing at his jeans until Sam is touching his bare cock and his hands now
feel hot. It's finally enough for Dean to pull back.

"What are you doing, Sam?" he asks. He slams into the metal headboard and it
sents a jag of pain through him. Dean ignores that and stares hard at his
brother.

"Don't tell me you don't want it," Sam says, voice thick. He reaches out but
Dean pushes his hand away. "Dean, come on."

"No." Dean shakes his head and reaches under the covers to yank up his jeans.
His fingers fumble with the zip but he manages to get himself mostly dressed
again. He still knows his face is burning as red as Sam's, and that his pupils
are probably blown wide. Nothing he can do about that apart from run a hand
over his face and hope everything changes when it drops away again.

It doesn't. His face is stil hot and Sam is still watching him. Dropping his
eyes does nothing -- Dean can now see the solid outline of his brother's cock
straining against his jeans. Dean tries to look at the bedspread between them
instead.

"No, just--" Dean looks back up at his brother and his heart breaks, just that
little bit, at the way Sam is begging him with his eyes. "Stay here. I'll be
back soon."

Sam doesn't fight to make him stay.

The spell must still be working. Dean can walk outside without feeling the bite
of cold lashing through his skin. He isn't sure where he's going, but once he's
out of the motel's perimeter he remembers there's a bar nearby. It's probably
closed or at least empty - but Dean decides to try his luck. It's an infinitley
better idea than going back inside and facing what they've just tried to do.

He refuses to think about that while he walks. He kicks up the snow and catches
the flakes in his hand as the storm slows to a moderate fall. At least it takes
some effort to trudge through it, and he has to focus.

The bar comes about quicker than he thought and it is open -- a red neon sign
flashing through the darkness. Dean walks inside and is greeted by the few
stragglers seated at the bar and two more men halfway through a game of pool.
They don't do so much as throw him a curtosey nod as he walks up to the bar,
flashes the ID of 22-year-old Jim Densmore, and has two bottles of beer pushed
toward him. Dean downs half of the first in two swallows.

"Got no idea how you braved that storm," comes a voice from behind him.

Dean turns around to see a pretty girl with wide blue eyes. She takes the stool
next to him and shoots him a smile.

"Not so bad," Dean said. "It's slowed."

She turns to look out one of windows. Dean follows and sees that it's snow-
coated white. "Are you from New England or something?"
"Or something." He finishes off the first beer and cracks open the second.

"Not a big talker?" She sticks out a hand. "I'm Cathy."

Dean takes it, shakes it briefly, and looks back at his bottle. It's a
downright cliche him sitting here and mourning his losses -- though he's not
sure what those are and is refusing to think deeply about the possibilities -
- at a bar, but he really can't find it in himself to care. When he does, it's
to thoughts of Sam sitting back in the motel room, waiting, maybe thinking
about--

No.

"So, Cathy." Dean manifactures a smile. "If that storm's so bad, what are you
doing here?"

"My uncle owns the place." She sticks her thumb toward the bartender. "And I
got in before the apocalypse decided to rain down upon us."

Dean huffs out a laugh. "You never seen a snowstorm before, sweetheart?"

"Not one this bad." She edges a little closer, her arm faintly touching Dean's.
"Are you about to tell me your a park ranger or just returned back from a Mt.
Everest expedition?"

"Sorry," Dean says. "I'm not that interesting."

"No matter." She smiles wider. "You seem plenty interesting to me."

He zones out of the conversation that follows. More small talk about the
weather and what it's like to have a family member who owns a bar but refuses
to give out free drinks. She still buys him a beer and he follows up with a
second round. It scores him a brighter smile, a flirty wink, and a swimming
head that soon forgets about Sam.

(or so Dean will tell himself.)

Cathy ends up guiding him into one of the booths, a hand playing by his
waistband and lips pressed to his neck. He returns with an intense fervour that
gives him nothing in return. No turn on, no attraction, no desire to take her
back to the motel and fuck her into the bed. He pulls away with a start,
attempts a pathetic apology, and goes back out into the snow.


It's completely dark out by the time Dean returns. He can taste the faint
flavour of cherry lip gloss still on his mouth and he wipes at it, hard, with
his sleeve. Dean just touches the door handle when it's pulled open and Bobby
is standing there with an indescribable look on his face.
"You killed it?" Bobby asks right away.
Dean nods mutely and steps inside. He sees Sam sitting at the tiny table, his
face a striken white and Dean feels sick. Not just about what they've done, but
leaving Sam with whatever effect the spell had -- has -- obviously left on him.
Dean moves toward his brother but Bobby holds out a hand to stop him.
"What?" Dean snaps.
"Tell me what happened with the spell," Bobby says.
"I already--" Sam begins, but he is cut off by Bobby.
"I need you to tell me the spell." His eyes look harder than Dean's ever seen
them before and, if looks could kill, well...
"Here." Dean spots the paper on the ground and picks it up, thrusting it toward
Bobby. "We followed it to a T."
Bobby takes the paper and doesn't look at Dean. His lips move as he reads the
words, and Dean wishes he knew what Bobby was thinking. He glances over at Sam
who is now staring at the floor with his arms crossed.
"Well?" Dean asks. He has no patience left for this.
Bobby lowers the paper from his face which still hasn't altered in emotion.
Dean tenses -- he's still certain that what comes next won't be good news.
"I've heard of things going wrong." Bobby even sounds emotionless now. "It's a
risky spell, boys. I should have made that clearer. But usually...usually that
just means it doesn't work out."
"It worked," Dean says. He throws out his arms. "Look at me -- I'm fine and
that thing is dead. What are you telling us?"
"I'm saying that it's showed something else." Bobby takes a deep breath in and
his whole chest heaves with the exertion of it.
"What?" Dean asks. Part of him regrets it. Most of him doesn't.
"There is some lore--"
"Just spit it out, Bobby!" Dean doesn't know why he's so angry.
"Soulmates," Bobby says. "There's lore that says these type of binding spells
can show soulmates."
It doesn't actually register in Dean. That word. And when it begins to take on
a tangible grip, it's in the form of fairytales and short-lived high school
relationships where girls tried to nonchantly whisper it in his ear after
they'd hooked up for the first time.
But not this.
"What are you--? What does that--?" Dean doesn't even know what he's saying.
Panicked, he looks at Sam who won't meet him squarley back. Dean's gaze flies
back to Bobby.
"It means what you think it means." Bobby doesn't sound like Bobby. He doesn't
say anything else. Dean is left grasping for something in the dark that he
can't ever find.
"I'm working through a case back in Sioux Falls." Bobby eyes both Sam and Dean
but doesn't properly settle on either. He's ashamed, is all Dean can think. Not
that Dean can blame him. "I'll call you boys later, okay?"
"Okay," Dean says. Sam says nothing. Dean has to swallow down the lump in his
throat in order to walk to the door, open it for Bobby, and watch him walk out
into the snow. He looks back over his shoulder and gives Dean a nod. Dean has
no idea what he's supposed to read in it.
Dean walks back inside and closes his eyes, trying to wrap his head around
everything. All he can see is young Sam -- Sam starting school, Sam learning to
shoot, Sam asking him about Mom and Dad and hunting. Everything brothers should
be doing but not this. Never this.
"I love you."
The words snap Dean back to the present. His head reels toward his brother and
his stomach drops to the floor. "Don't," he tries to get out. "Sammy, you
can't--"
"But." Sam stands and takes a step forward. Dean lets him. "If God made us soul
mates, why is our love a sin?"
Dean almost feels drunk, though he doubts those two beers have really come back
to bite him in the ass. He feels almost blindly for the bed and sits heavily.
"Dean?"
Dean doesn't answer. He buries his face in his hands and attempts to remember
the whole breathing thing. Time must pass, but Dean isn't sure how long. The
next thing he knows is Sam's hands on his thighs and, as Dean moves his fingers
from his eyes, he takes in his baby brother on his knees and staring up at him
with big bright eyes.
"Please," Sam mouths more than says.
Dean remains silent.
Sam's tongue swipes over the denim covering Dean's cock and Dean jolts against
it, cock filling. Sam does it again, again, and it must feel rough but he
doesn't slow at all with those messy, wet strokes.
"You've never done this before, have you?" Dean asks, and doesn't think about
how it sounds because that isn't why. He just needs to know that's for him.
Only him. Like it was always supposed to be.
Sam pulls back and shakes his head. "Does...does it show?" All nervous, sweet,
embarassed and Dean falls in love right then and there.
"No, baby," he says. The word trips off his tongue as though it was created
just for this moment. "Not at all."
Sam sighs. A deep sound of relief low in his throat. His fingers are shaking as
he gets at the zip of Dean's jeans and tugs down. Dean helps him out, gets his
cock free, and then freezes because he's downright terrified.
"Tell me," Sam says, voice wavering but having an underlying message of yes.
This is what I want.
Dean's tongue feels heavy and he can't think of what to say again. Instead he
just reaches down and wraps a hand around his own cock, jacking a slow strip
from root to tip. Sam watches, intent, before leaning down and licking around
the head.
Dean's given up trying to breathe.
Sam's mouth soon replaces Dean's hand, taking him in past the head. It's sloppy
and uncordinated and reminds him of the one time Amanda Heckerling went down on
him. Only...only there is something more here, and Dean knows that immedietly.
Sam takes him down a little more and moans, the sensation travelling up and
down Dean's cock until it settles as a warm and solid heat in his belly.
"Sammy," Dean murmurs.
Sam pulls off and a cold draft floats over the spit-slick skin. Dean shivers -
- at least the spell seems to have worn off. But nothing else has changed: Dean
looks at Sam and wants him more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire
life. Sam is there in front of him, kissing him and pushing him into the bed.
His tongue hot as it twines with Dean's and those little moans he keeps letting
out makes Dean as though he's about to die.
He rucks his hands up under Sam's shirt, getting his fingertips against the
soft skin there, and keeps kissing Sam as the remainder of their clothes are
discarded to the floor. Sam's shot up into all skin and muscle over the past
few months. He leans over Dean now, bangs brushing Dean's forehead, too tall
and yet not big enough -- will always need Dean to protect him. When Sam rolls
over and Dean looks down at him, it's even more pronounced.
"Are you sure you want this, Sam?" Dean asks, his voice caught somewhere along
the way so it comes out with an edge he hopes isn't too rough.
"Yes," Sam says, sounding much more sure. His even more confirming response is
to drop his knees and spread his legs wider for Dean's view, rock hard cock
bobbing against his stomach. "I've always wanted you."
The you stands out more than anything else.
Dean leans down and kisses Sam -- kisses his brother, his soulmate -- and
somehow everything else floats away into the distance. He reaches between them
and takes Sam's cock in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the head and smiling
wide when Sam breaks away from the kiss to moan out loud.
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says.
In his bag there's lube, always hidden away with the packets of condoms he
periodically swipes from the drugstores they pass through. Sam whines when Dean
moves away to collect both, and shakes his head when Dean holds them up.
"Not the condoms," Sam says, quiet. "I want to feel you."
Dean's cock aches.
He gets back on the bed and pops the cap, struggling to see what he's doing as
Sam begins to kiss him again. All tongue and teeth as Dean finds himself
falling into it. Sam. This is Sam. The thought is becoming less and less
frightening as the seconds pass.
"Please," Sam breathes out warm across Dean's face.
Never have to ask, Sammy. I'll always give you what you want. Dean thinks this
but doesn't say any of it out loud. He brushes two fingers over Sam's hole. Sam
bucks up against him instantaneously.
"More," Sam tells Dean in that way he always knows how. He slings a hand over
Dean's neck and draws him in closer.
"Always," Dean murmurs and pulls back just enough to look into Sam's eyes.
They're hodded and what little is visible remains an almost jet black of blown-
wide pupils.
He pushes one finger slowly inside as Sam rocks back against him. His eyes
slide the remainder of the way closed and his mouth falls slack. Dean works in
another and everything is focused on Sam; the way he moves, the way he lets out
a breathy moan, the way he asks for more without a single word. Everything
else, from the rushing cars to the sudden pickup of snow, fades into the
background like a road left far behind.
"Need you," Sam says.
Dean pulls his fingers away and Sam lets out another moan that quickly
regresses into a sigh.
"Look at me," Dean says, and Sam does. Eyes open and so full of love that Dean
thinks he might collapse into it. He slicks up his cock with more of the lube
and slowly, slowly presses into his brother.
He stops. Freezes, really. His fingertips stay clenched into Sam's hips and he
stares into Sam's eyes.
There's nothing there he hasn't seen before. It's the same multi-coloured hazel
and hues that have been there for as long as Dean can remember. But now -
- somehow -- he's looking further. Deeper. Dean pulls out a little and rocks
back in. Sam's eyes snap closed and he lets out a low sound.
A few thoughts are trying to make their way to to Dean's mind. Mostly those
trying to remind him that Sam is indeed his brother. But the way Sam responds
is stronger and manages to help block them out. Dean presses in deeper and Sam
takes him, matching each stroke with a thrust.
Dean knows he can't last long but he also doesn't want to ever let go of this
sensation. Sam hot and tight around him. Around all of him. Clenching his cock,
his chest, his entire heart and not letting go. Dean wraps a hand in Sam's hair
and fucks into him harder, harder, crushing their lips together with no real
technique but relishing in the feel all the same.
"Dean," Sam gasps. His hand drops to his cock that's so hard and slapping
against Sam's belly with every movement. Dean's own hand joins about Sam's and
jerks him hard, fast, bringing out sounds Dean craves from his little brother.
Sam comes first. His back arches up high and he lets out a cry that seems to go
on forever. Long enough, at least, for Dean to shallow his thrusts and look
into his brother's eyes. Into all that starts and ends with a single gaze. When
Dean comes, it's like nothing he's ever experienced before. Going on and on and
on until he doesn't think he'll ever get out.
He doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.
"I love you," Sam whispers before they can pull apart. This time it's less of a
statement and more of a plead. Clinging words.
Dean kisses him softly. Trying to throw all emotion possible into that single
action. "I love you, too. Always have and always will."
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