Title: Shelter From the Storm
Gift For: mtpw43
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Summary: Sam and Dean don’t know their story is almost over. All they know is that they never catch a break, never go on vacation, and rarely get a respite in their dangerous, messy lives. Then one day, a hunt leaves them stranded in a cabin in the woods in a snowstorm. Set in Season 15, just before the mid-season finale.
A/N: Title is a Bob Dylan song. This was written as a gift for mtpw43, who bid on my fic offer for fireheart13's auction for theatregirl7299 back in October. Hope you like it!
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Dean stops inside the door to the bedroom and stares at the king-sized bed in the center of the the room.
“What?” Sam looks over his shoulder and huffs out an exasperated breath. “Never mind. I’ll take the...bearskin rug in front of the fire.”
They’ve just killed the two occupants of the one bedroom cottage, werewolf brothers who obviously had some pretty intense co-dependency issues. Not unlike the werewolf brothers they killed a month ago, when Lilith decided to lure them in with promises of an easy hunt so she could steal the God gun.
Sam had found this one. It’s all his fault. He’s been looking for ways to pull Dean out of the funk he’s been in ever since Chuck came back into the picture and started seriously messing with them. Again.
Sam had thought this would be an easy, uncomplicated hunt, just the thing to take Dean’s mind off of his hopelessness. Just the thing to make Dean stop trying to push Sam into Eileen’s bed.
Sam had tried to explain to Dean that that wasn’t going to happen, but Dean wasn’t listening. He was too busy being down on himself, too busy wallowing in the depths of his despair. Sam knows his brother well enough to recognize when he’s being a nihilistic asshole, sure that Sam would be so much better off with somebody else, blah blah blah. Sam’s not having it.
“Come on, Dean,” he’d wheedled when Dean had protested that Sam should take Eileen on the hunt instead. “I need you for this one. I need my brother. Let’s get in there and remind the monsters that the Winchester are still in town, God or no God. Huh?”
And Dean had reluctantly agreed.
So here they were, post-hunt, post-clean-up, about to get in the car to drive back down the mountain in a snowstorm.
Of course neither of them had paid any attention to the forecast. It had been snowing steadily for over an hour, making the road utterly impassible without a snowplow. Especially in the Impala.
And of course the werewolves’ pick-up truck was deader than a doornail, just like its owners.
“So we stay here tonight, wait for the snowplow to come by in the morning,” Sam shrugs. It’s not the worst plan. They’ve stayed in worse places than the lair of the monsters they’d just killed. Besides, the cabin’s clean, furnished, with a big fireplace and indoor plumbing.
Definitely not the worst place they’d stayed. The cupboards are full of food, the liquor cabinet is stocked. There are books and playing cards, even a guitar.
“No, no,” Dean mumbles. “Your shoulder’s busted. Again. You take the bed. I’ll take the... Are you sure there isn’t a couch? Or a cot? You mean to tell me those two big guys shared one bed?” Dean’s cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears as he realizes what he’s just said. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
It’s Chuck messing with them, Sam thinks furiously. Like that first pair of werewolf brothers, these two were obviously deeply entwined. Too close for comfort.
Like Sam and Dean.
Sam hates that Chuck keeps messing with them like this. He seems to get off on making them face their own co-dependency. Seems to think it’s funny.
Which is not something Sam’s ready to think about. It cuts too close to the bone. Sam’s been in love with his brother for as long as he can remember, since before he could put a name to it. He still has the ring he made for Dean when he was five, the first time he “proposed,” because why wouldn’t he want to marry Dean? Who else could he spend his life with if not the brother who had raised him and been his hero all his life?
He still remembers the look on Dean’s face, half disbelief, half embarrassment.
“You don’t marry your own brother, Sammy,” he said with a soft laugh.
“Well, because that’s not how it works,” Dean said, shaking his head. “You’ll see. Someday you’ll meet somebody, somebody you like even better than me.”
Sam thought about this, clenched his fists stubbornly, and shook his head. “Don’t wanna meet anybody, Dean. Wanna stay with you. Forever.”
Dean had laughed, ruffled his hair, went back to heating up their macaroni and cheese dinner. He didn’t seem mad, though, and Sam took that as a win. Maybe he could convince Dean to marry him someday.
He kept the ring in his keepsake box, where it still sits to this day.
Sometime in his teens, Sam found himself jerking off to thoughts of his brother’s lips and eyes. At first, it didn’t seem like a bad thing. Sam figured it made sense to think about Dean’s body when he jerked off. Sam’s first experience of sex was seeing Dean kissing a girl through the crack in the bedroom door of the house where they squatted one summer. Watching Dean touch the girl, watching his lips move, hearing the little sucking and moaning sounds he made, made Sam’s dick twitch. When he pressed his hand against his dick, it felt even better. He didn’t understand why watching Dean make out with a girl made him feel so good. It just did.
Within the year, Sam figured out it wasn’t considered okay to have those particular feelings while watching his brother, but that didn’t stop him. Dean was literally the most beautiful person in Sam’s small, close-knit, isolated world. Being attracted to Dean felt natural. Normal.
By the time Sam was 15, he was so consumed with lust for his brother it was hard to think straight. Sam couldn’t help trying to get Dean’s attention, trying to spark his interest. He deliberately wore the shortest, tightest shorts he could find, walked around in nothing else, just to get a rise out of Dean.
“Jesus, Sam! Put some clothes on!”
They take turns cleaning up in the bathroom as best they can. Then Sam grabs the first aid kit from his duffel and the whiskey from the kitchen.
“Damn it, Dean,” Sam exclaims when he sees Dean’s bruised and bloody torso under all his shirts. “Here. Let me.”
Claw marks on Dean’s back look deep, painful. He’s got a nasty bruise over one kidney and another one to the gut, not to mention the bruise on his cheek. He won’t let Sam touch that one, batting his hand away irritably as Sam tries to apply a cold pack to help with the swelling.
“I can do it!” he snaps, grabbing the pack out of Sam’s hand as Sam rolls his eyes.
Some of the cuts that Lilith made weeks ago have opened up, which pisses Sam way the hell off. He hates what Lilith did to Dean. Hates himself because he killed Lilith once, yet here she was back again, hurting Sam’s beautiful brother. Fuck her.
“This one needs stitches,” Sam announces as he examines the claw marks. “And this one on your shoulder.”
“Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the lip of the bath tub. Then he notices the blood seeping through Dean’s jeans. “Off. Take them off, Dean!”
“Okay, okay, hold your horses.” Sam watches as Dean stands, unbuckles his jeans and pushes them down his strong, muscular legs. Sam tells himself he needs to see the damage, that’s the only reason he’s watching, but Dean must see something in his expression that makes him narrow his eyes. “Like what you see, Sammy?”
Sam’s eyes flick up to Dean’s in momentary horror, but when he sees Dean’s teasing grin he relaxes. They’ve always been mildly flirtatious with each other. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just the adrenaline.
“Yeah.” Sam huffs out a scornful laugh. “My idiot brother getting himself injured again. How did you manage to get clawed on the thigh like that?”
“Ugly mutt grabbed onto me when I dived for my gun,” Dean says with a shrug. “Hurts like a son-of-bitch.”
Sam grabs a towel, presses it against the still-bleeding wound.
“Well, it’ll have to take it’s turn. Gonna start with the shoulder.”
Sam sterilizes his needle, then cleans the wounds on Dean’s back and shoulder with whiskey. Dean grabs the bottle from him as he starts suturing. He flinches as the needle pierces his skin, takes a long swallow of the whiskey. Sam focuses on making neat, careful stitches in Dean’s skin. He prides himself on the lack of scarring on Dean’s pale, freckled skin. Dean trusts him because he knows Sam does good work.
Sam forces himself not to think about how good it feels to touch Dean’s body, how reassuring it is to feel Dean’s warm, living skin under his fingers. Patching injuries is the only time Sam gets his hands on Dean’s bare flesh, the only time he gets a good look.
He’s got every inch memorized, of course. Sam rubs his thumb over the little whitened patch under Dean’s right shoulder blade, where a killer ghost stuck him with a knife years ago. He brushes gentle fingertips over the small pink marks that represent a full set of teeth on Dean’s left side, just above his waist, where a black dog took a bite out of him once.
Dean shivers. “You done?”
Startled out of his reverie, Sam nods, then realizes Dean can’t see him so he says, “Yeah. Yeah. Just — Get on the bed and lie down on your belly for me so I can stitch up that leg.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” Dean takes another swig of whiskey and staggers into the bedroom, tipsy from the combination of adrenaline and alcohol. He collapses face down on the bed, the towel still wrapped around his waist.
The wound that needs the stitches is high on Dean’s thigh, right under his right butt cheek. Sam winces in sympathy as he pushes the towel out of the way and splashes a little whiskey on it.
Dean hisses, arches up.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Sam assures him, laying one hand on Dean’s back, the other on his injured leg, just below the wound. He kneels on the bed between Dean’s legs, sterilizes the needle again with his zippo, and gets started.
Dean’s awake for the sutures, but barely. By the time Sam bandages the wound, Dean’s snoring softly. Sam watches him for a moment. In sleep, Dean seems impossibly beautiful, long lashes lying soft against pink, freckled cheeks. His mouth is open slightly, and his lips are flushed red and glistening with spit, puffier than usual.
Sam lets his hand slide down Dean’s uninjured thigh. Just checking for injuries, he tells himself. His gaze falls to the dark, shadowed area between Dean’s spread legs, and for just a moment he lets himself imagine touching Dean there. Maybe even leaving a kiss.
Sam shakes his head a little, backs off the bed, and pulls a blanket up over his sleeping brother. Dean might never know, but Sam would. Sam’s had his bodily autonomy taken from his too many times to ever consider doing that to someone else, especially the person he loves most in the world.
Sam retreats to the bathroom to check his own wounds, none of which require stitching. Dean re-set his shoulder for him first thing, and it aches like hell, so he pops a couple of ibuprofen and pulls on some sweat pants.
The bearskin isn’t uncomfortable at all, especially after he adds a couple of blankets and a pillow. The fire burns low but puts out plenty of heat, and Sam’s asleep before he knows what hit him.
Sometime in the night he wakes to find Dean standing in the bedroom doorway, watching him.
“Come on, little brother,” he says when he sees Sam’s eyes open, blinking up at him. He gestures toward the bed in the room behind him. “There’s plenty of room.”
Only after Sam’s snuggled warm in the bed, Dean curled up on his own side, does Sam realize that Dean was probably watching him sleep, just as he did earlier with Dean.
They’re both so messed up.
In the morning, it’s still snowing. The snow has piled up outside so the Impala is almost buried in it.
Their cell phones don’t work up here. Dean finds a two-way radio in the basement, gets the local sheriff’s office on the horn while Sam’s cooks breakfast.
After about twenty minutes, Dean trudges up the stairs, moving stiffly.
“Sheriff says it’ll be at least another day before they can get up here and bail us out,” he announces as he leans against the doorframe.
Sam nods, unsurprised. “Sit down,” he gestures toward the small kitchen table. “I got eggs, bacon, coffee, even juice.”
“You made bacon?” Dean perks up. He’s favoring his left leg, which is how Sam knows he’s hurting. His back is probably sore, too. Sam’s shoulder’s aching.
Truth is, being snowed in here isn’t the worst thing that could happen to them. They could both use the break to recuperate.
Sam lays a couple of ibuprofen next to Dean’s plate of bacon, tries not to smile too obviously as his brother digs in.
“What did you tell the sheriff?” he asks as he sits down across the table with his coffee.
Dean shrugs. “Told ‘em we were visitors at the Blake brothers’ cabin,” he says. “He seemed to buy it. Never even asked where the bastards went.”
Sam shakes his head. “Those guys lived in this community,” he says. “They were known, by name if not by sight.”
“They were killing campers and eating their hearts, Sam,” Dean reminds him. “Not very neighborly if you ask me.”
“Right.” Sam shrugs, grimaces when his shoulder hurts. “Well, they ate eggs and toast, too. There’s even fresh milk in the fridge.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “You better let me take a look at that shoulder,” he insists, and Sam rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, sure, it’s fine, tough guy,” Dean growls. “It’s got a goddamn God bullet in it and you managed to dislocate it, again. Now let me look at it.”
Sam shrugs out of his over shirt, sits obediently if a little sullenly as Dean gets up and crosses around behind him.
It always feels so damn good when Dean touches him. How had he forgotten how much he loves feeling Dean’s calloused, capable hands sliding along his skin, feeling for injuries? Sometimes Sam thinks that’s the only reason he still hunts, the only reason he keeps doing the dangerous things they do. It’s a sick reason, he knows, but any excuse to get Dean to touch him, even getting himself injured, is worth these moments of bliss when Dean’s hands are on his body.
Sam’s a sick, touch-deprived pervert. Nothing new.
Dean probes Sam’s shoulder gently, feeling for inflammation, then hands him an ice pack and two more ibuprofen.
“Still swollen,” he tells Sam, who feels tears well up as Dean’s hands leave his body. “Keep the ice on it today.”
Sam nods, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears.
Dean notices, though. Of course he does.
“Sam? You hurtin’?” He puts his hand back on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief, huffing out a choked laugh.
“I’m fine,” he says. Now I’m fine, he adds silently. Keep your hand on me and I’m fine forever.
Dean frowns, leaving his hand on Sam’s shoulder as he regards him for a moment.
“You know, this might be a good thing,” he says. “Taking a little time off.”
“We’ve been going through so much shit lately,” Dean goes on. “It’s probably good to pull back a little. Figure out where we stand, rest up before we head back into the trenches.”
Sam nods. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“We always say a little break would do us good, but we never take one,” Dean says. He clears his throat, then adds, “Just the two of us, I mean.”
Sam nods. He shifts a little in his chair, presses the ice pack to his shoulder. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him. Dean’s hand on him, idly kneading his shoulder. It’s stupidly good.
“Yeah, this is good,” Dean murmurs, almost like he’s reading Sam’s mind.
Sam would never presume, of course. Dean’s just being a good big brother, taking care of his little brother. It’s his job.
Dean withdraws his hand, and Sam feels the loss like a kick in the gut.
“Well, if we’re gonna be holed up here for a couple of days, ride out this storm, we’re gonna need firewood.”
Sam sucks in a breath, turns sharply to look up at his brother.
Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder again, pressing him down.
“Not you, Sasquatch,” he growls. “You’ve got a gimp arm again.”
Sam shakes his head. “No way, Dean,” he protests. “You’re wounded, too. You gotta give that leg a rest, and if you pull out those stitches, so help me God...”
“Let’s leave Chuck out of it, okay?” Dean arches an eyebrow, and Sam huffs out a breath.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re right about that.”
Sam wonders if Chuck is watching them right now, decides that’s not possible. According to the visions he’s been having, Chuck’s a little preoccupied with writing murder scenes for the brothers. The last thing he’d be interested in is eavesdropping on a bonding moment.
“I’ll take it easy, Mother Hen,” Dean assures him. “I’m not looking to get hospitalized after this little vacation.”
He’s still massaging Sam’s shoulder, not even conscious that he’s doing it. Sam’s damned if he’ll draw Dean’s attention to it, so he sits as still as a stone, enjoying Dean’s touch more than he should.
They spend the day getting ready for nightfall. Dean chops wood while Sam checks on the cabin’s generator, siphoning gas from the Blake brothers’ pick-up truck to be sure they’ll have at least two more days of fuel for cooking. Dean checks the police scanner in the basement, listening in as snow emergencies get called in and responded to.
An elderly man collapses while shoveling the snow in his driveway. Two school children go missing for a couple of hours until somebody finds them in a neighbor’s backyard, building a snow fort. A fender-bender on Main Street results in one of the drivers being arrested for drunk driving.
Nobody gets their hearts ripped out by “wild animals.”
“I guess everything’s back to normal,” Sam comments as they sit down to supper that evening.
Dean hunches his shoulders, looks grim. “When is anything ever normal for us, Sammy? Huh? There’s always another case. And now we’ve got God trying to bring us down...”
Sam takes a deep breath. “Hey,” he says, soft.
Dean looks up, meets Sam’s eyes for a long moment. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, looking down at his chili. “Little wins.”
Sam grins. “Little Wins” has been Dean’s code word for tiny successes since Sam was 14 and got injured on his first hunt. His wounds became infected, and Dean and their dad had feared that Sam would die. While John went to get help, Dean played Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing” on the boombox over and over because it was the only song that would soothe Sam’s restless sleep. Ever since Sam’s recovery, Dean has used the pun whenever they’ve just survived something potentially fatal.
Dean’s voice softens with affection every time he says it.
“We should be able to shovel our way out of here tomorrow,” Sam says.
Dean nods. “The county snowplow will clear the main road as soon as the snow stops,” he says. “We just need to get out there from here.”
“There’s a snow blower in the shed,” Sam reminds him.
“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Minimal shoveling.”
It’s dark outside, but too early to sleep. Dean gets the whiskey and they play cards for well over an hour, sitting across the table from each other with their boots off. Then Dean pulls out the guitar, sits in the big armchair in front of the fire and strums a couple of chords.
“Listen to you,” Sam laughs as he sits on the floor next to the chair, facing the fire. “Didn’t know you could still do that.”
“Hey, it’s been a few years, but I still got it,” Dean chuckles. He sings “Midnight Rider” and “Rambling Man,” and Sam sings along, sipping the whiskey. He gets up to tend the fire, finds Dean watching him when he turns. There’s a smile in his eyes, a come hither look that Sam’s been resisting all his life.
Before Sam can overthink it, he leans down and kisses him.
Dean doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t kiss back, either. When Sam opens his eyes, Dean’s staring up at him with wide eyes, eyebrows raised in a question.
“Wanted to do that since forever,” Sam murmurs.
Dean’s lips part. He licks them, still staring, but he’s not getting up. He’s not moving away. He’s not saying no.
Sam leans in slowly, giving Dean plenty of time to protest or pull away. This time the kiss is deeper, claiming. Sam pushes his tongue against the seam of Dean’s lips and Dean parts them, lets Sam in. An involuntary moan escapes Sam’s throat. His dick hardens painfully as Dean responds, kissing back this time, tentatively at first, then with more enthusiasm.
“Oh God,” Dean breathes when Sam pulls away. Dean’s face is flushed, the freckles on his nose standing out. His eyes are moss green in the firelight, sparkling with emotion. There are tears on his long, thick eyelashes. His lips are red and swollen, damp with spit.
“I’m not him,” Sam murmurs. He takes the guitar, sets it aside. His eyes never leave Dean’s as he climbs into his lap, straddling his hips, cradling his face as he leans in for another kiss.
This time Sam can feel Dean’s erection. Dean arches up, gives a little thrust so Sam can feel his cock straining between Sam’s legs. Dean’s hands push up under Sam’s shirts, finding bare skin, and the touch is almost too much. Sam cries out, throws back his head, and shivers involuntarily, eyes closed against the onslaught of sensation.
Dean leans forward, kissing down the column of Sam’s throat as Sam grinds down on his lap. Dean’s hands slide down to Sam’s ass, kneading the muscles with both hands, and Sam wants to be naked, wants to feel Dean’s big, capable hands on his bare ass.
“Off,” he gasps, pulling on Dean’s shirts. He sits back, pulls his own shirts off over his head, and Dean does the same. They pause for a moment to stare, panting.
“Sammy.” Dean’s overwhelmed, too. He lays a hand on Sam’s chest, over his heart, careful of Sam’s bullet wound, his injured shoulder. He slides his other hand behind Sam’s neck, tangles it in his hair and tugs him in for another kiss.
Sam places both hands on Dean’s bare chest, marveling at the smooth, warm skin, cupping Dean’s pecs in his hands just to feel his life force, his strength. It’s not like he’s never touched Dean before, but this is different. This time he touches with intent, brushing his thumbs over Dean’s nipples so that Dean arches up, gasping.
Sam suddenly wants to taste everywhere he’s touching. He scrambles backwards off Dean’s lap, sinks to his knees between Dean’s legs, lapping and sucking at each nipple, one at a time as Dean shivers and moans. He kisses and sucks down Dean’s sternum, tugging at the waistband on Dean’s jeans.
“Off,” he huffs, burying his face in the soft flesh of Dean’s belly, dipping his tongue into Dean’s belly button.
Sam deftly unbuckles Dean’s belt, unbuttons and unzips his jeans. Dean raises his hips as Sam pulls his jeans and boxers down, being careful of Dean’s wounded thigh. When he gets Dean’s cock free, he doesn’t hesitate.
“Sam!” Dean throws his head back as Sam sucks Dean’s cock into his mouth. He looks up as it hits the roof of his mouth, working his tongue around the head, caressing the sensitive skin under the glans.
Dean trembles, looking down at Sam with eyes blown almost completely black. He clutches the armrests of the chair so tight it amazes Sam that they don’t splinter. Sam fists the base of Dean’s cock, swallowing as much of it as he can, relishing its taste and weight. He may never get this again. Dean may never allow a repeat performance, once they’re back in their regular lives again. This may be all Sam gets, so he’s damned well going to make it count.
He licks a finger and lets it slide behind Dean’s balls, teases his hole as he swallows his dick again. Dean gasps, arches up and comes hard in Sam’s mouth. Sam struggles to swallow every drop, careful of Dean’s wound as he milks him through it, keeping his eyes on Dean’s face. He’ll always have this memory, Dean naked and sprawled out in this armchair, face flushed, eyes squeezed shut as he comes. His lips are so swollen and red they look bee-stung. Even his chest and the tips of his ears are flushed.
It’s the most beautiful sight Sam’s ever seen.
Sam crawls back up Dean’s body, kissing up his stomach and chest, takes Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him, deep and dirty. Dean kisses back, but more slowly now, sleepy and contented after his orgasm. Sam kisses his cheeks, tastes salt under his eyes where tears leaked out.
Dean slides his hands along the muscles of Sam’s back, tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, pushes his body up against Sam’s.
“On your back,” he orders. “Now!”
Sam scrambles to obey, laying himself out on the bearskin rug, gazing up at Dean expectantly. His cock strains against his jeans. For a moment Dean just watches him, then he kicks his bare foot against Sam’s leg.
“Take ‘em off,” he commands. “Let me see you.”
Sam unbuckles his belt, pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs, kicks them free, then yanks his socks off and lays back again.
“Touch yourself,” Dean instructs, so Sam takes his cock in his hand, strokes it as he gazes up at Dean.
“Your hands, Sam,” Dean breathes, eyes narrowing to slits as he watches. “Your goddamn long fingers. Jesus.”
Sam’s eyes slide closed as his pleasure builds. Dean watching as he strokes himself is the hottest thing. He remembers doing this in the dark when they were kids, wondering if Dean could hear him. He got off on the fantasy that Dean could hear him, maybe he even liked it. Maybe he liked the little noises Sam made when he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he knew Sam was thinking about Dean’s body while he did it.
His eyes open as Dean climbs down off the chair, crawls between Sam’s legs, pushing them further apart to make room.
“Let me,” he growls, closing his hand around the base of Sam’s cock, pushing Sam’s hand away.
“Dean!” Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the urge to come at the sight of the man he’s fantasized about all his life kneeling between his legs, holding his dick.
When Dean’s warm, wet mouth closes over the head, it’s all over. He comes like a teenager in Dean’s mouth, shuddering out an orgasm that feels more powerful than any he’s ever had.
Dean milks him through it, laps up the drops that escape as he chokes down Sam’s load. Sam opens his eyes, gazes down at the sight of Dean kneeling between his legs, Sam’s come dripping down his chin. He files it away in his memory, tucks it into the treasure box in his mind.
Dean looks up, catching his gaze, and gives his familiar, cocky grin.
“I’m that good,” he nods. “Huh? Couldn’t last five minutes.”
“Neither could you,” Sam reminds him with a huffed laugh.
Dean grins wider. “This rug’s scratchy as hell, man,” he says. “We should take this to the bedroom.”
Sam’s heart soars. The idea that there’ll be more, that this is only the beginning, makes the world feel like a better place all of a sudden. Dean’s not one and done. He’s not going to deny that he wanted this or pretend it didn’t happen.
Tears prick the edges of Sam’s vision.
“Sammy?” Dean’s face hovers over his, concern creasing his brow. “Is it the shoulder?”
“No, it’s fine,” Sam chokes out. “It’s just... After all these years, Dean. I never knew.”
Dean blushes, looks away as he gets up, putting out a hand to Sam.
“Yeah, well, circumstances, you know?” he says as he leads the way to the bedroom.
“Circumstances?” Sam glances around. This cabin? Being snowed in? The incestuous werewolf brothers giving the Winchesters the push they needed to face the truth?
“Yeah, you know, end of the world.” Dean shrugs. “Chuck’s endings. I mean, obviously that’s where this is headed.”
Sam frowns. Dean’s despair was the reason they went on this hunt in the first place. Their success was supposed to make Dean feel better. This little win was supposed to give Dean some hope.
“So this is a one-time deal,” Sam clarifies. “Because the world is ending.”
Dean disappears into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack, leaving Sam standing in the middle of the bedroom, not sure if he should be offended or not. Irritated, definitely.
“What do you want me to say, Sam?” Dean calls from the bathroom as he pisses. “You want me to tell you I’ve been in love with you since the day you were born? Huh? Is that what you need me to say?”
The toilet flushes, then the sound of water running as Dean washes his hands.
Dean glances at Sam as he comes back into the room and heads for the bed. “You want me to tell you I’ve been fantasizing about you since we were teenagers? Huh? You really need me to say it?”
Sam watches as Dean climbs into the bed, looks up at him expectantly.
“Well, yeah, I guess so,” Sam acknowledges. “I mean, if it’s true.”
Dean rolls his eyes, pats the bed next to him. “What do you think, Sam? Huh? Now come to bed.”
Sam shakes his head as he obeys. “All those years I thought I was such a freak...”
“You think I’m not as big a freak as you are?” Dean growls, pulling Sam into his arms as he reaches for the light, plunging the room into semi-darkness. The light from the dying fire casts flickering shadows on the wall.
“All those years, waiting and wanting,” Sam murmurs as he lays his head on Dean’s chest, tucks his leg between Dean’s.
“I guess we never found the right time,” Dean shrugs, tracing Sam’s injured shoulder with gentle fingers. “There was always work to do. Another case, another job... No down time. No time for this.”
Dean’s lips press a kiss into the top of Sam’s head. His fingers card gently through Sam’s hair.
Tomorrow, they’ll use the snow blower to clear the drive out to the main road. Tomorrow they’ll drive back to the bunker, deal with Chuck and whatever shit he’s throwing at them.
Tonight, they’ll lie curled together, sleep and wake up and have sex again. Tonight, they’ll make up for all the years of pining and not acting on their feelings for each other because life got in the way, because their lives have always been messed up and complicated. Saving people and hunting things had always taken priority over the two of them just being together.
Tonight, they have each other. Everything else can wait.
At least, till tomorrow.