the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist
fourfreedoms

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Finally, I manage to finish this

Title: Love Reign O'er Me
Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural it wouldn't be on at 9:00 on Thursdays
Summary: Sam and Dean cross the wrong person only to get shuttled back in time to the land of speak easy's and organized crime of Chicago's 1930s
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Chapters: 1/3
Genre: primarily romance
Rating: NC-17
Acknowledgements: To sharpscissors for a swift but thorough betaing job.




Part A

Sam looked at the clock. Finally. Time to leave. He would go meet this 'stool pigeon' at the Advent Garden, and then go home and take the shower of a lifetime. Except that in the 1930s they probably didn’t have showers yet. Sam seemed to remember from his modern civ class that showers didn’t come into wide circulation until after WWII, which was not for another twelve years. Oh joy, he’d either be waiting for the Nazi invasion of France or Rosemary to grow a heart, to enjoy another one.

And just when he thought life could get no grimmer than the absence of pounding spray flowing out of a spigot from a wall, it struck him that he had no idea where ‘home’ was. He highly doubted, as the DA, that he’d be listed in the phonebook either. Damn it! This day just seemed determined to kick him ass over end.

With a sigh he picked up his suit jacket and the fine wool coat (and how did he afford it on his government salary?) off the coat rack. He noticed as he was about to put it on that there was a narrow strip of white silk just inside the lining embroidered in loopy blue cursive, “For Sam, so that he won’t freeze himself like a right bampot.”

Sam laughed at the wording, wondering who it was that had gifted it to him with such a fondly derisive message on the inside. It sounded like something Dean would say, but it couldn’t be him, because no doubt the City of Chicago’s unimpeachable Sam Winchester would view the gift of a camel’s wool coat from Chicago’s Most Wanted as a bribe. He sighed and shrugged the coat onto his shoulders, picking up his briefcase and hat.

He thankfully, by happy accident, knew which car he belonged to: a shiny black Model-A parked just behind the red brick building of his office. John Winchester probably would’ve burst his heart out over it before Mary’s death. He sighed and got into the car, tossing the briefcase into the backseat carelessly.

Sam took a minute to take all of the Model-A’s various controls in, but it looked pretty straight-forward. Ignition over there, gear shift over here, pedals down there—lights were going to be a problem, but generally he was okay. He did know that if he ended up in an accident with this thing, the car would barely have a dent, but he’d be strawberry jam on the upholstery. Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried not to think about it.

He had looked up the address and directions to the Advent Gardens during his lunch break, which had been a bit of a chore because he obviously couldn’t ask anyone about it. They probably would have assumed he was making bad jokes again. He refrained from hitting his head against the steering wheel in frustration. That wouldn’t really help anybody, least of all his brain-cells.

When he arrived at the Advent Garden some twenty minutes later (Jesus Christ and they said that Manhattan traffic was bad) he understood why everyone in the office was all aflutter about it. It was a terribly posh place with silk brocade everywhere and plush red carpet Sam thought he would sink into. The concierge greeted him with recognition and a knowing smile, something Sam was never going to get used to.

“Hello, Mr. Mayfield. It’s good to see you back with us again,” the man said and handed him a key.

So he didn’t use his own name, he wondered if people knew what he looked like. Probably not. It was not like people ever knew who their DAs were, especially in the days before televised news and internet. He nodded at the concierge and took an elevator up to the top floor. The bellhop also seemed to know him by his Mayfield alias and he eagerly regaled Sam with the hijinks of the hotel kitchen. It startled him a little bit. He had to be there on a more than regular basis if the bellhop was that comfortable with him.

He was so out of his depth here. There was no section of John's training that included getting catapulted back in time. Not even his knowledge of history was helping him out much here. Where was the class on historical slang? Sam desperately could've used that.

Finally, with a loud clang the bellhop opened the metal grate to the largest penthouse suite he’d ever thought existed. Really! And District Attorney Sam Winchester was unimpeachable? He highly doubted that the municipal government was paying for him to wine and dine a whistle blower in a veritable paradise.

He walked further in only to see Dean sitting, ankle resting on his knee, in a wood-backed chair near the window, tie loosened, and looking the very picture of rumpled debauched elegance. Sam felt his mouth go dry and his trousers become a little tight. At the same time he wondered, why on earth would Dean inform on himself? It had been a very long day.

Dean got to his feet with a jerk when he saw Sam. He set down the brandy snifter he was nursing and walked towards his brother.

“Oh thank god! I’m glad it’s you!” Dean said, relief evident in his voice. “Because I was worried that I was going to have to shoot some poor bastard down, and it looked like it was serious what with the rings and—”

“I thought I was meeting an informant, that’s what they told me at the office!” Sam interrupted. “They kept asking about how pretty she was.”

Dean looked at him like he was stupid. “Think Sam! You must have told them that as a cover.”

Sam noticed rather dazedly that the ring on Dean’s left hand matched his own, but Dean had mentioned tha. “But I—”

Dean turned away and shucked off his suit jacket. “Everybody at my end thinks I’m meeting my woman.”

“What?” Sam screeched.

Dean laughed at his expression and went back to his brandy. “Well, it’s true.”

“You’re such a bastard.”

“Guilty,” Dean replied mildly, falling backwards on the huge bed, it gave under his weight. Made Dean look like he was sinking into a cloud. God Sam wanted a nice bed, he hadn't gotten a look in a mirror today, but he was sure his desk was permanently imprinted into his face.

Dean shifted around on the bed, arms coming up to pillow his head. Sam's interest in sleeping changed, his cheeks heating slightly. Dean’s tie would look quite nice wrapped around his fist as he tugged him in for a kiss. He could use one of those long slow wet ones that made him forget everything else. However, they had more pressing matters, like finding Sam’s house and learning the entirety of the United States Criminal code in the next few hours and, oh yeah, maybe getting back to 2007.

Sam let out a breath. “Well, looks like we’re in a relationship by night, and by day I try to send you to the jail house.” Sam said, easing himself into the chair Dean vacated.

“Yeah, that’s nice of you!” Dean replied sarcastically.

“Dean, you are breaking the law, I’m just doing my job,” Sam sighed, feeling a little affronted. Dean was probably going to launch into a lengthy diatribe about how stupid that law was so he figured he'd keep the whole information about congress repealing it to himself.

“One of my guys, Dicey, he knows about you, but I think he’s the only one.” He took another sip of the brandy.

Sam glared at Dean. “Well, I don’t have any henchman to share this with and from the way my staff treat me, I’m guessing not much of a life either.”

“Sounds like you.” Dean propped himself up on his elbows, looking down his body at Sam.

“I wonder how we’ll get back.” Sam ignored Dean’s comment and the way his brother was staring at him.

“I don’t know, but this isn’t so bad.”

Sam head lolled back against his chair. “Maybe for you, I don’t think it takes a genius to oversee all of your lackeys. Me? I have a court appearance on Thursday, I’m going to ruin it. Massively.”

“You look fucking hot though…” Dean replied, his voice thick. Sam opened his eyes so that he could see Dean’s expression, but it was unreadable.

Dean never said anything like that out loud and Sam was more than a little taken aback. What Dean had to say he never said with his words. He did it with his lips and tongue, the press of his hips and the drape of his thigh over Sam’s own. He did it with his eyes and the nudge of his shoulder and warmth of his palm over Sam’s spine. Sam knew this, knew how to read into it. He had no clue what Dean’s sudden verbalization meant. So he ignored it.

"Dean, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, court appearance on Thursday. I just happen to think the way your ass looks in those pants is far more worthy of my attention."

“Me?” Sam finally said softly. “I have nothing on you.”

Dean snorted, muttering something about mirrors and blindness, but he changed the subject. “So, I don’t think we’re brothers in this life.”

Sam leaned his head back on the chair and rubbed at his eyes. “You’re probably right.”

Next thing he knew Dean was in his space, tugging him to his feet. He tried to protest but Dean cut him off by winding Sam’s tasteful black-silk tie tightly around his fist and pulling Sam to him in the exact same way that Sam had imagined doing to him only moments before.

"Yowza," Dean mocked with a smile and then fastened his lips over Sam's. His palm flattened out over Sam’s heart and their teeth clacked together uncomfortably, but it was no less amazing when Dean cocked his head the right angel and his tongue finally danced against his own, sliding into his mouth, reminding him with swift sweeps that the court appearance on Thursday really didn't matter. Sam clung helplessly to the fine wool fabric of Dean’s jacket, unsure of why exactly the beginnings of a bitter rant on his bad luck had inspired this.

Finally his brother drew back, running his tongue over his lower lip and looking more than a little winded. “Sam, you in that suit—should be a crime,” he finally choked out. Sam wanted to reply, extol the virtues of tailored wool pulled across Dean's shoulders, but Dean was dragging Sam to him again, one hand still tangled in Sam’s tie and the other he sank into Sam’s hair. It was short now, close-cropped to his skull and cut just like Kevin Costner's in The Untouchables. Dean never thought he'd think so, but he missed being able to tug on Sam's curls.

Sam pulled back with a gasp, ignoring his tingling lips. “The O’Malley file! I know where it is!”

Dean looked at him with confusion, his face flushed red and his breath coming in harsh pants.

“Dean, I had no clue where the O’Malley file was this morning!” Sam replied excitedly, hurrying on before Dean could interrupt with a question. “Well, I wouldn’t have—it wasn’t me who put it away, or well it was, but I—”

“Sam! What the hell are you talking about?” Dean raked a hand through his hair.

“Dean, I didn’t put those files away! My past life or alter-ego or whatever did!” Sam looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I suddenly had the memory of doing so when you and I kissed.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing thinking about the ‘O’Malley file’ while we were—”

“Dean, it doesn’t matter!” Sam replied with obvious frustration. “When you and I kissed I suddenly—”

Dean sat down on the bed and loosened his tie. “You’re saying if we make out we’ll get memories of our past life in the 1930s?” His expression was suitably incredulous.

“Well, it’s not like it would hurt to find out!” Sam looked off into space, thinking hard and completely missing Dean’s lascivious look. “I wonder why exactly something like that would trigger…”

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward. “Sam.” His brother was such a dork.

Sam was too busy ruminating on causes and eventualities. “Perhaps I just need to spend more time around—”

“SAM!”

Sam turned back to his brother. “Dean, this spell of Rosemary’s—it’s genius. Well, if you ignore the fact that she absolutely did not mean to do this—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Dean got to his feet and cut Sam off with the harsh press of his lips, his clever industrious hands shoving the jacket off of his brother’s shoulders. His teeth closed on Sam’s lower lip, pulling gently, before he stepped away. “Did you not understand when I said you looked hot in that suit?”

Sam shook his head with a smile and crowded Dean back against the bed, pulling Dean’s shirt tails from the charcoal gray trousers that showcased his every asset. “Have you looked in the mirror? I think in 2007 I’m going to have to make you get an office job,” he said softly, running his fingertips up Dean’s face. Dean snatched the hand and pressed a kiss to the center of Sam’s palm, tongue swiping along Sam’s life-line. He watched as Sam’s pupils swallowed his irises and smiled slow and easy in response.

“Just look at it as testing your theory.”

Sam snorted. “Oh yeah, because I definitely need to be persuaded to have sex with you.”

Dean yanked on Sam’s tie again as he worked the buttons to his pants. “You seemed strangely resistant.”

“I was just—” Sam broke off when Dean’s fingers made contact with his cock, leaving all discussions for what he “was just” for another occasion. He growled low in his throat and thrust into Dean’s hand.

Dean smirked and leaned in to nibble at Sam’s jaw line, his grip tightening around Sam’s erection.

“Ugh,” Sam groaned, his lips parting and his eyes going heavy-lidded. The absence of the cool metal of Dean’s ring was surprising and, when he looked at the hand twining in his tie, he remembered why. There was no ring on that hand anymore; instead there was narrow silver band on the third finger of his left hand, just like his own.

The muscles in Sam’s neck tensed and he dropped his head, but he still had enough of his wits about him to begin the slow process of unbuttoning Dean’s crisp white shirt to reveal the miles of smooth skin beneath. Dean leaned in again as he pumped Sam’s erection with a slow, tortuous, twisting grip and caught Sam’s lower lip between his teeth. Sam’s hands faltered somewhere around the third button.

“Just rip it,” Dean said against Sam’s ear when he pulled away, continuing to lazily stroke Sam. Sam laughed breathlessly, his hips rolling against Dean’s hand. With a very concentrated effort, he tugged the two halves of Dean’s shirt apart, buttons popping off and clicking on the floor tiles. And then he nearly forgot why exactly he’d been ripping Dean’s shirt off when his brother pressed his thumb right on the little bundle of nerves underneath the head.

“Uh-uh,” he said pulling away and shoving at Dean hard enough that he landed back on the bed.

Dean threw his head back and laughed, his pants and shirt both gaping, and Sam had the sneaking suspicion that he’d seen an image just like this in one of Jess’s fashion magazines. Dean’s wide green eyes twinkled and he licked his blood swollen lips.

“Afraid you’re gonna come to soon, Tiger?” Dean asked, running his left right hand down his body slowly, pausing to toy with one nipple. Dean was an immortal tease, he’d push and push and push at Sam. But all for one reason, to make sure Dean was never out of control.

“Maybe I just wanna see you spread out like that on the bed,” he replied, hoping his voice didn’t trip the way he thought it did. He knelt over Dean, thighs bracketing his hips. “Maybe it’s your turn to come apart.”

Dean swallowed and pushed himself up onto his elbows. Sam smiled and bent forward, sinking the fingers of his left into the gold-burnished brown strands of Dean’s almost imperceptibly longer hair and drew his head back. He brushed his lips across Dean’s ever so lightly, once, twice, as he traced along the lines and contours that made up his brother’s upper body, seeking out all of his spots, that place on the small of his back, the ridge of his collarbone, and played his brother like a harp. Dean groaned and twisted beneath him, cool lost as he attempted to gain some more friction against his already straining cock.

Sam smiled and bent again to touch the very tip of his tongue to Dean’s flat nipple, gratified by Dean’s harsh intake of breath. “Beautiful when you lose it.”

He shifted and aligned their bodies together, his grip tightening on his brother’s skin when their cock’s made contact through the smooth fabric of their pants.

“You need to be naked, right now,” Dean bit out as he rocked his hips upwards and scraped his blunt nails down Sam’s cloth covered back. Sam sat back, setting all his weight on Dean’s hips. Dean moaned and arched under him, a small choked sound emerging from his lips before he could hold it back. Sam pulled his shirt off and by some miracle managed to sit back to get Dean’s pants off. Dean alternatively groaned and cursed as the fabric brushed like a whisper over his erection.

Sam pulled away, enjoying the way Dean’s lazy bedroom eyes followed his every move and pushed his pants down over his hips, slowly, unable to keep from wrapping a hand around himself and palming it once. Dean made the choked noise again. Sam tipped himself down and spread Dean’s thighs to accommodate his shoulders. He licked a long stripe up Dean’s cock from the base of his balls all the way up to the glistening head. Dean’s thigh muscles tightened and flexed and his hands twisted on the sheets, but he didn’t make a sound. Oh it was a battle with Dean. Always a battle. He pressed an open mouthed kiss to the tip, tongue swirling on the head, fluttering on the slit. He moved aside as Dean’s hips bucked.

“Eager much?” Sam said as he mouthed along the sensitive skin of Dean’s inner thigh. Sam shouldn’t tease, his own skin felt too tight and his brain seemed filled only with Dean and the whispery glide of Sam’s palms over his brother’s freckled skin, the taste of expensive brandy lingering at his lips, and the way Dean’s eyes became glassy with arousal.

Dean groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “You know what the answer is to that?”

Sam nipped his brother. “Shut up and suck me?” He tongued another line along Dean’s groin muscle.

“Mmmhm,” Dean breathed, skin flushed with arousal and urgency, legs spread and easy.

“Well, Dean, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” he pushed Dean’s thighs farther apart until his puckered opening was exposed and then traced his tongue down the groove between Dean’s cheeks.

“Ah,” Dean moaned, drawing the syllable out. “This is good, this is fine.”

Sam hiked one of Dean’s thighs over his shoulder and swiped the ring of muscle with the point of his tongue. As he continued to lick his way into Dean, he was suddenly hit with the image of Dean Winchester the first time he’d ever seen him. Sam had been only nineteen, back from his first year at Yale, out with his prep school buddies. He’d always been the goody goody scholarship student with that group of boys and they’d been absolutely determined to corrupt him.

Dean had been standing on the arm of an icy blond night club singer, just 23 and already making a name for himself in the Chicago mob. He’d been haloed in cigarette smoke and sycophants, but Sam had been able to see his liquid green eyes all the way across the crowded bar. He’d fallen then, hard, when Dean had caught his eye and smiled that easy devil may care grin, even though they wouldn’t speak for the first time until he was a second year law student, dead set on taking on the criminal underworld. But he was willing to throw it all away, for the man rolling beneath his mouth and hands, he was willing to do anything for him.

Sam pulled back at the intensity of emotion roiling through him and Dean moaned at the loss. “Just do it, Sam, just fuck me already.”

“I—” Sam started, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Ugh, please,” Dean ground out, tugging on Sam’s shoulders.

Sam slid up Dean’s body, knowing that his face was soft with emotion that Dean usually would never let him betray. “It’s going to hurt,” he whispered as he aligned their bodies.

“No—nothing you could do could hurt me—” Dean choked out, desperately trying to force Sam into him. Sam wanted to call Dean on the lie, tell him, it was never like that, Sam was the only one who could hurt Dean well and truly. Sam was the only person Dean would let hurt him.

But Dean wouldn’t take the admission well and Sam was desperate for a release of his own, and the only way he knew how to tell Dean, to express to him everything that they were, was through his body. With slow careful movements he slid inside. Dean hissed and rocked against him, his muscles flexing.

“Don’t just sit there,” his brother finally said breathlessly, his head thrashing on the soft cotton of the pillow. Sam tried not to swallow his vocal chords as Dean’s muscles tightened around him. So much for going slow and easy—there was only so much a man could withstand. He could feel the power of arousal in the tips of toes and the tightening of his fingers. Sam wouldn’t be able to keep from coming from the first shock of heat and tension if he didn’t do something soon.

He pulled back and slammed forward, relishing the way the air whooshed out of Dean’s lungs. Dean’s thighs clamped on his hips, trying to push him further inside and prevent him from pulling away. Sam tried to pretend that the high-pitched throaty noise wasn’t coming from his lips and Dean was lost enough in his own personal ecstasy to let him.

*

Dean reached between their bodies fisting his cock as Sam’s hips continued to snap forward to meet his. Sam dragged his teeth across Dean’s collarbone, causing him to thrash and arch against the onslaught of his brothers ministrations. He remembered a time when Sammy was young and untried, armed only with enthusiasm, desperately crying Dean’s name as he came apart in his arms. Then he’d disappeared for four years, coming back as a man who had learned the mysteries of sex and all the buttons you could push. The same way he used smooth thrusts to completely rewire Dean’s brain, till he was flying apart at the seams, desperate for the control he had always exercised so well.

He shuddered as he came, Sam buried deep inside and his own fist wrapped tight around his cock, drawing Sam after him as his muscles clenched and flexed. He could feel himself succumbing to sleep as Sam extricated himself from the tangle of his arms and legs, only to wrap himself fully around Dean. Dean should shove him off, tell him to keep to his own half of the bed, but he was just too tired. The part of him who thought it was horribly uncomfortable was the weaker part, the craven part—it was easy to ignore it.

Dean woke up before Sam for the first time since he hit his teens. He was jolted awake by the horrible thought that the 1930s Sam and Dean would be running around in their future bodies, suddenly having to deal with credit cards and self-service gas stations and unleaded fuel and rock music. It was appalling, especially with the thought of his Baby, the impala, involved in some shape or form. They’d probably put the wrong octane level in her and drive her over dirt roads unrelentingly or some other stupid shit that would break her into a million unsalvageable pieces.

Now, however, he was starting to think, what with this random absorption of Dean the mafia don’s memories that he was still in there somewhere and wasn’t that a little freaky?

He could see quite clearly the very first time he kissed Sam Winchester, law student on the fast track for the county prosecutor’s office. He could remember his thoughts, fear and arousal and affection crowding in his chest. He closed his eyes and let himself remember.

It was raining and he’d been driving Sam nuts for weeks, showing up at his haunts, accosting him in the City Library even though he had absolutely no desire to be there, just generally making Sam uncomfortable because he liked the way he looked all fired up and flushed. Initially Dean had paid attention to the other boy when word first popped up about him because he had the same last name. Dean sorta wondered if they were family, but there was nothing about Sam Winchester’s family anywhere. He’d been raised by Saint Mary’s and then sent on to University when he was found to have a brain in his head.

Something about Sam had compelled him to take a closer look and Dean found him to be so much fun, he couldn’t bring himself to back off. Sam had looked ready to kill him on more than one occasion and Dean just adored teasing him. The young law student was the type of man who had to be in control of everything from the pristine shine of his shoes to the exactness of his schedule. Dean just loved to rumple things up for him.

He’d teased him about women and sex and Sam’s own ample charms, whispered all the obscene things he’d do with Sam’s mouth and his hands and his long legs. He’d seen Sam blush and snap and turn his back and do his best to bury himself in books, but Sam never did seem to be able to walk away or ignore him.

That particular evening Dean had Sam followed home from work, because he knew some shit was going down. Didn’t want his little lawyer getting messed up in that when he was so goddamned young and so goddamned pretty, too much time too much emotion invested in him already. Dicey had reported back about what Sam was up to, about how the young man’s car was at the garage and he was walking like a damn fool. Dean had exploded. The young men who teased and ribbed him, were silent suddenly, as they watched their boss become the man they only ever saw with a gun in his hand. They got out of his way, let him dash out of his apartment, and take Neil O’Neil’s car, because his damn driver had taken the car for sandwiches. Dean had driven over there at breakneck speed, pulling his car over the moment he saw Sam’s hunched figure making its way down the sidewalk. He’d slammed the car door and told Dicey to stay inside. Sam looked ready to fly apart the moment he spotted Dean, walking home from work in the warm summer rain, and Dean wasn’t quite sure what came over him.

It was late, he knew these streets like nobody else, and how could Sam Winchester be so stupid to walk in Chicago’s south side at night all by his lonesome when he was already making his name as a straight shooter. That was bad enough even when there wasn’t trouble brewing!

Dean had shouted at him, called him naïve and stupid and asked him if he had a death wish. Sam had looked so surprised; first of all, because it was coming from Dean, but second, and this was the truly heart breaking one, so surprised that someone even seemed to care.

Before he even knew what he was doing he was hauling Sam Winchester in for a kiss, public street bedamned, knocking his hat off his head and sinking his hands into Winchester’s dark hair. Sam had stiffened against him, and then dropped his briefcase in a puddle and wrapped his arms around Dean like he was a lifeline. They shouldn’t do this, two men necking on a Chicago sidewalk? All it took was some local rowdies and it would be the end of them, but Dean didn’t pull away.

He relished Sam’s mouth even though he tasted like too sweet coffee.

“Don’t fucking scare me like that again!” Dean had said into Sam’s neck, when he’d pulled back, his tongue darted out to lap away the rain drop running down Sam’s neck. Sam had drawn in his breath, but hadn’t made any reply.

Dean had stepped back and looked up at him. “If you don’t listen to me, I’ll chain you to my bed and never let you leave.”

Sam had laughed and put up only the smallest token fight when Dean insisted on driving him home.


Somehow from there, they’d managed to assemble a relationship in the shadows. It was funny, the quality of what Dean of the 1930s felt for Sam was different then what Dean of the 21st century felt for Sam, but no less powerful. Dean didn’t even really feel like the same person when he processed those memories and thoughts. But he wasn’t. Dean Winchester, in both instances, was a man made by his experience.

“I thought you didn’t like The Who all that much,” Sam muttered half into the pillow, his eyes still closed as he shifted underneath the sheets.

Dean started in surprise. “What?’

“You were humming ‘Love Reign O’er Me,’” Sam replied, his mouth widening in a yawn.

“Was not!”

“Uh huh, yeah,” Sam snorted and stood up, pulling the sheets with him to wrap around his waist. “Look, I’ve been doing some thinking, this spell was clearly meant to incite a change in attitude, of some kind, make us more environment friendly or something so—”

“Somehow I don’t think organizing a recycling campaign’s going to have much sway in this day and age. They’re all for tossing whatever garbage they have into the lake, I heard once that Lake Michigan caught on fire, I wonder if that’s happened yet.” Dean got up to go inspect the bathroom.

“Dean, T-Bird that whole lake thing is like a direct quote from The Crow!” Sam called over his shoulder. He shook his head and looked down at Chicago’s streets. It would change so much in the next fifty or so years, kind of amazing what progress could do. “But we’ve got to come up with something to fit the parameters of the spell.”

“Hey, Sam,” Dean’s head poked out from the bathroom. “You have got to try out this tub with me.”

“I—what?” Sam turned around, looking back at his brother who had the most lascivious grin in all of creation gracing his features. “Dean!”

“Aw come on, Sammy, you got anything better to do?”

*
The Lyrics for the song that lent its name for the title (as well as the song that Dean sung to himself as he thought about Sam—that closet romantic!):

Only love
Can make it rain
The way the beach is kissed by the sea
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers
Laying in the fields.

Love, reign o'er me
Love, reign o'er me, rain on me

Only love
Can bring the rain
That makes you yearn to the sky
Only love
Can bring the rain
That falls like tears from on high

Love reign o'er me


On the dry and dusty road
The nights we spend apart alone
I need to get back home to cool cool rain
I can't sleep and I lay and I think
The night is hot and black as ink
Oh God, I need a drink of cool cool rain
Tags: 1930s chicago, fanfic, love reign o'er me, organized crime, sam/dean, wincest
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