Word Count: 1,690
Rating: hard R
Summary: Sequel to Ruined For All That Follow. It's been five years, but Sam is still the one Dean sees when he closes his eyes at night. Spoilers for Hookman.
Notes: There was some debate on the internet on whether a five year anniversay was silver or wood, and since a wooden anniversary sounded...uh...not so happy, I decided to go with silver.
It’s been five years—a silver anniversary—since Dean kissed his brother, drove their hips together until they both came, messily in their pants. He knows the exact date. He counts three months back from September 15th, because that was the night he woke up, breathless and tingling—his sheets tangled and damp around his hips. He’d realized that night that he’d missed it—being able to touch Sam like that—that he wanted to be able to do it again until every last curve and dip of Sam was as familiar to him as his own.
But that hadn’t been why Dean pressed him to the counter with his body, and that’s exactly why five years passed, almost entirely empty of Sam at all.
It’s been five weeks since the boy Sam was playing house with, Jess, died pinned to the ceiling, blood pouring down to strike Sam’s face like some infernal anointing. And Dean can’t be jealous, not of a dead guy, not when Dean had done his desperate best to tie himself down to Cassie. He can’t be—it’s not fair—but he is. Jess got to see Sam’s shoulders broaden; the last few inches catch up with him. He got to see Sam in his element. And that’s not fair either.
It’s been five minutes since he last wished he had another chance at this, to do it right the first time—or never do it at all.
When they start interviewing people in the frat house, he expects Sam to fit in to the world of collegiate sports and keggers, girls who do crazy things because they’re so dulled with shots and Keystone, and runs to the deli for the munchies. But this, like Dean’s world, is not Sam’s demesne either.
When the guy who’s valiantly trying to paint his back purple shyly glances over his shoulder at Sam while Sam brushes cheap tempra over the blade of his shoulder, Dean remembers what Becky said, when they were still in the reminiscing stage, back before the lies and the kidnapping and the fake death. She talked about Sam like he was James Bond—a new adventure, a new guy—until Jess. He watches Sam carefully hide a smile at the way the boy is gazing at him, story tripping past his lips like it’ll make Sam stay longer, keep his hands on him.
He can’t take it in. He remembers Sam’s visibly repulsed face at the thought of doing the nasty. He can’t reconcile the two images at all. Now the preacher’s gay son is brushing their lips together while Dean is supposed to be keeping watch, supposed to be making sure that same gay son’s guilty subconscious doesn’t go after Sam next.
He gets in the car when it’s all over and done, the offer to stay for Laurie stuck in his throat. He can’t push it out of his mouth though, because he doesn’t even like the kid. Instead he pulls away from the curb and asks, “How did you become some kind of sex god?”
“What?” Sam looks at him like he’s crazy.
“I mean do you really get to call yourself that if it’s with guys? Because that’s kind of cheating! Being a god in the sack with the ladies—now that’s an achievement.”
Sam blinks at him, refusing to rise to the occasion. “Whatever, Dean.”
They go to an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant for dinner and Sam is struggling to pick a piece of pickled ginger up without picking up the whole pile, and Dean can’t help it. “Did I make you realize you were gay?”
Sam drops his chopsticks and nearly knocks over his water. They’ve never put this into words, let it be alive in the air. “Dean, I don’t—” but he doesn’t finish because the waitress is dropping off more crunchy salmon rolls and it’s not really something you say in front of restaurant staff. Maybe he thinks the subject’s closed, but Dean genuinely wants an answer.
“Did I make you gay?” he wonders aloud. Because if that’s the case then he’s got a lot to answer for, ruining Sam for women and all. They’re so beautiful and soft, long hair and slim thighs, and Dean can categorically say the only guy he’d ever felt anything for was Sam.
Sam looks at him with eyebrows lowered. “Yes, Dean, your dick was so wonderful I have been desperately seeking high and low for its replacement.”
There are so many things he could reply to that, but all of them are going to get him in trouble so he raises his hands and surrenders his fake credit to the waitress, rather than follow that dialogue in the direction it’s going to take them.
They check into a dusty motel off the highway and Dean has to yank the key upwards in the lock to get the door open. “So, when did you realize you were gay?”
“Dean,” Sam throws his hands up, exasperated. “Why the third degree?”
The door falls open under Dean’s weight and he stumbles into the room. “Because you’re my brother, and I want to know you.” The emphasis comes out all weird and laden though, and Sam sucks in a breath and drops his duffle to the ground.
He turns away and takes the bed farthest away from the door, just like routine. “I guess I realized after we—you know,” he finally answers Dean, but it comes out like Dean’s yanking his teeth out too.
“Oh my god, it’s all my fault.”
“You didn’t make me gay, Dean, I was gay all along—you just made me figure it out,” Sam responds, voice heated, like he was about to start throwing things at him if he didn’t locate his brain.
“Oh…well,” Dean replies, voice small. “Sometimes I think you might have made me a little bit gay.” Sam’s eyes grow round and he freezes in place, waiting for more. “But sex with guys is like listening to Rod Stewart,” he shudders and makes a face “so it’s not like I’ll ever know.”
“‘That’s tragic. That’s like kids starving in Africa,”’ Sam parrots at him, his elbows balanced on his knees.
“Shut up,” Dean growls, kicking off his boots and flopping back onto his bed. “Not the same at all.”
But it’s like the words are some kind of spell because Sam is kneeling over him, knees bracketing Dean’s hips like parentheses before the words are even all the way past his lips. His mouth descends on Dean’s and it’s like they’ve gone right back to that moment in the kitchen, no time passed at all. Urgency is making his heart beat harder, his lungs pull in more air, and his mouth get more of Sam. He feels like he’s been hard since he saw Sam with the brush in his hand painting that kid’s skin, days ago.
Sam rocks down on his dick and bites at his mouth. Dean wonders where this is going, because he really wasn’t kidding about the gay sex thing. But Sam’s got his wrists pinned up above his head with one hand. He’s using the other to unbutton Dean’s jeans, fingertips brushing over skin almost as sensitive on the way to their destination. Dean arches, just breathing into Sam’s mouth, as Sam starts stroking him. He angles his hips out of the way so his hands have room and his teeth graze down over Dean’s throat, and Sam’s ministrations so perfect, so smooth, he can well imagine him doing this thousands of times trying to learn the right rhythm.
He thrusts and rolls up into Sam’s grip, trying to get more, trying almost to bring that hand inside of him. Sam chuckles, the little bastard chuckles—thumb curling over the head and tongue at the spot just below his ear so that Dean is twisting and moaning. His jeans and boxers are shoved down his thighs, and he must look ridiculous laid out on the bed like this, but he’s blanketed in Sam—he figures there’s something right about that.
Sam kisses Dean, wicked tongue suggesting things the same way Dean had back in that tiny kitchen. And he thinks, if Sam had stayed, maybe this would’ve been inevitable, until they got caught. There was no sneaking around on Dad. Maybe that’s why Sam left and found himself a pretty blond boy with fine boned pretty features entirely different from Dean’s own—the risk was too high.
Dean’s got his eyes squeezed shut tight and he can’t breathe, he’s coming all over Sam’s hand, swearing and struggling against his brother’s body. They lie still, frozen in repose, until Dean opens his eyes again and Sam rolls off and away from him. He didn’t even realize that the hand that held his wrists to the pillow had twined with his own fingers until it was gone.
Sam is still hard, erection making his jeans look ridiculous, but Dean can tell from the set of his shoulders and the way he scrubs his hand over his face that there will be no talk of taking care of it for him. That entire thing was for Dean.
The digital clock on the desk says 9: 30 and Dean’s already hungry again, so he gets up to clean himself up and to order a pizza. Sam is staring at his duffle bag like it’s Jess’s betrayed face, and Dean might be terribly selfish, but he would like, now that he has his brother back, to have his attention.
“Dude you didn’t even do any of the gross stuff,” Dean says, hotel phone in hand, “Totally cheating, nobody would call you a sex god just because you know how to handle a dick.”
The brooding look cracks right off Sam’s face, replaced by something else. Like he’s realizing this thing they do—it’s meaningless. Which isn’t true. It means everything, but if believing that saves Sam from himself, than he’ll give it to him. “Make sure you don’t get olives on the pizza,” is all Sam says before stalking out into the parking lot.
I can't believe this. This story is actually changing into a universe. I think there will probably be one more after this one.