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Is it a bad idea to be here? Probably, yes. Did Sam try to gently suggest that he could check it out alone? Also, yes. Did Dean listen to him? No, he did not.
The closer they get to Pontiac, the tighter Dean grips the steering wheel. Sam's quiet for now, but Dean can feel his eyes. The car feels more claustrophobic than before, what with Sam's new bulk and shoulders that seemed to have gotten wider in forty ye- four months.
At the same time, it's so much freer than the rack downside-
No. Nope. Not going there. He doesn't remember.
His fingers curl tighter. If it weren't for the steering wheel, his nails would be cutting crescents into his palms.
"How long?"
Sam almost jumps. "What?"
"How long between the hellhounds chewed me up and you buried me?" He's caustic, he knows, and when Sam's lips twitch downward at the wording, there's both guilt and satisfaction in Dean's chest.
"Um, six hours," Sam murmurs.
Dean compares it to the whole day he spent sitting by Sam's deathbed and finds it lacking. Disappointing. He just hums, trying to ignore the stinging feeling of inadequacy.
Sam's not looking at him anymore. "I went straight to the nearest Devil's Gate, but... Like I said, it didn't work. I opened it and... Nothing came out. I waited for a whole night. Nothing." He sounds lost in thought, not defensive. "It was like Hell had gone on lockdown. Then I tried summoning. The regular way. No one showed up. Until..."
Dean chances a look at him. "Until? What happened?"
Sam heaves a deep, tired breath. It's the first sign of exhaustion he's shown since Dean knocked on his motel room a day ago. "Until I tried a crossroads," he says bluntly. "And- again, like I said- he refused to deal."
Dean purses his lips. "That was stupid, you know that, right?"
"No." Sam's voice is flat, cold. "No, it wasn't."
He doesn't argue, if only because there's a tiny secret part of him that's actually... Pleased.
"We're almost there."
And just like that, Dean's blood runs cold.
Sam leans forward in his seat, mouth dropping open. "Holy..."
The field looks like it was torn up by a giant toddler's hand. The ground is nothing but debris, broken roots and grass and stones covering everything. When Dean woke up here, he didn't waste time investigating further, too creeped out and confused to do anything but run straight to civilization. Now...
The ground doesn't look driveable. Dean stops the car, but idles for a few moments before getting out slowly. Sam's already several steps ahead of him, but he pauses. "How big is it?"
"I don't know."
There's no suggestion of splitting up. They walk together, following the edge of the proof of angelic activity. Actual, literal, real-life angels. Fuck. Dean still can't quite wrap his head around it. He's not sure he wants to.
It's a warm night, pleasantly enough. Sam's walking a little closer to him than usual, and they usually walk pretty close. Dean half-wonders if Sam's actually gained a little more height too. It wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened lately, even if it hits Dean's pride a bit.
His pride, and a spot low in his belly when he remembers the first time he was ridiculously grateful for Sam's greater height.
Sam hasn't even kissed him since he got back.
Granted, Bobby was with them almost the whole time, and then they were being teased by Pamela, and then that ended badly... But still.
"It's a full circle," Sam sighs as they reach the Impala again. "Guess we can rule out natural causes."
"Natural causes?" Dean asks incredulously.
He gets a shrug. "I don't know, man. Angels? That's not-" He gestures vaguely, acting noncholant, but there's a look on his face that's hard to describe as anything less than hope. Wonder.
Of course the boy who's prayed his whole life- behind Dean's back- would be excited about angels. In Dean's experience, though, most things that put that expression on Sam's face end badly.
Sam catches his frown and schools himself. "Guess we should walk into it then."
That's the last thing Dean wants to do. This is ground zero for angelic destruction. And at the center is Dean's grave that he just crawled out of.
"Hey." Sam's cocked his head at him, with that softness in his eyes that really has no place in this lifestyle. "Maybe you should wait here, keep an eye out. I'll go check-"
Dean doesn't wait for him to finish, much less grace it with a response. He steps into the circle, pretends he doesn't feel as if he's marching to his own death. Again.
Sam's a step behind, his hand brushing Dean's back through the jacket he's got on. Sam's jacket. They really need to get Dean's stuff out of the storage Sam put everything in.
But that single touch gives Dean a little more confidence, as cheesy as it sounds, and Sam lets him lead by that one-step difference. Even so, Dean feels something pounding against his ribcage, harder and harder with every inch of ground they cover. Not his heart; this is something else, something wretched and twisted and fucking scared, trapped inside him. Dean swallows it back down.
It's just a stupid grave, he tells himself. He's been around a million graves by now. It's not like this is a gateway straight down to Hell, straight down to his rack, strung up in front of-
No. No no no. He's not thinking of that. He doesn't remember it.
They stop at the same time, Dean's arm lifting to barricade against Sam's torso, only to find Sam's hand outstretched as well, twisted in Dean's jacket.
The ground here is markedly less ravaged by holy power. It's just freshly disturbed earth and, beneath that, the splintered wooden top of a coffin.
"Well." Dean's voice is scraped raw. "Good thing you didn't salt-n-burn me, huh?"
"Don't." Sam's words are bitten out. "Don't try to make this a joke."
"Oh, you just see through everything, don't you?" Dean snaps, and he doesn't even know why and he's shaking and fuck, why did they even come here?! There's nothing here but ruin. No signs of anything that might lead them to a less ridiculous answer than 'angel', no clue, no mysterious help, no answers. Nothing.
Nothing but the hole Dean should currently be rotting in.
"Dean," Sam whispers, plaintive and pleading.
Dean has never built up a resistance to that tone. He turns to look at Sam and curses how much he has to tilt his head up. It seems that everytime Dean is away from Sam, he finds his little brother different from how he remembered. It isn't fair. It is, not at the absolute top, but somewhere in the first five of a long list of unfair things in Dean Winchester's life.
"If you tell me what happened down there," Sam says softly, in the same voice he uses to draw answers from unwilling witnesses. "Maybe we can figure out what the angels want."
"I told you, I don't remember," Dean replies evenly.
Sam sighs. "Dean. When are you gonna quit lying to me?"
"I'm not."
"Because I know you, and I know when you're lying, and you-"
Dean doesn't kiss him so much as bite his lip, just to shut him up. But Sam jerks back, something like disgust in his eyes, and the rejection feels like a stab.
It opens a floodgate. Just a crack.
"I was screaming for you," Dean spits out, fingers curled into fists. "That's what happened down there. From the moment I arrived, every second I was being tortured, I was screaming for you, for help, and the demons laughed-"
Sam does kiss him. Properly. Lips slotting against Dean's with the ease of familiarity, and tongue sneaking into Dean's mouth before he has the chance to register it. Dean's angry for a moment- Sam doesn't get to just kiss him a second after pushing him away- and he tries to react in kind, shoving at Sam's chest. But there's no strength in it, no real resolve, and Dean is weaker than he ever remembers being. His knees buckle with sheer relief and Sam's bracing him somehow, lowering them both to the dirt with as much as care as possible.
That thing in his chest, fighting to get out? It's a sob and it wrenches its way past Dean's guard, swallowed into Sam's mouth instead. His fingers tighten in Dean's hair, his hand runs down the curve of Dean's spine. Dean pulls, leans back, and Sam breaks the kiss again.
"Sam-"
"Dean, wait," Sam pleads. "Please, wait, there's something- I mean, we should-"
"I don't care!" It's only years of trained vigilance that keeps Dean from screaming. "I don't wanna fucking hear anything right now, Sam, I want-" He bites his lip before saying something utterly stupid like I want to feel safe or, even worse, I want you to save me.
But Sam must be able to tell, because sorrow tugs at the lines of his face, and there's that guilt rushing into Dean's chest again.
"Dean," he whispers. "I just-"
"Please," Dean finally says, defeated. "Just... Please. I... I need this."
And maybe Sam's got a similar lack of resistance to Dean admitting he needs his little brother, because the next thing Dean knows, he's being pressed down on the ground. The ugly part of his brain pipes up, questioning if this is a pity fuck, whether Sam even wants him anymore-
It's silenced by the ferocity of Sam's second kiss, their third one this night, the millionth one their whole lives. A million graves and a million kisses and it's their first next to a grave that held one of them.
Sam pushes up the jacket, the flannel, the t-shirt underneath it, before reaching skin. Dean sucks in a gasp, almost shocked at the touch of Sam's palm against his bare stomach. He arches into it, seeking more of that warmth, but Sam pushes him back down with a growl that reverberates down Dean's throat into his chest. He makes a sound that's definitely not a whimper, knees spreading further to accommodate Sam's waist.
Sam shifts back, tugs Dean's belt off, then his jeans and boxers. The earth is cold and dry against his skin, and Sam's hands curl hot around his thighs.
Sam's fingers probe dry at his hole. "Lube?"
A laughable question. They're in the middle of a random fucking field next to a dug-up grave. Just for a moment, Dean wants to shake his head. Wants the pain of Sam's fingers eased by nothing but spit, wants to feel the drag of his cock. He wants it to erase the memory of Alistair's knife-
No. Just... No. He doesn't remember. There's nothing to erase.
Dean pulls out a small tube from the inner lining of the jacket. Sam raises an eyebrow.
"You know me, always a boy scout," Dean snarks, but it falls flat, out of place, and Sam just keeps looking at him like he's finally realizing how much Dean has been waiting for this.
He doesn't say a word, to his credit, just holds his hand out. Dean swallows, pours as little as he can get away with, and still Sam says nothing.
Just kisses him again, almost angry with how much he's using his teeth, and muffles Dean's groan as he forces three fingers into him, cursing when he meets resistance.
Rehymenated, Dean realizes, giddy for a second. He'd only meant it as a joke, but if there's one thing to thank that winged dick for-
Sam's fingers pull out. Dean almost whines, hates how unsatisfied he feels, hates that Sam didn't go further, deeper-
The blunt head of Sam's cock presses against him. Dean's breath catches, body locked into place as Sam wastes no time, fucking into him with shallow thrusts that take him deeper one at a time.
Dean wants to cry at how careful he still is. He wants to yell at Sam to stop treating him like a delicate chick.
Then again, Sam has never been this tender with a girl.
Dean lifts an arm, almost surprised that he isn't pinned or restrained. He places his hand on Sam's shoulder and feels him shaking. It's costing him to go slow. It's taking every ounce of self-control Sam has to not just wreck Dean the way he used to.
"Sam-"
He doesn't know what he might have said but it's cut off by a broken moan when Sam bottoms out. He buries his own ragged breath in the crook of Dean's neck, teeth latching onto his pulse.
For what seems like an eternity, they stay completely still. There's still a tremor running through Sam's body. Dean's got his hand fisted in Sam's shirt, afraid to loosen his grip even a smidge. They're pressed so close that Dean can't even smell the earth or the night air, just leather and aftershave and sweat. He takes a chance, opens his eyes a slit. Sam's hair blocks out most of the sky, and stars dot what little of it he can see. The whole of his body feels hot, as if blanketed by Sam's much larger form.
And finally, fucking finally, Dean relaxes.
"Come on," he sighs, content even in his need, at peace even with his cock trapped, hard and aching, between them both.
Sam's bite turns a little harder, crueller, like he's trying to draw blood from Dean's artery. It's the sweetest pain Dean's ever felt and he tilts his head back, offers up more of his neck.
Sam lets go, soothes the impending bruise with a brush of his lips. His hips grind down in a rhythm Dean's got memorized even after death and rebirth, though slower and gentler than he ever remembers it being before.
His thoughts have gone syrup-y slow, lost in a haze of pleasure and gratitude and safety. Sam's here. Sam's got him. It's so stupid to think Dean ever felt the need to keep up an act with his little brother after getting him back as an adult. He could always trust Sam to have his back. It took going to Hell to realize that.
He's not sure which of them comes first- Sam, with his cock still buried in him to the hilt, or Dean, untouched and sensitive from forty years of denial.
Either way, it ends with Sam pulling him up into a sitting position. Dean's still got his legs splayed wide. Sam's still kneeling between his bowed knees. It's almost awkward, but in a way that's almost endearing, with neither wanting to move apart just yet. They're forehead to forehead, breathing the same air.
Sam is still staring. There's a darkness to his face and Dean thinks ruefully, fondly, that not even an orgasm can slow down the unstoppable force of Sam's thoughts.
"Hey." He tips his head, nudges his nose against Sam's. Sickeningly sweet, but post-coital is the only time Dean will allow himself this vulnerability. "Quit worrying. We'll figure it out."
"You might not like what you find," Sam points out quietly.
"Probably not," Dean agrees. "But we'll deal with it. You and me."
Sam closes his eyes. He pressed a soft open-mouthed kiss to Dean's jaw, breathes him in. Then he pulls away. "Let's get out of here."
"Second-best idea we've had all day," Dean agrees and stands, pulling his jeans up. "I need a shower. Stat."
Sam chokes on a surprised laugh and Dean grins, satisfied. They start walking out from the epicenter and Dean doesn't look back at his abandoned grave even once.