RockStarPeach

Title: Put You Down For a While
Rating: Adult
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam, vague Sam/Other, Dean/Others, some Cas and Bobby
Summary: Sam hasn’t always been in love with Dean. He is now though, and despite his initial reservations, his fears that Dean wouldn’t be able to commit and he’d end up breaking Sam’s heart, they’re together and they’re happy. Things are surprisingly good between them. Or they are until Dean suddenly starts to shut Sam out without explanation and Sam is driven to making a mistake that Dean might not be able to forgive.




It’s a nice evening.

They’re in Topeka, Kansas and they’re sitting in the middle of an empty baseball diamond in an elementary schoolyard, eating sandwiches from the Mini-Mart and splitting a six-pack. The sun set fifteen minutes ago and the sky is a breathtaking mix of colours, muted rays of light reflecting off the atmosphere and blanketing the clouds in vibrant reds and oranges.

A breeze blows over them, not quite chilly but the air is losing some of the oppressive heat of the day and Sam stretches out his legs, lets his bare toes slide through the grass. He smiles, looks over at Dean who’s examining his sandwich suspiciously, like he’s worried some lettuce might have gotten mixed in with the bacon and roast beef. He actually sticks his finger in there between two layers of meat just to make sure and instead of being disgusted Sam just smiles bigger, leans closer without even realising it.

Sam can’t help it; he’s in a great mood. It’s been a great day (a week long Tulpa hunt finally ending in the storage room in the school basement) and it looks like it’s shaping up to be an even greater night. They’re pretty much on a date, having a picnic in a pretty damn romantic setting – blanket, sunset, Sam’s ipod playing some of Def Leppard’s less offensive music.

Not that Sam’s about to point out any of the date-like qualities of their current situation, because if he did Dean would probably shout obscenities at him and vehemently deny it, storm off in a huff and Sam wouldn’t get laid for a while. But whatever. It’s true and Sam knows that Dean knows it, so as long as nobody mentions it Sam’s just going to soak up the atmosphere and nurse the feeling of warmth that’s settled in his belly and is slowly spreading through to his fingers and toes.

He crushes the can of beer in his hand slightly, just presses the aluminum in so that it dents and pings as he leans a little closer to his brother. His chin is almost resting on Dean’s shoulder, his breath puffing warm over Dean’s ear when Dean jerks and pulls back, turns to face Sam and shifts to put a little more space between them.

“Dude,” Dean says, screwing his face up tight. “You’re not gonna like, kiss me, are you? Because I think this moment’s got pretty much all the gay it can handle without any of that shit.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam says as he laughs shortly through his nose and rolls his eyes. Then he leans forward once again to press his lips unapologetically against Dean’s. Dean freezes against him for only a split second but then Sam feels him relax all at once, the tension of the entire past week leaving him in a breath as he opens his mouth and lets Sam’s tongue inside.

Sam watches Dean’s eyes flutter closed as Dean’s mouth widens, his tongue swiping gently over Sam’s and then pushing deep inside his mouth to lick across the roof. It’s over almost as soon as it starts, Dean pulling back and offering Sam a brief, honest smile before he stuffs the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and swallows it down with a swig of beer.

It’s a few more minutes, the sun’s light fading and the sky turning a collection of soft, deep blues as one or two stars appear overhead, before either of them speaks.

“Blow jobs?” Dean asks with a grin, and Sam can see him not so subtly adjusting himself through his pants, hand cupping his crotch between his legs. “Not that this Hallmark moment is turning me on or anything, but it’s been like, two weeks. If we don’t do it soon, I’m gonna friggin’ explode.”

Sam lets his lips curl up in a secret smile as he kisses the back of Dean’s neck, before he opens two more beers and hands one to Dean. Dean takes it with a slight scowl, but doesn’t say anything.

It’s long past dark, the sky a deep velvet black while the lights of the city create a haze that blocks out most of the starlight, when their lips come together in a frantic mess of licks and bites. They strip out of their pants in clumsy movements before Sam pushes Dean down onto the thin blanket covering the chilling grass and climbs on top, straddling his waist.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean pants, head tilted back so Sam can’t help but run his fingers over the expanse of Dean’s neck. “Fuck yeah.”

Fuck yeah, Sam thinks as he lets a significant amount of saliva pool in his mouth before spreading it over his hand with his tongue. He reaches behind himself, slick fingers sliding between his cheeks and over his hole and he smirks internally when Dean’s head slams back into the ground and his body goes tight while he curses over and over to himself.

“Goddamn, Sam,” he gasps and it only spurs Sam on. He loves that Dean wants him like this, that he’s the one, out of everyone in the world, that makes Dean this crazy. “So fucking hot. Please. God, please.”

Sam takes Dean’s cock in his wet hand and presses the tip to his entrance before he leans forward and braces his hands on Dean’s chest. He sinks down quickly and his fingers curl, the nails dig into Dean’s chest cutting slivers in the top few layers of skin as the familiar burn gives way to pleasure and he starts to speed up.

He rides Dean right there, dim points of starlight twinkling above them while the glint of the streetlights reflect off the batting cage thirty feet away, and when they’re finished Dean pulls him down and rolls them over, splays himself out on top of Sam and kisses him until their lips are numb.

When they make it back to their motel room an hour later, Dean surprises Sam by climbing into bed with him instead of the one he’d been sleeping in the past six nights, and settling in to sleep with his ankle wrapped around Sam’s. For most people that would be a thoughtless gesture, wouldn’t mean much at all, but for Dean and Sam it speaks volumes. They’ve come a long way.

Sam falls asleep happy.



“Check them out,” Dean says, kicking Sam’s foot under the picnic table and nodding across the park. They’re eating hot dogs at a picnic table under a giant elm and Sam’s got his laptop open, researching the tenant history of a haunted building uptown.

“Hm?” Sam asks, swallowing his mouthful of food and washing it down with a swig of cola. “Who?”

“Them,” Dean says, nodding again and Sam turns.

It’s a man. He’s probably in his thirties and he’s kicking a soccer ball to a kid who looks to be about five or six, while a gorgeous woman with long red hair smiles and cheers them on. They don’t look possessed or anything, but there might be something Sam’s missing.

“What about them?” Sam asks.

“Ever think you might want something like that?”

Sam frowns. “I’ve never been into redheads. That’s more your thing, isn’t it?”

“Ha ha,” Dean deadpans. “No, I mean… the whole family thing. The wife, the rugrats, Saturday lunches in the park.”

“We’re family,” Sam says, looking sharply back at Dean. “It’s Saturday. We’re having lunch in the park.”

Dean’s quiet for several seconds, watching father and son play kickball over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I guess.”

“Dean.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean says, moving his elbow across the table to bump against Sam’s and Sam feels warm again. “Hurry up and eat, ‘cause we gotta be across town in a half hour.”




“You’re kidding, right?” Sam asks, shaking his head and looking at Dean like he’s lost his mind. Which is entirely possible.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean wheedles, actually wheedles, and it’s so damn cute that Sam knows he’s going to give in. It’s pathetic really, how Dean doesn’t even need to try and he’s got Sam wrapped around his little finger. It’s okay though. Sam knows it goes both ways. “It’s gonna be awesome, I swear.”

Sam still manages to look doubtful and he just wants to hug his brother when he cocks his head to the side and his face pulls in a pitiful expression.

“Please,” he begs, and Sam really likes the sound of Dean begging. It does things to him. “You’ll love it. And if you don’t, I’ll totally blow you. How can you pass that up?”

Dean’s smiling now, all teeth in a big goofy grin and Sam smiles back because Dean just looks so hopeful.

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes. “But I’m gonna hold you to that blow job.”

Three hours later, in the middle of a B-movie horror marathon at some theatre on the other side of Duluth, Dean makes good on his promise. Sam is not having fun. Scratch that, Sam wasn’t having fun, not until Dean scowled and shoved and grudgingly got to his knees in the back row to suck Sam down.

Sam tries to hold back, tries to make Dean work for it, but it’s no use. Dean’s good at this. Sam tries to think about a time a couple of years ago, when Dean had much less experience and Sam could hold out for as long as he liked. That’s not now though and Sam barely lasts three minutes with Dean’s lips wrapped around him, Dean’s hand cupping his balls with his fingers teasing his asshole before Sam’s biting his lip to keep from crying out and filling Dean’s mouth with his come.

Dean makes a face, Sam can just barely see it in the dim light, and he climbs back up into his seat. He shoots Sam a glare and steals the soda from between them, taking a large sip to wash Sam’s taste off his tongue.

“That’s still nasty,” he whispers and Sam smiles as his hand creeps across their laps and unfastens Dean’s pants, pulls him out and jerks him off. Dean’s pants are a mess afterwards and he has to fold his jacket over his arm and hang it in front of him as they leave the theatre and get into the car.

Dean heads straight to the bathroom to clean up when they get back to their room and he kicks Sam in the shin when Sam tries to get into bed with him after his own shower. Sam just chuckles and kisses the top of Dean’s head before he tucks himself into the other bed.




Things are good.

Sam has to admit that back when this started, he wasn’t sure if he’d expected them to be. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting at all, but he was well aware that Dean tended to get around back in the day, and there was a pretty major part of him that had been afraid that Dean would flake.

That once they were together, once they’d committed and decided to just fucking go for it, admit their feelings and move on from fuck buddies to actual boyfriends, that Dean would freak out and start screwing every girl that smiled at him just to prove how very heterosexual he was.

That didn’t happen and Sam feels stupid now for ever thinking it would. He should know Dean better than that. Hell, he does know Dean better than that.

They’ve gone through their paces, that’s for sure. They started out with grudging, hesitant fumbles, followed by loads of denial, mixed in with some uncertainty and topped off with wide and varied screw-ups. But none of that matters now.

All that matters now is that they’ve made it through all that bullshit and it’s good. Even when it’s painful, confusing, when it doesn’t make sense and when it’s pissing them off, it’s good. They’re happy.

Until Castiel shows up one day asking them for help, and things start to go to shit.



The thing is, Sam likes Cas.

Okay, so he’s not falling all over himself to make the guy happy, and he doesn’t have that weird kind of connection with Cas that Dean does, but Cas is an okay guy. He’s helped them out when he didn’t have to, had their back when he got his ass handed to him for it, repeatedly. He’s sort of a snob and he’s got a permanent stick up his ass and had his dick moments, sure, but overall he’s been there for them. He’s loyal, and Sam respects that.

Plus, he’s an angel, and while the shine has kind of rubbed off and his hero-worship has dimmed a little, it’s still pretty cool.

So when Cas shows up one afternoon in the backseat of the Impala asking for help, Sam’s the first one to readily nod his head, catch Castiel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and say, “Of course. Whatever you need.”

Looking back on it though, Sam would have answered differently.

It’s a pretty standard job, really. Just helping Castiel track down a board off the port side of Noah’s ark. Noah’s fucking ark. Seriously. It turns up pretty easily after less than a week, some old contact of their dad’s paying off after they follow a newspaper trail reporting excessive amounts of rain and unexplained flooding across the southwest.

It’s easy. It’s fun even, with the occasional fist fight, some vague threats, one near drowning and a subsequent soaked-to-the-bone-Dean, who Sam has a very good time warming up under a hot shower and then again in a hot bed. So yeah, mostly it’s fun.

The way Cas is acting though, it almost makes Sam wonder.

He’s… weird, for lack of a better word. Even for Cas. His eyes are glued to Dean even more than they normally are, carefully blank where they’re normally intense or confused. He looks at Sam too, sharp, disapproving snaps of his eyes, which is all kinds of weird.

Sam’s the good one. He’s never tried to get Cas laid by a hooker, or put a whoopee cushion on his chair or threatened a prophet at gunpoint. And he hasn’t been evil in a long time, so the chances of Cas still holding a grudge about that are pretty slim.

Sam ignores it. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anything that matters, anyway. Castiel has always been a little off. No big deal.

Except that the day after Dean almost drowns and then blows Sam in the shower before they spend well over an hour slowly fucking under a pile of blankets, Castiel greets Dean with a look like he’d sooner punch him in the face than have a conversation with him.

Dean just gives him a ‘what crawled up your ass and died?’ sort of look and they get in the car and head for Albuquerque.

The rest of the week passes with a lot of awkward silence. Sam almost thinks that whatever is wrong with Cas might just be in his head, because as far as Sam knows Dean hasn’t done anything to piss the angel off lately, but he’s still happy as fuck when that stupid-ass piece of wood is firmly in Castiel’s hand and he can fuck off back to Heaven.

Sam stuffs his room key into the lock and shoves the door open with a little too much force as he steps through and sheds his jacket and shoes. He turns to let Dean know he’s taking a shower (and hopefully make sure Dean knows it’s an invitation) but the flirty smile he’d been wearing drops and his face pinches tight as he watches Castiel grab Dean’s arm and pull him back outside.

Sam’s frown deepens when they step back behind the wall and out of Sam’s line of sight. He can barely see the bunching beige of Castiel’s coat and he can hear them whispering. Cas first, something Sam can’t quite make out. There’s silence for a while then and Sam considers following them outside to find out what the hell is going on, but then he hears Dean hiss something unintelligible and Cas responds in a low murmur.

It goes on for a few more seconds and then Castiel disappears, the beating of invisible wings on hot, stale air and a few scattered pieces of litter signalling his departure. Dean stumbles through the open doorway a few seconds after that, looking kind of dazed.

“What was that about?” Sam asks over the sound of the door closing. “Cas seemed kind of upset.”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean says with a shrug, avoiding Sam’s eyes as he strips off his jacket. “Angels, man.”

Sam opens his mouth to ask again, because obviously Dean’s hiding something from him but Dean ends the conversation by scrunching up his nose in Sam’s direction.

“Go shower,” he tells him and then flops down on his bed and flicks on the television. “You stink like gunpowder.”

It’s on the tip of Sam’s tongue to point out that that’s usually a turn on for Dean, but instead he just sighs and heads into the bathroom, alone.



Dean hasn’t touched him in the four days since that bizarre moment between him and Castiel outside the motel room. Four days isn’t all that long for them to go without sex, or even kissing for that matter, but Dean usually puts a hand on his shoulder when he leans over him to look at a book or a newspaper or Sam’s laptop screen. He usually brushes his knuckles over Sam’s when he hands him a beer or steals the remote. He usually slaps Sam’s ass when Sam heads to the shower and he usually nudges Sam’s knee with his own under the table while they’re eating breakfast.

Dean’s a tactile person, only he hasn’t been doing any of that lately.

Sam doesn’t mention it, because sometimes Dean does weird shit like avoid him for a while, or he has these silent, mini freak-outs because the moron occasionally likes to pretend he’s not ‘half gay’ for his brother. But things always go back to normal after a while and they will this time, too. He gives Dean his space and tries not to make something out of what’s almost certainly nothing.



“I think she’s sweet on you,” Dean tells him one night after they’re leaving the house of a grieving young widow with long dark hair and legs to die for.

Sam screws up his face and elbows Dean as he walks around him to get to the passenger side of the Impala. He checks the mirror and sighs as he thumbs off a smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. She’d been grateful, sure. They’d saved her life and Sam had pulled her daughter out from under their rolled over Pathfinder.

And yeah, she’d maybe hugged Sam a little too long while they were saying their goodbyes after dropping them off at home, but she’d just had a pretty traumatic few days.

“Her husband just died.”

“Yeah, and she didn’t seem that torn up about it. Not with the way she was grabbin’ your ass back there.”

Sam narrows his eyes as he adjusts the mirror back to where it was. She’d done no such thing.

“What’s your point, Dean? You think she did it? Summoned something?”

“No, of course not,” Dean says as he starts up the engine. “This is definitely a poltergeist. Just sayin’, she liked you. So did her kid. You could do worse.”

Sam breathes out a harsh, irritated breath. “Dean, knock it off. What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

“Nothing. Sorry, I… I’m being a dick. Still love me?”

Dean’s smile is crooked and goofy and Sam can’t help but laugh.

“Always.”



It’s eight days later that Dean jumps him. Crawls into bed with Sam first thing in the morning and coaxes him awake with a steady hand pawing at his groin. It’s so early in the morning it’s still night time, everything outside their room is still sleeping, quiet and still as Dean rolls Sam onto his back and climbs on top of him.

It’s dark in the room, so dark that Sam can barely make out Dean’s features, can’t really tell what he’s thinking because the shadows across his face leave his expression a mystery. It almost feels wrong, because Sam likes to know exactly what’s going on in Dean’s head, but it’s so fucking good when Dean slides a hand inside his shorts and pulls out his cock, strokes him to hardness with fast, efficient twists of his wrist. It’s so very good that it’s worth it, and Sam doesn’t complain.

It takes a little longer for Dean to get hard than it does Sam, but he gets there, face buried in the pillow next to Sam’s head as he tugs their clothes just out of the way enough that their cocks can slide together.

It feels great. It feels really fucking great, but there’s something off about it that Sam can’t quite put his finger on.

Dean’s hurried, for one thing. Ruts fast and careless, squeezes his hand around them tight and pumps his hips as fast as he can, works to get them off as quickly as possible, which is something Dean almost never does, not anymore. If they don’t have time, Dean waits until they do, but he doesn’t like to rush things. Not unless they have to.

Also, the lights are all off and Dean has his face turned so he can’t see Sam, jerks against him with their boxers barely tugged down enough to get their junk out. Dean pushes Sam’s face away every time he tries to kiss him, holds his hands down when he tries to touch, tries to hold Dean close to him but really, that’s nothing unusual.

Dean’s being a little more pointed about it than he normally is, but it’s still well within the defined parameters of their relationship.

He still doesn’t say anything, just grunts quietly as he brings them both closer to the end on more and more frantic thrusts, like it’s some kind of race or something, and he clamps a hand down over Sam’s mouth when he cries out his release.

And that? Is really fucking weird. Even if Sam could overlook everything else, that action sends up red flags. Because Dean’s always liked to listen to Sam, likes to hear the noises he makes, the noises Dean pulls from him, likes to hear him fall apart and scream for it. It’s an ego thing.

Dean follows him over the edge closely after, body rigid and cursing quietly to himself into the pillow. Sam doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s grudging, that Dean’s orgasm is forced and perfunctory. It’s also undoubtedly good, because the jerk of Dean’s hips and the catch of his breath can’t possibly lie.

Dean doesn’t give either of them a chance to recover, just pulls back and sits up even as he tries to even out his breath and slaps a wide open palm against Sam’s hip.

“Wipe that dreamy look off your face, man,” Dean says, with a slight smile and a shake of his head. “We gotta hit the road.”



“We need to call Cas,” Dean says, and it’s all Sam can do not to put his fist through his brother’s face. Whatever’s been wrong is still there, an incessant itch underneath his skin that won’t go away no matter how much he scratches, and the mention of Castiel’s name irrationally pisses him off.

“No. We don’t.” And okay, they kind of do, but the last time Cas showed up things got seriously fucked up for a while and Sam, while plenty secure in his awesomeness and Dean’s opinion of such, is just not in the mood to deal with whatever weirdness Cas is going to bring with him.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Dean tells him, even as he ducks his head and crosses his hands vaguely over his lap. He’s praying. Praying to Castiel. For some reason Sam hates that right now. “I’m not really in the mood for an angel lecture either, Sammy, but if this bitch we’re fighting really is the actual Persephone, we could probably use his help.”

“Yeah, but we could also probably get by without it,” Sam argues.

“Dude. What the hell is your problem?”

“I just… Nothing, Dean. Everything’s fine. Call him.”

Dean looks at him with a sceptical tilt of his head, but ultimately closes his eyes and mumbles Castiel’s name around a few other choice words.

He can’t help much, it turns out. Or he can, but he won’t, because Dean and Sam can more than handle this one on their own, and Castiel is busy. Apparently Heaven doesn’t run itself, which is a fact that Dean seems to think is pretty amusing.

Castiel doesn’t hang around long, half a day or so, only long enough to tell them they’re being idiots and point them in the general direction of the weapon that they need, but it’s long enough for Sam to notice that the something is still different between Cas and Dean. He can’t say exactly what it is, they’re not fighting, they’re not anything, really. They’re just off. And it’s unsettling, to say the least.

What’s more is that Dean is off with Sam as well, even more than he has been lately. He doesn’t go within five feet of him and he barely responds when Sam speaks, even when it’s about the case. Sam tries valiantly not to let it get to him, but it’s not that easy.

Dean always keeps his distance when Cas is around, which is fine by Sam. It’s a thing, it’s a defence mechanism. It’s not like he wants Cas finding out that they’re fucking, and it’s not like they’re really into the public displays of affection anyway. Hell, they’re not much into private displays of affection either, for the most part. Sure, there are touches, kisses, the occasional snuggle, but mostly there’s insults and shoving, interspersed with really hot sex. It works for them.

When Castiel leaves later that afternoon it’s not without one last seriously intense look at Dean. Dean swallows and ducks his head, lowers his eyes as Castiel flutters away.

If Sam was less secure, he might be getting ideas.



Two weeks later the ideas he’d decided against getting have regrouped and come back with friends. Something is clearly wrong and Sam doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that whatever it is, Castiel is at the centre of it.

Two weeks and Dean hasn’t come near him. Hasn’t even hinted that he’s got a dick and he wants Sam to touch it. Hell, he hasn’t even bothered to take his clothes off when Sam’s in the room, waiting until he gets into the bathroom to strip down for his showers and getting into bed in his fucking jeans.

Two weeks is not that long, sure, and they’ve gone longer than this without being intimate, but Sam knows this isn’t a normal dry spell and it’s driving him crazy, making his skin itch with the need to just grab Dean, shake him and ask him what the fuck his problem is. He’s tried giving Dean space but that’s obviously not working this time and he needs for things to go back to normal, now. He’s getting worried that whatever this is, it might be something more serious than he originally thought.

Dean tosses the remote across the small space between their beds and it lands next to Sam’s hip with a soft thud.

“Put on what you want,” Dean tells him, kicking under the covers and rolling to his side so he’s facing away from Sam. “I’m beat.”

Sam’s had enough. He picks up the remote control and pushes the power button, turning the room dark and quiet before he puts it down on the table and crosses to Dean’s bed. He slides his hand over Dean’s hip, rests it on his belly and kisses the side of Dean’s neck as he gently rolls him onto his back.

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, wiping a hand over his eyes. “I said I’m tired.”

“That’s okay, Dean,” Sam answers with a teasing smile. “Because I mostly just want you lie there.”

He reaches his hand into Dean’s pants but before he can wrap his fingers around Dean’s cock Dean is gripping him by the wrist and pulling him back out again.

“Dean,” Sam frowns, “what..?”

“Shh,” Dean tells him, pulls down on the front of Sam’s sweats and takes his dick in his hand. “Quiet. Just…”

Dean’s wrist starts to twist up and down, his fingers clench tightly around Sam’s hard shaft and Sam’s eyes roll back as he bucks up against Dean’s hand. He wants to stop him, wants to ask him what the fuck is going on, but damn Dean is good at this and Sam has been thinking about it for days.

He tries again to return the favour, take Dean in his hand and jerk him off, but Dean thwarts his attempts, pushes Sam’s hands down against the mattress, squeezes and presses hard so that Sam knows to leave them there. Dean finishes him off quickly, stares at a spot on the pillow next to Sam’s head and just grunts and rolls out of bed when Sam tries one more time to touch him.

He goes the bathroom to wash his hands and throws a damp cloth at Sam. Sam wipes himself down and he takes it as a good sign that Dean crawls back into bed with him, pulls the covers around his hips and buries his face in the pillow to sleep.

Yeah, something’s wrong, but Dean’s still with him, and he’s got plenty of time to figure out what it is.

The next day Dean acts like everything’s fine. He’s smiling, teasing, flirting. Mostly with the waitress serving them breakfast at the diner, but he sends a lewd comment or two in Sam’s direction and it makes him feel like things might be okay after all. He’s probably just been imagining things, and the weirdness these past weeks and last night was only in his head.

Dean just hasn’t been in the mood. It happens, right?



Only it’s not. It’s not in his head. Sam has to admit that now.

Two months pass. Two months, six hunts and seven failed attempts to get Dean into bed. Oh, Dean doesn’t just ignore Sam when he makes a move, tries to keep Sam mollified with perfunctory hand jobs but they’re always rushed, always in the dark and Dean never quite looks him in the eye while he does it. And Dean hasn’t once, in eleven weeks, let Sam anywhere near his junk.

Once, when they’re stuck sleeping in the Impala and Sam leans over to mouth at Dean’s cock through his pants, Dean actually tells him he has a headache. A fucking headache. Dean would have to actually be missing his head to turn down a blow job.

They’re pretty much his favourite thing.

Sam’s expectations hadn’t been high when they’d gotten into this relationship. He knew Dean played things close to the chest, kept a lot to himself and could be a thoughtless jerk on occasion, but Sam had gone for it anyway. And really, he’s mostly fine with it when Dean watches too much porn or forgets Valentine’s day or laughs at him when he gets his ass kicked by a girl. That’s all Dean, and he loves Dean for who he is and Sam can deal.

But there’s only so much of this… this freezing out that Sam can handle before he wishes that Dean would just hurry the fuck up and end things already, if that’s what he’s going to do.

The thought makes his chest clench with fear and his stomach knot up, but it would still be better than this. Except for how it wouldn’t be.



Bobby calls them.

A hunter friend of his needs help tracking down the source of a cursed diamond necklace and since they’re not into anything pressing at the moment they head to South Dakota to hit the books.

Bobby’s hunter friend is named Terry and turns out to be twenty-eight years old, female, gorgeous and extremely into Dean. Dean, of course, responds to the attention the only way he knows how. He’s all over her. He smiles smiles that promise things he’d better not be planning on delivering and he blatantly stares at her breasts, doesn’t look even the least bit apologetic when she catches him.

He brings her coffee and tells her she’s beautiful, blushes and ducks his head when she tells him she hopes they can meet again under better circumstances. It’s bullshit, it’s an act. Sam knows Dean has no intention of following through on anything and that coy routine is exactly that – a routine. Dean’s flattered, obviously, but acting like she’s the only other person in the room is only his way of keeping her interested because he likes the attention.

Which pisses Sam right the fuck off.

He takes her out on the front porch and they sit on Bobby’s swing together while they pore over a pile of books and Sam stares at them through the window while he flips through several hundred pages that he doesn’t read a word of. Thing is, this bullshit Dean’s pulling tonight wouldn’t have made Sam bat an eye a few months ago. Now though, it’s one more thing he can’t control, one more step away from him Dean is taking.

“I’m tired, Dean,” Sam tells his brother when he opens the front door, and Dean looks up at him with an odd expression. “I’m going to bed.” It’s pretty clear that Sam expects Dean to do the same, but Dean only raises one perfect eyebrow and cocks his head.

“Okay,” Dean says. “See ya tomorrow.”

Sam opens his mouth but quickly snaps it shut again. He has no idea what he even wants to say but he’s pretty sure anything would be a bad idea right now. He makes his way upstairs and settles into the more comfortable of the two beds in Bobby’s spare room and he sleeps fitfully. He’s unable not to notice Dean’s absence, the still-made bed on the other side of the room, especially when the clock on the dresser tells him it’s well past four in the morning.

Three hours later when Sam makes his way downstairs, overtired and with a crick in his neck from the too-soft pillow, it’s to find Dean and Terry huddled close together on the couch while Dean leans over to press his finger to the open book in her lap and mumble something into her ear that makes her laugh.

Sam doesn’t even remember the last time Dean was willing to do any research at all with him, let alone stay up all night with it and he swallows down his inappropriate jealousy, because really, there’s no reason for it. Dean’s not really interested in this girl, he knows that, and while Dean’s being kind of a dick Sam knows he’s not fucking around.

He doesn’t bother saying good morning to them, just heads into the kitchen where Bobby is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and some scattered notes.

“Those two look cozy,” Bobby says, nodding towards the living room.

Sam just grunts and pours himself a cup of lukewarm caffeine.

They leave a couple of hours later, Terry headed towards Richmond and a mage there that can hopefully be more help than Bobby turned out to be and the Winchesters just pick a direction and start driving.

Dean smirks at Sam when they’re inside the car, holds up a slip of paper between his first two fingers and when Sam looks closer he can see that it’s got Terry’s number written on it. Dean grin and winks, tosses the paper over his shoulder so it flutters to the floor in the back and Dean turns the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the road.

It’s about an hour into their drive, an hour of mullet rock and Dean’s terrible singing and Sam looking out the window and trying studiously to ignore him before Sam gives in and lets Dean have it.

“You’re a dick,” he says flatly and Dean jerks and shoots a glance in Sam’s direction.

“I’m what?”

“A dick, Dean,” Sam says again and reaches over to turn down the music. “You were all over Terry. Right in front of me.”

Dean rolls his eyes and lets out a long breath. “You’re not jealous.” It’s not a question; Dean knows he isn’t but Sam confirms it anyway.

“No, I’m not. But did you have to lay it on so thick? I’m your friggin’…” He trails off just before he lets the B word slip. Dean doesn’t like to hear it and Sam doesn’t really like to say it, but that doesn’t make it any less true. “We’re together, and that back there? Was pretty douchey.”

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean asks, shaking his head and pulling his mouth tight. “We were at Bobby’s place, for fuck’s sake. What, did you want me to be all ‘Hey Bobby, nice to see ya!’ and then bend you over the back of his couch?”

“No,” Sam says immediately, the word coming out strong and absolute. He most certainly does not want that, doesn’t want Bobby to have even the slightest sliver of an idea that the two of them are what they are. A part of him wishes it was different, that they didn’t have to sneak around and lie to the people close to them, but this is how it has to be. He knows that. “No, but…”

“But what, Sam?”

“You were all over her,” Sam says again, and this time there’s less bite to it. “Was that really necessary?”

Dean doesn’t answer and Sam lets it go. It’s not worth the fight.



“You’re right,” Dean says, when they settle in to their room for the night, halfway to Seattle and the Wendigo they’re probably hunting.

Sam just stares at Dean while he eats one of the apples they picked up at the last gas stop.

“You’re right, okay?” Dean says again, and this time he seems kind of pissed off about it. “I was a dick. Nobody knows about us. Nobody can. But the way I acted was totally uncool. You know you’re the only one. Right?”

Dean looks tired, miserable and even though Sam wants to punish him a little more, Dean sounds so damn sorry that Sam can’t help it.

“Yeah, Dean,” he answers with a crooked smile that he doesn’t really feel. Because it’s true. He does know that. He knows that Dean is committed to him, knows he’s not going to make it with some random pretty girl in Bobby’s living room while Sam’s sleeping upstairs. That’s not even what this is about, but Sam lets it go anyway. Because he is an awesome boyfriend and an even better brother. “I know.”

“I’m sorry. Just because we can’t tell people that I sometimes like to stick my dick in you doesn’t mean I should act like I’m available.” Dean’s smiling a little now, which takes the bite out of his words.

“Well, maybe we could tell them about those times when I stick my dick in you?” Sam asks around a grin.

“You wish, asshole. Either way, you get why we got keep this quiet, right? I mean, Bobby would have a frickin’ heart attack.”

“Yeah, Dean, I get it. I don’t want this to get out any more than you do.”

“So… are we cool?”

Sam shoots Dean a flirty look and crosses the distance between them to take his hand and pull him close. He’s still not thrilled but this looks like an opening and he’d be a fool not to take it.

“Yeah,” he says, breathing the word across Dean’s cheek. “We’re cool.” And they’d be so much cooler if they could just screw each other already because Sam appreciates the teasing art of self-denial as much as the next guy, but he’s so ready for the big pay-off here, it’s not even funny. It’s been months.

“Awesome,” Dean says and presses a kiss to Sam’s cheek. He backs off with a guilty grimace and makes a beeline for the bathroom to get ready for bed without another word. When he comes out he mumbles a quiet “Night, Sammy,” and crawls into his own bed.

Well, that sucks.



It sucks a lot more two weeks later when Dean still hasn’t come near him with anything resembling sexual intent and the tension has built so high between them that they’re snapping at each other over nothing.



Dean forgets to order whole grain toast with Sam’s breakfast and Sam calls him an arrogant, self-centred prick and refuses to talk to him for the rest of the day.



Sam picks up light beer for them to drink while they’re poring over a case in a Michigan motel and Dean drinks three of them in five minutes before he storms out and comes back with a fifth of whisky that he downs without comment before falling asleep and leaving the rest of the research to Sam.



Dean uses up all the hot water in the abandoned house they’re squatting in while they track down an Ethros demon in Tallahassee, and Sam retaliates by dumping a pitcher of ice cold water over Dean’s head while he’s getting ready for bed.



It’s Sam’s turn to do the laundry but he forgets, and Dean’s left with no clean underwear and has to go commando for a day. Dean does the laundry instead and purposefully turns everything Sam owns pink.



Cas shows up while Sam is in the shower and when Sam gets out, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweat pants, him and Dean are talking quietly, intensely about something that they clearly want to keep between just the two of them.

“Think about it, Dean,” Cas says and Sam frowns, wondering what exactly Dean should be thinking about.

“Eat me, Cas,” Dean snaps and then turns to look at Sam. “And you, put a shirt on!” he yells and Sam’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t have to listen to Dean, least of all now that Dean’s apparently decided that their sexual relationship is non-existent.

“I’m fine, Dean. Cas, what…”

He doesn’t even come close to finishing his sentence before Castiel disappears and Sam just shoots Dean a scowl before sitting down at the table and opening up his laptop.



“Are we gonna talk about this or not?” Sam asks after they wrap up a standard ghost hunt and stumble back into their Pike Creek motel room a little worse for wear. Their communication isn’t what it normally is, and they’d paid for that in the form a pretty hardcore ass-kicking.

“Talk about what?”

Sam raises an incredulous eyebrow and his mouth twists into a sneer. “You’re kidding, right? This,” he says, gesturing between the two of them. “Us. You.”

Dean frowns and pours himself a glass of whisky. “What’s wrong with me?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. You’ve been acting weird, man. You’ve been distant, you won’t come near me, we’ve been fighting all the damn time for absolutely no reason.” Well, sexual frustration is a pretty good reason, Sam thinks, but not one of their usual. “And I don’t know what the hell crawled up Castiel’s ass and died, but the two of you can’t even be in the same room lately without the tension skyrocketing. What, did you break up or something?”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“I wish you would! We haven’t had sex in almost three months. Three months, Dean. And I’ve tried, but you’re just not interested.” He lets out a small, humourless laugh. “I didn’t even know you were capable of going that long without. Or maybe you haven’t been.”

He doesn’t even know where that last part came from, doesn’t believe it for a second, not really, but Sam’s been going crazy and it looks like now is when he snaps. Dean’s jaw tightens and his eyes go hard and Sam doesn’t wait to find out if he’s going to answer, just keeps on talking.

“If you’re done with this, if you want this to be over, then you should at least have the guts to tell me, instead of just ignoring me until I go away.” And okay, that might have been one step too far, because Dean actually flinches before his expression turns a deadly calm, and he stands up and makes his way to the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Sam demands, even though what he really means to say is he’s sorry and can they please just talk about this because Sam loves him, Sam needs him to be okay, needs for them to be okay and clearly they’re not.

“For a drink,” Dean growls, without looking back. The door slams shut behind him and Sam blows out a long puff of breath and falls back down on his bed.



Dean’s ‘drink’ has taken seventeen hours and counting. Sam would be worried if he didn’t know what a stubborn son of a bitch Dean could be.



It’s ten o’clock the next night, Sam’s tried Dean’s cell three times only to hang up before he leaves a message and Sam is fucking sick of it. He’s half drunk off a cheap bottle of vodka, he’s restless, his brain hurts and he just needs to fucking forget all of this shit for a little while.

He needs to forget how he’s hopelessly in love with an emotional shut-in who may or may not be fucking an angel on the side. Needs to forget how Dean’s been pushing him away, how even the most casual of touches from Sam send him skittering in the other direction. Needs to forget how he’s not even sure if Dean loves him back the same way, because Dean’s never actually said so.



The bar is seedy, smoky and Sam’s a little hesitant at first to even sit down on the bar stool for fear of catching something, but two hours and eight shots later he’s feeling pretty good about everything. Including the guy who sits down next to him with a predatory smile and a cheesy pick-up line.

“I lost my number,” the guy says, pressing his elbow gently to Sam’s forearm. “Mind if I borrow yours?”

Sam just takes another shot and rolls his eyes. It’s almost funny in a way, because Sam’s never been interested in a man in his entire life, at least not one that wasn’t Dean, but apparently he gives off enough of a gay vibe these days to attract attention.

“Okay,” The guy continues, undeterred. “That was a line and it sucked. Sorry, I’m… I’m not very good at this.”

Sam turns to him with a disbelieving expression and the guy smiles, laughs a little and shakes his head. The guy is hot, if Sam’s inclined to notice that sort of thing. Almost as tall as him, well built with short brown hair and green eyes.

“Okay, fine,” the guy says, his smile turning coy and slight. “That was a line too. I’m awesome at this.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “Honesty. How many guys fall for that?”

“More than you’d think,” the guy answers with a wink. “So, what do you say?”

The guy reminds him so much of Dean and he’s interested and he keeps touching Sam and smiling at him and Sam misses that so much that when he flags the bartender down and orders them both another round, Sam thinks maybe he can pretend for a while.



He’s not Dean.

There’s a definite resemblance – the guy is the right size and the right shape, his hair feels the same when Sam’s hands try and fail to grip it tight. He’s hard and solid and strong just like Dean, arches his back just right and when Sam grabs his hips firmly in his hands and slams into him hard, Sam can almost pretend.

Almost.

His eyes are the right colour when he turns his head and looks at Sam over his shoulder, lips plush enough to rival Dean’s while he begs for Sam to fuck him harder, but his eyes are the wrong shape and his cheekbones slope lower and voice is too high.

The sounds he makes are wrong, the way he begs for Sam’s cock is wrong. The wanton way he screams out his release as he jerks himself to orgasm with Sam buried inside him is wrong.

The guy (Sam hasn’t bothered to catch his name, so that’s really the only thing he can call him, even in his head) is starting to collapse, limbs starting to lose strength and Sam can tell he’s tired and he just wants Sam to hurry the hell up already. Sam obliges as best he can, presses down on the guy’s back to angle him into the bed and picks up speed until he’s coming as well.

It’s good. It’s an orgasm, so of course it’s good, but it leaves him feeling hollow, empty and when it’s over the sudden, heavy press of guilt on his chest is almost too much to handle.

“I…” Sam starts, blinking and feeling abruptly, overwhelmingly sober. He pulls out, unable to believe that he just did what he did because seriously, what the hell is wrong with him? He doesn’t do shit like this, he’d never betray anyone this way, least of all Dean. Only he obviously has. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that the sex turned out to be pretty sub-par.

He pushes the guy away, turns to get off the bed so he can shower for about the next decade when he hears the high-pitched creak of the door opening and feels the slight breeze from outside.

“Sammy, listen, I…” Sam hears Dean say before the words break off abruptly into crushing silence.

No. No no no no, this cannot be happening.

“Dean,” he manages to croak out and the naked man who’s still half-hard and sticky next to him turns and looks between Sam and Dean with a confused expression that quickly turns apologetic.

“Shit, man,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

“Shut. Up,” Sam growls, scrambling to the edge of the bed and pulling the covers over his waist. He’s not sure what he’s trying to hide from Dean at this point, obviously his brother knows what he’s just done, but it just seems like good manners. “Dean, I’m…”

Except he doesn’t even know what he is. Drunk? Yes. Sorry? Absolutely. Going to regret this for the rest of his natural life? Without a doubt. He doesn’t think Dean is interested in hearing any of that right now so he just trails off, looks up at his brother with a pinched expression and prays for the world to open up and swallow him whole.

Dean blinks a few times and he swallows and Sam knows he’s trying not to flip out. He’s pissed, he’s hurt, he obviously wants to take a swing at Sam and his new friend but his hands just clench tightly at his sides as his eyes trail over both of them slowly, taking in every detail.

“Dean,” Sam begs, a plea for forgiveness without actually asking for it. He almost literally can’t believe this. It’s got to be some kind of fucked up nightmare. One too many shots of tequila, one moment of extremely poor judgement, one huge fuck-up, but this can’t be it. Dean’s got to give him a chance to explain, doesn’t he? Not that there really is any explanation other than Sam’s made a colossal mistake and he’ll do anything to make it better.

Except Dean’s face shuts down, just like that, hard and unfeeling and he nods once, a sharp jerk of his head. “Right. Got it.”

And then he’s gone, walking out the door without even bothering to shut it behind him. Sam hears the roar of the Impala’s engine a few seconds later and he doesn’t even look at the guy, still naked in his bed as he orders him out of the room, out of his life.

Sam just stares at the floor while he hears the rustle of clothes being put on, shifts and feels the used condom slide off his soft cock when the door shuts on a “sorry, man,” and it falls to the floor when Sam jumps up off the bed and runs to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet.

He tries Dean’s cell phone (all four of them) almost a dozen times over the next thirty minutes before he gives up. Then he drinks the last half of the bottle of vodka he picked up earlier and finally manages to fall into a drunken, tear-filled sleep at around four in the morning.

Part 2